flâneur

Manifesto of the Armed Front of Love - by Sam Kriss

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We are the Armed Front of Love. Yesterday, we detonated a bomb on a bus in the middle of the capital. Last week, we were on the balconies above the Plaza of the 19th of June, firing indiscriminately into the crowds below. Our operatives sabotaged the wires on the cable car carrying a hundred foreign tourists to Frigate Island. Before that they released the chlorine gas in the ruins of the Roman amphitheatre. Whenever you hear the crackle of gunfire a few blocks away, or a blast snap through the torpid mug of the afternoon, we are at our work. We swarm the selvas. We have our hideouts in the humid hillsides only a breath away from the city, the corrugated-plastic cantegriles dripping algae-green. We descend to plant our flowers. Red carnations on the concrete. Twisted petals of gorewet steel. The state calls us terrorists, and while we don’t really care if you’re terrified or not, we don’t refuse the name. Everything else they tell you is a lie. We are not a criminal gang, and we can’t

For E. We are the Armed Front of Love. Yesterday, we detonated a bomb on a bus in the middle of the capital. Last week, we were on the balconies above the Plaza of the 19th of June, firing indiscriminately into the crowds below. Our operatives sabotaged the wires on the cable car carrying a hundred foreign tourists to Frigate Island. Before that they released the chlorine gas in the ruins of the Roman amphitheatre. Whenever you hear the crackle of gunfire a few blocks away, or a blast snap through the torpid mug of the afternoon, we are at our work. We swarm the selvas. We have our hideouts…

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