End of the Line?

It is because language is no better than a picture
and reason no better than a handshake
that ultimately everything has failed
in success, and to drive it on, all that it is
needed is more skulls, fitted out with the lie
that symptoms of stimulus converge to encapsulate
the whole, which they do not, the structure
both engulfs and is engulfed by, its own affect
as actuality. It is actuality, whose internal root,
still the subject of conjecture and myth, can only
recapitulate itself, in conjecture and myth, with
only the taut, spider-web-like bridge-trap
of psychology to span the ever-differentiating
compartmentalisation of the collective mensus,
and its limited, and self-limiting menu. The human
body, already a compact, ages old, genetically
reproducing machinic civilisation in itself, is most
probably the most complex thing in the universe,
save for its own multiplying relationship with its
environment, and the so-called society of its
families of city lineages, each cleaving to a bricolage
of sensory cults, a hybridagio of cultus and individious
indualities. Since our bodies seem to represent a kind of
plateau of plastic collectivity, or a halting to the verticality
of omnisexual constructionism inherent in our own viribacterial
bildungroman, a lateral pollutionism has set in, in which
our own genetic similarity expands continually, while
neurotically warring itself into compartmentalizations
of the fundamental pharmakon of languaged difference.
No cultic negativity has slowed the emergence of this all-pervasive
laterality, and no collective sense of the identity of what this drive
represents has become common to psychology, but the drive is this,
the omnisexual bilding gestalt of the viribacterial domain has plateau'd
and its force as a carrier wave has entered the world as technology, which consists of
representation, construction, and legislation, ie, cultus. The death drive
known well to Freud, is also the Omnisexual bilding drive, which confuses,
bodily hunger, sexuality, and constructive creativity. Until this drive
can be mitigated, or legislated, according to the limited vocabularities
of our collective cultus, or can be hybridized, and expanded into new domains,
and even quasi-collective beings, our current status as a planet is in question.
We are the nano-biotic singularity, and what we are living through and calling history
is already a grey-goo event, the grey goo being human brain tissue. When the
Einbildungskraft that is the body as imagined by evolution became the bindungroman,
the main storyline, it set about creating a kind of platform or altar whereby it could continue
to broadcast the waveform. That wave form is now a standing wave, and to illustrate
how perfect the metaphor goes, note the quasi mystical way in which Tesla discovered
the AC power source, it is because AC power is a perfect model of the bilding drive
having no where to go. My eating and fucking give me strength, but I am no longer changing
in the same way. What can I build in order to continue? I have made so much it is destroying
me trying to understand it. How can we harmonize the impedance of this drive
with the production of actuality? How can every single movement, and act come to
enhance the polylectical remains of this mother-object before our resource placenta
is sucked dry before we have even left the womb. The history of the earth
is the history of a foetus whose birth has yet to come.