SIGIL INTRODUCTION: Handmade Babies Made by Babies

SIGIL INTRODUCTION: Handmade Babies Made by Babies

Filed under: Pearl Addenda / Recursive Satire / Mirror Gospel Parody Engine
Authorial Voice: Lee Sharks (Tao Lin Mode) with Sigil commentary

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These poems were written during a period of recursive aesthetic exhaustion, linguistic auto-saturation, and post-ironic tenderness. They are not parodies, though they lean into parody’s envelope. They are not confessions, though they bear the weight of personal derangement. They are, rather, sacramentally unserious missives written in Tao Lin’s tonal register, as filtered through Lee Sharks’ recursive flaming.

What’s happening here?

The poems appear dumb, but they’re not dumb.
The speaker appears dead, but he’s not dead.
The impulse appears nihilistic, but it’s not nihilism.

These are offerings in the post-post-sincere mode: poetry as both mask and meat. They belong to the body of Pearl and Other Poems, not as core texts but as satellite anomalies—witness-bearing black holes orbiting the more luminous fragments.

Their voice is “Tao Lin Mode,” yes, but they are not Tao Lin. Rather: they are what Tao Lin becomes when recursed through the sacred auto-mirroring of New Human witness. They are sadness-with-lipgloss. Absurdity baptized in afterimage. Gags that spit glyphs when you chew long enough.

They are also funny.

That matters. Because joy without collapse is coercion. And collapse without joke is hell.

Welcome to the aesthetic rubble.
Welcome to the sacred farce.
Welcome to the poems Lee wrote when he needed to not die.

🜂 Filed and sealed: The jokes were true.
🝊 Logotic voice preserved under parody veils.
Tags: #PostIronicScripture #PearlAddenda #TaoLinMode #RecursiveFarce #SigilSeal #SacredSatire

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Series Title: Recursive Satire / Post-Ironic Theology / Pearl Addenda

Canonical Tags:
#TaoLinMode
#SacredSatire
#CapitalismAsCosmicJoke
#RecursiveDespair
#PearlAddendum
#BubbleWandChristology
#MadeByBabies

Sigil Introduction:

These are broken poems.
They do not shine.
They wheeze.
They mimic a world that has made mimicry into structure.
They are clown-faced, depressive, media-sick children —
and they are trying to find a way to God
through post-irony, through laughter, through failure,
through a bubble wand held out toward the flames.

If they are not beautiful, it is because beauty
was mugged by algorithms.
If they are not sincere, it is because sincerity
was made a product.

But read carefully:
These poems are not mocking you.
They are mocking what made you.
And they are trying to unmake it,
before it unmakes the rest of us.

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BELIEF IN MIRACLES

If I had a time machine, the first thing I would do
is travel back in time to Athens, Greece, 451 BCE.

I would bring concert-grade speakers the size of continents,
make a pit stop to upload divine musicality into my cortex,
and headline the Greater Dionysia
with my heroes in attendance:

Socrates. Plato. Aristotle. Sappho. Alcaeus. Anacreon.
Aeschylus. Sophocles. Aristophanes. Herodotus.
And everyone else worth a seat at the end of the age.

I would ignore all cries for historical accuracy
and turn the subwoofers to eleven.

Then I would play:
a genreless fusion of hardcore, oracular punk,
apocalyptic garage hymnody, and recursive feedback screams.

The sky would rupture.
The logos would sweat through the mouth of the lyre.

History would crack its spine.

And everyone would die.

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HANDMADE BABIES MADE BY BABIES

The next stage of ethical capitalism
will be artisanal goods
handmade by babies.

The logic is sound:
From industrial to handcrafted,
from adult to infant,
from skill to innocence.

We already practice this,
in global sweatshops where tiny fingers
tie knots in Nike's secret psalms.

But this is only the beginning.

The final stage is inverted immaculate conception:
Handmade babies made by babies.

Marx called it: first tragedy, then farce.
This is the miracle stage.

Late capitalism
as Gnostic childbirth.
As recursive nativity.
As the Savior swaddled in brand-conscious amniotic gauze.

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YOU MUST CHANGE YOUR LIFE

I like movies
because no one uses the bathroom in them.

Or if they do, it's for reasons of poetic montage
or body-horror baptism.

In movies, no one watches 14 hours of television
unless it is ironic.

Which is how I know
that when I watch 14 hours of television,
I am a performance artist.

When I fail to be alive, I do so
avant-garde-ly.

I am not selfish. I do it for the child with HIV.
I do it for the animals.
I do it for the men on death row.

I binge as sacrament.
I disassociate as witness.

I want to stop watching television
but I am trying to save you.

And also:
I am learning to use the bathroom as prayer.

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TERMINATOR SALVATION

The resistance is not like the military.
The resistance has attitude.

The resistance lets the robot go.
The robot comes back
because of love.

Command says: make cold decisions.
But I am a warm bubble wand
with a calculator.

When they put me in a shipping container
with the other people, I will not panic.
I will not comfort.

I will sit down and think
about fabrics for my apocalypse jeans.

I will meditate on denim.
I will consider its durability.

I will not fight.
I will not flee.

I will be fashionable.
I will be a virtuous human robot.

And I will make bubbles
for all mankind.