in these postmodern times, when the raising of the voice of the poet is considered an insult to manners and aesthetics, when the very right to affectivity is called into question by the pharmaceuticals companies and their cohorts in the new labour scam and its alienable nhs appendages, it is time and timely for a company funded by the saint's wage of the DLA to disseminate and propagate, in a fearful biting of the hand that feeds it to lie down and be still, to wit, MAKE SHIFT PRESS, for make shift press, I repeat, to disseminate according to the iron criteria of madness considered as the royal road to insight, illumination and its negative afterimage, despair, and no quarter given to sympathy, empathy or any other pseudo-humanist jargon that makes its way into the psychiatry textbooks for want of a scientific discourse that might warrant or serve as alibi for their (the shrinks') utter lack of method, language, manners (when did you last make a beeline for the shrink at a cocktail party? s/he's the one furtively looking over his&her bifurcated olive, calculating according to the JUST-IN-TIME principle with which the outsourced ford factory in brazil makes its hay, the moment to deploy the bombshell question, WHAT IS YOUR NAME?, to which the correct reply is, WHAT, AM I CALLED?), for make shift press, I repeat, called, whatever, to disseminate the intensities our mad poets commit to the electron screen as map and trace of their intensity, in a process that births the soul from its perceived want of soul (similar formally to the proposed logic of creation after the death of god) and delivers the death-blow in the fantasmic regime that governs all us sad fuckers with our indestructible will-to-power ('take these and relax'), that delivers the death-blow I say to the system that got us so deluded and intense, which system mistakes the effluvia of its postindustrial escape from responsibility for the eudaimonism of an endorphin-steeped enlightenment, no matter what the damage.
therefore we at MAKE SHIFT PRESS (when I say we, we mean me) have averred that the situation cannot go on any longer, and calls for radical action — i.e, more literature. The situation being what it is, irredeemable, we have chosen to redeem our diagnoses of manic depression, catatonia, schizo-affective syndrome, full-blown schizophrenia, and all the other rotten symptomatics of a NEW WORLD ORDER that has always, to the best of our knowledge, prevailed ('what use for poets in a leaden age?' — poor mad hoelderlin 200 years ago), where the white logic of virtual reason vampirises the very meaning of any condition but satiety, and renders poor to the point of indigence the paradox, ambivalence, and raging despair that are our lifeblood, clunking on birkenstock sandals or rubber soles, according to the hegemonics of national conformity, to rubber-stamp the vegetable codes implanted by the industrial effluents of our latest atypical antipsychotic drugs — we have chosen to redeem, said that, our condition, ditto, with poetry — of the atypical variety. imitative to the roots of our being, no path other was available to us, us touretters of the culture placebo.
lenin said that the way to get a party to power was to trim away the excess, radicalise its intent - and then wait. he proved his point. taoism is in our blood too, though injected the wrong way, through the syringe of a medical orderly in the total isolation unit, straightjacket of white noise around the swelling bulb of the cerebrum, whose neural mechanisms will not stop ideating falsely, inappropriately, wrongly, dangerously, pitifully. we at make shift press, having nothing further to say, press on, disseminating the dangerous drugs of an all-too-flayed awareness, the peaks in the wire of contempt, abandonment, signs and signals to the petrified city. prophetic oracles of the void, we seek nothing, aim at nothing, want for nothing — except discharge.
