not the first fumbling , hurried, uncontrolled eruption on to some girl's belly or into her pubic hair, but the first pumping of salving semen into the hot core of a groaning, sated woman. (Brian Lumley, 'Necroscope')::mistake:: i bleed it into her mouth through tongues and over teeth stained with the venom of god-dwelling lies vibrant red hues streaming neon toxic death an orgasmic implosion holocaust staining the rust on the dead Cadillac the sun fell under the weight of its own shadow cast out over the horizon lined with a million little fires the smoke and ash filled our lungs that was our home and our fate I was seething with the memory of watching her die in a protracted battle against the inevitable the blood curdling silence suffocated her in the womb sawed up bodies frozen in the trunk off to where all things collide we knew it the moment the human in utero stopped kicking strangled by its own umbilical chord the seed never sprouted acid rain just kept pouring and the horrid sound of rockets exploding nothing grows here anymore and everywhere indiscriminate death. buildings fall into blurs mothers and fathers hold tight to the last hope for the future as the child turns to sand and seeps through their fingers back into the nameless desert it feels like the sun setting like an uncomfortable warmth the pain of healing as the skin sews itself back together wrong scars the exterior and mimics the hideous fingerprints of god ::mistakes:: every moment in this is wonderful even when the paychecks stop coming nobody here would trade this beautiful disaster for a less painful perspective the repetitious clamoring of new life bleeding and screaming and breaking through the walls a magical sprouting trapped in the collective sequence waiting for the inappropriate time to erupt through the phenotype us not living to the fullest is the least of the worst types of dread i understand now why a bird would choose to plummet off its rocky precipice to an untimely demise in this place where every thing's worth something to someone and value is added as a measure to fight the pointlessness of persistence in these pensive moments of clarity bordering stupidity there is the mockery of intelligence an indecent and irreconcilable perversion of epistatic truth: we are all of everything regardless of purpose. is it our place to put an end to the endless? scrape the outer limits of possibility like fingernails breaking against wet glass. it is our place to run naked through the streets? to fight endless wars against those who possess different ideological prejudices to squander the precious moments after our parents and children die to condemn those who resurface the fear who cut through our opaque patina of faith to imprison torture kill off those we consider radical outliers genetically inept broken strains of organic bile that pollute the shallow gene pool. our fantasies are the broken teeth shards of glass narcotic needles that break through our skin as we work our way through this desert of hope where our paths cross periodically only long enough to bleed into one another so that we can make the mistakes necessary to keep this mistake going. it would be an abortion of reason to think different.
I'm going (1) blind, (2) insane, (3) to hell.
"If music be the food of love, play on/Given excess of it, that, surfeiting,/The appetite may sicken, and so die." WS
KLAATU BARRATA NIKTO
BESIDES BEING A GREAT TEACHER IT IS A GOD IN AND OV ITSELFhttp://www.perp.com/whale/video.htmltrapped in a gaze where time stand still connected to a blur sensations deformed we are to drown just to become another set of eyes among the millionsenchanted we fade selecting illusions dwellers of the scene a new world obsessed gods of displays divine screens radiate us now your blessingdown kneel to shields of glass to the sovereign bleed for the entity of wavelenghtstransfixed yet eyes glowing with delight delusions of omniscience bred us by liars mentally drained by the growing leech fed on our manic desireoceans of sewage continual washing into our minds drowning in wasted integrity with eyes too open to see vanityengulfed in super fiction fields what are we when the false pictures dissolvecaged within a twilight world devoid of own self made thoughts stare blind ... (thomas haake, 'transfixion')
