The Core.0: Mr. President IAO Core, M.B. Manifesto, Matmos

In Assuming Our Collusion, Obsolete Regimes Err!

IAO Core does not exist. That is we do not choose to "stand out." We are in hiding. We live across from you. You have your blossoming stock portfolios photocopied by us. Don't worry, we'll give back the right change. We teach your children in universities, and we grade them very harshly. We chaperone your school prom with a sick little grin. You sit next to us in class everyday and never really thought about those words written on the notebook in, what is that language? We entered your name into the database as you registered your insurance adjustment convention. You check out your video equipment from us, too busy thinking about how to write your grant proposal to notice the peculiar insignia that hovers out of the corner of your eye.

We are the heaving piece of ass that you might tip at the strip club, or maybe not. You had sex with us in a toilet once and keep thinking about it now, how to get a hold of them again? You bought drugs from us, and as your head started buzzing like a bug killing lamp the particular curdling of the smoke in your room spelled out the scent of our sound.

Or perhaps today we are driving our children (that's right, children) to work and you think that there's nothing out of the ordinary until maybe you look again. You pray into the darkness for an opening, an answer, some sort of pulling aside of the curtains that seem to hang so heavily upon obscured, half-intimated truths, thoughts out of focus, never quite getting there.

IAO Core is the sound of illusion's abyss opening. We are everywhere, in several countries a once, several states, distributed across multiple time zones conducting interdisciplinary oneiric excavations of the world's cosmetically concealed trainwreck, snickering in the faculty rooms of different academic departments, gluing the cash register shut behind the dodgy, permanently closed doorways of several closed business fronts, scouring the temple floor for the dust of calcified incense for use in retribution via sympathetic magic, handing out nihilist leaflets at patchouli soaked gatherings, spectacularly vomiting on the floor in smart cafes at the peak of your poetry reading, dropping heaps of scrap metal in the quietest corner of specialist libraries, scrounging for tips in yuppie restaurants, flyering obscure suburbs, sowing the seeds of...what?

Don't worry. I AM ONE too...

IAO Core does not exist.

Our aggregate identity is so loose as to hover upon the nether-lip of nonexistence, and yet we routinely reassemble, wielding home detourned guitar implements and catastrophically oxidized ritual electronics, disseminating via home made hibias tape dubbing our aleatory offerings, DAT-mastered akashic records on file, dripping with tattooed depictions of alternate evolutionary pathways, punctuating your dour urban parade ground with obscenely suggestive invisible billboards advocating involuted value/energy distribution schemes.

And now in addition to those medias we are a gaping hole within your net, your World Wide Web, your Totalized Tissue of Tyranny, in the place of the usual redundant tidal wave of stultifying info-sameness we pierce a tiny hold, a tear in the web, (giant sucking sound), the sound of Illusions' Abyss Opening.

Thursday, January 26, 2017

Mr. President IAO Core, M.B. Manifesto, Matmos

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