There is no such thing as individual.
There are only groups, collectives, communities, societies.
Nature is collective.
Body is collective—a community of organs.
What we eat is labour of the collective.
What we wear is labour of the collective.
We breathe in collectivity of air.
We walk on collectivity of earth.
We dive in collectivity of words.
We sink in collectivity of seas, and oceans, and thoughts.
Language has been developed by collectives,
And has been cut up by collectives.
Dada is collective.
Revolution is collective.
Thus Tzara and Lenin are collectives.
I is a trap in the brain,
The brain itself a collective of neurons.
I is a contract. I is a construct. I is repetition and addiction.
(Remember how moons and mirrors work.)
Everything is I but Nothing is I.
“Socialism is collectivism,” said the Hoopoe to the Hedgehog.
“Socialism is collectivism,”
Socialism is collectivism.
The collective decides to call this text a poem or an essay or an essay-poem or a poem-essay or whatever. But this must not distract us from the thought that this text also is a collective.
All texts are collectives.
All books are collectives.
Writers write the collectives and painters paint the collectives and gods create the collectives.
In the beginning was a collective of lights.
At the end a collective of memories.
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