In addressing my pleasure in the Jarvis Cocker line ‘cunts are still running the world’ and the way I turn to this song following elections I dispense first with the notion that the world is run by centres of self-lubricating sensitivity distributing pleasure through nervous and muscular communication with a greater whole. And, while dispensing, with the notions both that training one’s capacity for immersive feeling leads to exhaustion of that capacity, and that trained capacity is either corrective or contagious in and of itself, a system. To attend to the skin of feeling: glottal spit, pub carpet. Narrowed eye (pleasure), turn to face, to face face, to face shoulders, loose throat. You cunt. More firmly: cunt, a self-possession, finger flick, turning away in conclusion. 

As we know burning money in front of beggars and fucking dead pigs are training exercises, as well as offerings, spiritual cast and collateral. Numb with exposure at the limb isolato, you still care if it snaps off. Because numb is a feeling, a burning hailstorm if you think of it, and it remains that you might, at any moment, think of it, blaze alive, fire running song in every direction at once, each node reciprocation and reach. And take the rubber band off. Herald of a nerve. Cunts are still running the world. Cunts are still running the world.