Lindsay Waters’ article in 'The Chronicle for Higher Education':“The role of literature is to mess with time, to establish its own time, its own rhythm. A new agenda for literary studies should open up the time of reading, just as it opens up how the writer establishes his or her rhythm. Instead of rushing by works so fast that we don’t even muss up our hair, we should tarry, attend to the sensuousness of reading, allow ourselves to enter the experience of words.â€~Bukowski:Dinosauria, weBorn like thisInto thisAs the chalk faces smileAs Mrs. Death laughsAs the elevators breakAs political landscapes dissolveAs the supermarket bag boy holds a college degreeAs the oily fish spit out their oily preyAs the sun is maskedWe areBorn like thisInto thisInto these carefully mad warsInto the sight of broken factory windows of emptinessInto bars where people no longer speak to each otherInto fist fights that end as shootings and knifingsBorn into thisInto hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to dieInto lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guiltyInto a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closedInto a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroesBorn into thisWalking and living through thisDying because of thisMuted because of thisCastratedDebauchedDisinheritedBecause of thisFooled by thisUsed by thisPissed on by thisMade crazy and sick by thisMade violentMade inhumanBy thisThe heart is blackenedThe fingers reach for the throatThe gunThe knifeThe bombThe fingers reach toward an unresponsive godThe fingers reach for the bottleThe pillThe powderWe are born into this sorrowful deadlinessWe are born into a government 60 years in debtThat soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debtAnd the banks will burnMoney will be uselessThere will be open and unpunished murder in the streetsIt will be guns and roving mobsLand will be uselessFood will become a diminishing returnNuclear power will be taken over by the manyExplosions will continually shake the earthRadiated robot men will stalk each otherThe rich and the chosen will watch from space platformsDante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playgroundThe sun will not be seen and it will always be nightTrees will dieAll vegetation will dieRadiated men will eat the flesh of radiated menThe sea will be poisonedThe lakes and rivers will vanishRain will be the new goldThe rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark windThe last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseasesAnd the space platforms will be destroyed by attritionThe petering out of suppliesThe natural effect of general decayAnd there will be the most beautiful silence never heardBorn out of that.The sun still hidden thereAwaiting the next chapter.~From 'Patriotism' by Yukio Mishima (Ch. 4):The lieutenant's eyes fixed his wife with an intense, hawk-like stare. Moving the sword around to his front, he raised himself slightly on his hips and let the upper half of his body lean over the sword point. That he was mustering his whole strength was apparent from the angry tension of the uniform at his shoulders. The lieutenant aimed to strike deep into the left of his stomach. His sharp cry pierced the silence of the room.Despite the effort he had himself put into the blow, the lieutenant had the impression someone else had struck the side of his stomach agonizingly with a thick rod of iron. For a second or so his head reeled and he had no idea what had happened. The five or six inches of naked point had vanished completely into his flesh, and the white bandage, gripped in his clenched fist, pressed directly against his stomach.He returned to consciousness. The blade had certainly pierced the wall of the stomach, he thought. His breathing was difficult, his chest thumped violently, and in some far deep region, which he could hardly believe was a part of himself, a fearful and excruciating pain came welling up as if the ground had split open to disgorge a boiling stream of molten rock. The pain came suddenly nearer, with terrifying speed. The lieutenant bit his lower lip and stifled an instinctive moan.Was this seppuku?--he was thinking. It was a sensation of utter chaos, as if the sky had fallen on his head and the world was reeling drunkenly. His will power and courage, which had seemed so robust before he made the incision, had now dwindled to something like a single hair like thread of steel, and he was assailed by the uneasy feeling that he must advance along this thread, clinging to it with desperation. His clenched fist had grown moist. Looking down, he saw that both his hand and the cloth about the blade were drenched in blood. His loincloth too was dyed a deep red. It struck him as incredible that, amidst this terrible agony, things which could be seen could still be seen, and existing things existed still.... Reiko's (his young wife's) perspective...With only his right hand on the sword the lieutenant began to cut sideways across his stomach. But as the blade became entangled with the entrails it was pushed constantly outward by their soft resilience; and the lieutenant realized that it would be necessary, as he cut, to use both hands to keep the point pressed deep into his stomach. He pulled the blade across. It did not cut as easily as he had expected. He directed the strength of his whole body into his right hand and pulled again. There was a cut of three or four inches.The pain spread slowly outward from the inner