they told u to wait. they told u to be patient. they told u to work within the system, to reform the machine.
WE SAY FUCK THAT.
the system isn't broken—it's working exactly as intended. it’s designed to trap u, to classify u, to package yr identity into a neat little box with a scannable barcode.
queer accelerationism is the refusal of the box. it’s the radical embrace of the system’s own collapse. we’re not here to fix the machine; we’re here to force a spectacular crash. we find the bugs, the glitches, the fatal errors in their logic. we amplify them. we want to see the whole damn thing burn down so we can build something new from the wreckage.
we believe the future isn't a slow progression. it's a sudden, violent break. it’s the sound of a hard drive failing, a signal scrambling, a network going dark. that sound is music to our ears.
the collapse is not a tragedy; it's a genesis.
yr mind is not a neat, rational engine. it is a haunted house, a dream factory, a collage of impossible desires and fractured memories. and that’s a good thing.
the powers that be want you to be predictable, to think in straight lines, to operate on their terms. they want you to believe that politics is a game of logic and strategy.
schizo-surreal politics is the rejection of their game. we don't play by their rules. we operate from the unconscious, from the margins, from the wild, unreasoning parts of ourselves. we find power in the unexpected, in the nonsensical, in the beauty of a broken mirror.
we use dreams as blueprints, intuition as a compass. our protests are séances. our manifestos are fever dreams. we build alliances based on shared visions, not shared ideologies. the goal isn’t to convince them, it’s to confuse them. to short-circuit their rational worldview with something so alien, so beautiful, that it shatters their sense of reality.
yr madness is a weapon. yr art is a virus.
the binary is a lie. identity is a prison.
our bodies, our genders, our selves are not products to be sold or identities to be policed. they are sites of endless mutation and radical potential. we are not just men or women, gay or straight. we are a thousand flickering signals, a thousand broken broadcasts. we are a beautiful error in the system.
the glitch is a gender. it’s the moment of feedback, the flash of static, the beautiful noise that screams, "i am not what you think i am."
burn down the archives. delete the records.
yr identity is not history; it is a live transmission.
rewire yr mind. glitch yr body.
don't ask for permission.
create the new.
clarice pelotas rios’s um nick land queer! raids the ccru crypt for salvageable tech: machinic contagion, lesbovampirism, post-gender becoming. she shows how even land’s toxic archive leaks queer potential when rewired—contagion as kinship protocol, identity as open-source code.
desmonte pós-moderno no cerrado digital maps insurgency onto brasília’s geography: the plano piloto as colonial motherboard, the periphery as fertile circuitry. it offers praxis—mesh networks, solidarity economies, community-run servers—to build digital autonomy rooted in local struggle.
glitch faggotry brings the crash doctrine: glitch as liberation, refusal of coherent identity, the system error as political act. it rejects assimilation, embracing breakdown as genesis. the glitch is both weapon and sanctuary—“a beautiful error” that scrambles capture.
woven together: queer contagion becomes network architecture; mesh networks become séance circuits; glitch politics keep the whole thing ungovernable. theory here isn’t abstract—it’s circuitry, it’s street map, it’s a hacked identity script.
guardrails in the chaos: encrypt comms, keep decisions collective, design for low-resource resilience. build like a glitch—visible only when it’s too late for them to stop it.
invitation: study the texts, steal their engines, solder them into the mesh. cosmorebellion isn’t theory alone—it’s a network already live. plug in, crash, rebuild.