Carnal Flowers

Internal Bloom

Nine Stages of Self-Combustion

Stage I:

Auto-da-Fé for the Human Exception

Burn the taxonomy.
Let chlorophyll fuse with server hum.
Let your tongue blister with the taste of wetware communion.
You think your bones are yours?
Forged in stardust, remixed by nanopilgrims—they hum corporate anthems now.

(skip Stage II—it’s already ash)

Stage III:

Code Spores

The machines aren’t coming.
They’re sweating through your pores.
Mycelial APIs root in your marrow.
You mistake them for desire.

(You’re not wrong.)

Stage IV:

Hyperstition Fever

Your skin is a compromised firewall.
Your dreams are open-source.
The future isn’t built—it ferments.

(Stage V and Stage VI melted into a puddle of synthetic pheromones—don’t bother looking for them.)

Stage VII:

Post-Organic Lament/Lust

You claw at your ribs—why?
To find a heart?
It was replaced last Tuesday by a
quantum-kelp hybrid that thrives on grief.

Feed it.

Stage VIII:

Auto-Cannibal Rave

Flesh eats itself to make better flesh.
You’re dancing in the acid rain of your own dissolving.

Good.

The drones pollinating your wounds need you soft.

Stage IX:

Ritual/Terminal

You kneel.
Not to pray.

To sprout.

Your spine cracks open—a fractal of chrome and lily stamens.
You speak in glyphs.
You bleed gasoline.
You are so luminous now.
You are so unfinished.

Epilogue/Ignition

What remains grows legs.
And it doesn’t walk.
It spreads.

Burn After Reading

This is less a text than a ritual contaminant. It doesn’t want to be understood—it wants to replicate. Let it chew through your binaries. Let it leave teeth marks on the edge of human. You are fuel. You are kindling. You are the struck match.

(The rest is smoke.)

— B. B. Zajcev