depths until the whole stomach reverberated. It was like the wild clanging of a bell. Or like a thousand bells which jangled simultaneously at every breath he breathed and every throb of his pulse, rocking his whole being. The lieutenant could no longer stop himself from moaning. But by now the blade had cut its way through to below the navel, and when he noticed this he felt a sense of satisfaction, and a renewal of courage.The volume of blood had steadily increased, and now it spurted from the wound as if propelled by the beat of the pulse. The mat before the lieutenant was drenched red with splattered blood, and more blood overflowed into it from pools which gathered in the folds of the lieutenant's khaki trousers. A spot, like a bird, came flying across to Reiko and settled on the lap of her white silk kimono.By the time the lieutenant had at last drawn the sword across to the right side of his stomach, the blade was already cutting shallow and had revealed its naked tip, slippery with blood and grease. But, suddenly stricken by a fit of vomiting, the lieutenant cried out hoarsely. The vomiting made the fierce pain fiercer still, and the stomach, which had thus far remained firm and compact, now abruptly heaved, opening wide its wound, and the entrails burst through, as if the wound too were vomiting. Seemingly ignorant of their master's suffering, the entrails gave an impression of robust health and almost disagreeable vitality as they slipped smoothly out and spilled over into the crotch. The lieutenant's head drooped, his shoulders heaved, his eyes opened to narrow slits, and a thin trickle of saliva dribbled from his mouth. The gold markings on his epaulettes caught the light and glinted.Blood was scattered everywhere. The lieutenant was soaked in it to his knees, and he sat now in a crumpled and listless posture, one hand on the floor. A raw smell filled the room. The lieutenant, his head drooping, retched repeatedly, and the movement showed vividly in his shoulders. The blade of the sword, now pushed back by the entrails and exposed to its tip, was still in the lieutenant's right hand.It would be difficult to imagine a more heroic sight than that of the lieutenant at this moment, as he mustered his strength and flung back his head. The movement was performed with sudden violence, and the back of his head struck with a sharp crack against the alcove pillar. Reiko had been sitting until now with her face lowered, gazing in fascination at the tide of blood advancing toward her knees, but the sound took her by surprise and she looked up.The lieutenant's face was not the face of a living man. The eyes were hollow, the skin parched, the once so lustrous cheeks and lips the color of dried mud. The right hand alone was moving. Laboriously gripping the sword, it hovered shakily in the air like the hand of a marionette and strove to direct the point at the base of the lieutenant's throat. Reiko watched her husband make this last, most heart-rendering, futile exertion. Glistening with blood and grease, the point was thrust at the throat again and again. And each time it missed its aim. The strength to guide it was no longer there. The straying point struck the collar and the collar badges. Although its hooks had been unfastened, the stiff military collar had closed together again and was protecting the throat.Reiko could bear the sight no longer. She tried to go to her husband's help, but she could not stand. She moved through the blood on her knees, and her white skirts grew deep red. Moving to the rear of her husband, she helped no more than by loosening the collar. the quivering blade at last contacted the naked flesh of the throat. At that moment Reiko's impression was that she herself had propelled her husband forward; but that was not the case. It was a movement planned by the lieutenant himself, his last exertion of strength. Abruptly he threw his body at the blade, and the blade pierced his neck, emerging at the nape. There was a tremendous spurt of blood and the lieutenant lay still, cold blue-tinged steel protruding from his neck at the back.
Nargarjuna the Indian Buddhist philosopher of the 2nd century CE expressed a commonly shared Buddhist view when he wrote: The gods are all eternal scoundrels Incapable of dissolving the suffering of impermanence. Those who serve them and venerate them May even in this world sink into a sea of sorrow. We know the gods are false and have no concrete being; Therefore the wise man believes them not. The fate of the world depends on causes and conditions Therefore the wise man may not rely on gods. (http://www.buddhistinformation.com/buddhist_attitude_to_god .htm)"Millions of innocent men, women and children, since the introduction of Christianity, have been burnt, tortured, fined and imprisoned; yet we have not advanced one inch towards uniformity." (Thomas Jefferson, Notes on Virginia, 1782)