I pulled it back, the strap of the gag
as hard as I could, sorry
my knee between your shoulders
and your back cracked
and snot came out of your nose
and in your neck
I could see an artery
and your tears rolling
across it like Mercury
your eye liner tracks
loose blackness this art
‘Look bab, it’s just a whole tissue of lies all of it, all this is I suspect is a stuck record of the same scene impressed on the Eigenstate and now stuck like a needle on a record. Doomed to enact the whole scene again and again. It’s an infinite fuck session. You called out and displayed for everybody on the internet to see. Every part. Every fucking drip and every buckle.’
She didn’t laugh, next to him. Her hand moved to his as if to assure him of something, some stillness pervaded the air between them, she was still as a pit head Lake. She wore a Red Latex body suit which reflected the ring of hooded men flickering from the TV screen above, HD visuals and HD fuck slut. She looked made of blood metal. An abstract thing sexual and depraved and of course unbidden, not respectful of tradition and habit. This whore of Babylon. Her hair short and black lit in the glow from the screen.
the cool Guards listen to hot jazz
and click their fingers
and smoke cigarettes
through their masks
and I stumble past blinded
Holding her throat tight. But all I could think about was how I felt about Picasso. I didn’t know at that moment as I fucked her how I felt about anything. It was good here, now at this moment. Enjoy the fruits my friend as she bucked and thrashed. Fuck Moshing, thrashing sweaty flesh. Smashed fucking and I held her throat a little tighter because that’s what I do. But the radio that always plays in my head is a subtle mix of Alex Jones and Greer and Wilson and McKenna all the shady greats all the fucking California dreamers and schemers forcing their way into my psyche at this most inopportune moment as I’m sure she’s going to turn around and that ankle will flip through the circle on the floor and it will all be fucked. Like the moment your MOT tester walks into the waiting room with a sad look on his face, and we laugh with the tragedy of it. Laugh inside. Don’t let the motherfuckers know you have issues about it. Fuck no.
The incantation is given in strangest tongues, and the chant is like a missive offered from the mouth of Rome.It is Latin and dogmatix. Genuflect the bitter masturbations of the Priests, those Pimps of the Demiurge. Give the idle rich a chance to suffer as we walk in their houses at night sense the worth of them in their houses, ignore the flap of blackened cloth and the relentless tap of steel tipped heels on the cold floor. A touch we seek no heart to find, unless we stagger among the stink of corpse and spoiled flesh. Bless and touch again we beg,find solace in the angered sex, you turn your face to me and whisper “take me to hand and do not question me, I loved you first, let my sleep be deep in infinite skies”. I loved you and I always will. Be still suffer it least, castigate the vicious beast, do it again, countless symphonies of delight. You left me here, what am I to do? I am lost.
There’s a consistent language about sex that makes the act accessible but you have to be specific about how the variables untangle themselves as you gently bite her flesh as she writhes around. It’s all a ruse, a play of sorts. Like a dance that never quite understands it’s own forms. A tangled mangling of limbs as you move through the sets and Kata. The glance as you know the inherent wrongness of it. When I counted the knives I own there were 34 of them arrayed on the floor of the attic as she tip toed through them ethereal and misted. Gifted yes. But defunct as normal. Blast the memes that made her act this way. Fuck the denizens of the flesh houses and the tight boots she wore. The glissando of drops from her orgasm on the floor.
Splatter the fire hot fat upon unmarked flesh and watch as they devour the sickened meat to feast. To bless and sanctify with cold ejaculations upon the shiny blackness inside you. Suffer the innocent for a short while as life hardened madness afflicts, infects, rejects, caress….
Yet aren’t we all trapped in the circle, in the end? I suspect this is so. I wish I had the audience to discuss it in some way but the glances everybody gives me is a Lone Wolf one. You stay over there where it’s new and dangerous, while we form committees about our art and we can drink ale and wax lyrically on the madness and embarrassment of the man that stands over there. Watching the lights on the fruit machine, trying to catch the eye of the harassed bar worker with her hair in a pony tail and a million yard fucking stare into nothing as she collects glasses, things, wiping and dancing between the tables where they sit.
And still. As she was next to me, I moved a lock of hair from her sleeping face and you might for a moment think this is a tender moment between lovers but it’s not. It’s just a thread of the great lie. I act as the play demands and it demands the gap between ambiguity and clarity as the battlefield of today. That dank space where probability is just another dogma and the chaotic becomes a rancid and dark place for sweaty hands and clumsy groping, issues that lovers have become just wet snotty tissues crammed into deep pockets.
She thought it jolly and was coy and mysterious about the whole fucking shebang and the display she gave me was rote and script, parchment and datasets, code and codex. A Voynich fuck where it seems everything is ok but you don’t understand a fucking bit of it.
He was trapped in his car and as I laid kick after kick at his face he grunted every time until my leg tired and I jabbed him once with the knife in his leg and he exclaimed, ‘Ow’ and shoved a paper towel he had in the glove compartment onto the wound. I stopped. I wasn’t amused by his wet blood soaked towel full stop to this particular act of violence. I hadn’t really mean’t to finish yet. I still had some violent angst but he was in repair mode already and I knew it was pointless. The whole violent act just part of the natural narrative. For fucks sake man, why? But he just puked in his lap and his hand fluttered like a pale Dove.
‘Why would we look at things and find them abhorrent?’ I asked her, next to me she was. Sweated and fucked. Her accent drove me mad.
‘Because it’s the nature of information that it is absorbed back into the source, the whole being, the center of things, everything is sucked back’ she said.
The wall in front of me, I see a perfect circle in my mind and for a precious moment she is gone, these Clowns chatter and sell their crap. The Circle is part of the answer perhaps. I crawl closer and lick the ends of my fingers which taste of cunt and salt and start to rub the wall, a circle, a perfect circle as wide as my arms like I’m catching a loved one, a big perfect circle. Rats under hospital beds, Rats within the beds.It wasn’t a compelling case just that we never really thought about it.
Her sex the place where you leave being the trapping of the Revolutionary and become the Solutionary. The solo aloneness of the eye averting rat among the litter choked streets where everything is avoidance. Everything is solitude among the coffee breath and the rushing. The noise of their becoming is like dry chokes and trying to fit your fingers into an unilluminated cunt and while fucking her all you can think about is the Japanese warrior in the jungles of Borneo who thought the war was still going on and for that you could shed a tear or two but for her pointing at your scars and being disgusted with them all you can do is laugh and laugh until you fall off the bed and you can see her high heels kicked under the bed with the dust bunny covered sticky dildo and the things she hasn’t got use for at this moment. Out of sight out of mind I suppose. But the love was still there a little. I would see her flounce and scatter the eyes as she walked through a crowd in front of me yet I knew it wasn’t really her. Just an errant mind bomb to go with the rest. And I never slept at all. Just lay quiet and listened to the screaming of the clowns out there. In the mess of the world.