Monday, January 18, 2016

disinterest: there is nothing left to be addicted to.

hi, my name is whore. sex investments are what i'm about. i am inspired by the beetles. my favorite songs by the beetles? i don't know the names. i don't know the names of anyone or anything. and let me just recant a bit- i don't fucking listen to the beetles. all their shit sounds the same.
world, i'm whore, and i am taking over this city right now. i am fucking king kong- my dick, my dick, scraping women clean, peeping around town like it's nobodies business. my business is not the business of others.

across the coveted lands the gods, it became the law that the people abandon their babies. i am an ancestor that took on their pain- their worst rapist. pain consumed me, ate me from the intestines first.

there is nothing left to be addicted to so we are to exploit ourselves in order to find new addictions to grow new dreamscapes on. let us find reason to invite ourselves wherever.
i am haunted by sex. in the house of god and the house of the devil alike, everything looks like shit. it secretes out of the spot between my eyebrows. i hurt myself to rid myself of it. i opened myself from my pelvic floor to around my diaphragm. i allowed my guts and my blood from the inside of my body cascade out. with my eyes closed, they are two waterfalls heading away from each other, with pretty flowers, pretty bubbles- the inside of my body. a major part of someones symphony out there.
clearly, i am crying. men cry. i've become a man. mom and dad come out to congratulate me. it feels a little awkward in here. me, naked, my own self inflicted martyr cry and the people there to witness it are my parents. mom is clearly still in love with dad even though it's been most of my life since they've been in the same room last. it's been, at least, my whole memory since they've been in the same room last.
i've graduated. i've graduated from one particular rape to another kind.

i am addicted to a drug. the drug is called rape. I HAVE TO BE RAPED. i have to go to bed being raped. something is always raping something out there so i might as well be raped, might as well work out denting my sensitivity until none of it is left.
according to statistics and from what the little birdies have told me, rape is common. get that through your inflatable head filled with hot air.

rape is fucking common. (my name is rape. nice to meet you, rape.))

pure id is what that is, that rape shit, whatever that's about. impish and living id. my fucking nihilist child. now i am disgusted. i am so disgusted i've become fertile.
my heart grows every time it happens.
i've got accolades everywhere- a new boy scout patch for each time i use the word rape. i went to SUNY i went to CUNY and i'm a rapist with bodies in my van. i am a rapist. i get raped. and i especially rape myself. "no, i don't want to touch myself," i say to my hand stroking my cock. "yes, yes you do." my hand says as my cock oozes on my hand, in front of the television set in my motel room. rage is crying in the fucking corner, because he hates to see me this way. he can only console himself at this rate.
so i make him suck it.

he calls out to me, "rape, i'm tired tonight. i'm not feeling all that well." rage has the emotional maturity of a two year old. a two year old i've raped.

"that's not what i want to hear," rape began, "that's not what i want to hear."

and now we're getting the hang of passing around the fucking communion wafers. everyone is getting the hang of becoming a saint.

rape is putting my cock in fluff and filth and catching STDs from something that isn't a pussy or an asshole. my first rape was caught on camera. it was like a home fucking movie. sent to fucking cbs or nbc or hbo or the computer. don't know which. now, i'm grateful that i had an opportunity to be seen. i looked into the camera lens the whole time, which, for the most part, lay on its side near my body as if someone had died. somebody did die, in fact, because my hot little raped body made them black out and pass on. i was an extension of pleasure, a vulgar object, a device to commit lust into. i wanted help, probably, but i was told i liked it, so maybe i did like it. maybe i wanted to help. help orchestrate. re-arrange my beliefs in what is happening. always conflicted, maybe all of these things are true.
people go and die, just leave me on the side of the fucking road, and even in their death, they rape themselves. pitiful lifeless shell for worms to squat in. haven't even dropped them off at the lake yet and they're practically begging for it.

i'm gonna drop these bodies. and what's going to happen is i'm not going to feel like shit for once. i'm going to let my insecurities over my problems grow like basement mold. let me take my shit out on whomever i want to.
let me tell you something that i bet you didn't know. i have a purple fucking heart. see? see? i was the rapist who was raped first.
at a very young age, you see, i knew what penises looked like. i knew what vaginas looked like. i know exactly what they want me to look at. they want me to look at the gut behind their eyes. you want me to touch whatever it is that can be touched.

was i raped or not? i've played this game several times, all night with myself. i don't know. there isn't much that seems to be my business. but you know exactly what you're fucking looking at. i cannot be pierced. i am pure marble.
my heart grows, at the risk of a heart attack- all the rape is clogging my arteries. you know what you've come looking for, my voice croaks. my pussy is right here. it's as big as a dick. i can rub it against anything i want to. i can rub against you.
now put your fucking hands up. nobody is to regain composure. shut up and fall the fuck apart.

the shitfaced perverts do as they're told.

my technology is chipping away at my sense of individuality as well as commonality. my sense of disharmony has been dead, and recently re-awakened. this has happened before, but it mostly just winds up dead. i can't hear because my ears shut down from all i rape them with. i rape myself all day long. i rape myself with technology. i don't even know what rape really is anymore. like people, like the stars, this is all impermeable.
i am every injury, every broken heart, broken ego, wet brain, broken glass bottle broken dream as well as every fucking break from reality. rape is my name as well as the name of my game and now you too can feel just as cool. next door neighbors rape each other all the time.
steal everything you find from my safe and plagiarize it in spray paint. live in a world where taking things without having to chip away at my dignity is allowed. one day, i'm going to write, and write, and write, and they're gonna be books. do not remove my injuries. do not remove the way i see things and the things i say about them. steal every last one of those books. the only other way we give is with rape.

your next challenge is to burn your copy of my book. (stay tuned 'kuz we have rape coming up next and our sponsors are loving and generous just so very kind.)
message to rape on television: anything i haven't learned from experience i'm certainly not going to learn from the fucking television. television, you are too dumb to do anything about rape. i am not weak enough to hand over my intelligence to fucking machines that aren't programmed to handle the human mind.
but the people in charge of it follow the rape-suit and RAPE US.

unchain yourself from the enormous chart of human statistics.

then burn it.
so my name is rape, right? okay.
i have burned my name. helen of troy reminds me so much of what happens to us. we lose an ability to give a fuck about anything as long as we get what we want. rape and wanting turn into the same thing. so i burned my name helen of troy. i felt guilty about my wanting, my pleasure. my next name was rape. it was the name of my game. i have burned the name of my game. no longer do i have game. i wander searching for happiness, beaming at the sight of artificial light. happiness has to be a real drug, i know, it has to be, i know. the light of the sun doesn't impress me. i was raped into feeling that way.
i'm going to lie down in the middle of the night and wait for the vultures to circle above me- what i'll do is call it the sundance. look at me, so courageous, unafraid of death. ready. birds forming a circle, guiding me to the stars.
i had starved to death because i refused to eat bullshit, and the only thing available to eat was bullshit. what was i going to do? i began to stink of malnourishment, so a truck picked me up and dropped me at the side of the road alongside a desert.

i refused to look past my hunger, my hunger for bullshit. my hunger for turning the other cheek. my desert to not hurt anyone except myself. all i had to do was get myself to be raped.
i died because i couldn't make myself get raped.