Monday, January 18, 2016

i'd like to go for a stroll in the big city.

"we're doing messed up things right now," my baby says upon coming out of me. he is an egg. a sexless, boring bland-colored egg. he is a deformed seed. i'm getting off to my baby coming out of my womb because getting off is always in the forefront of my mind. my baby is born with his neck is wrapped by his umbilical cord, covered in disgusting birthmarks. "we're all doing messed up things," he repeats himself for his last words. and the pain in my asshole dies. i watch. i don't have much to say. i get it. death is a part of life. the thing is, we think there's plenty more to come, plenty of shit that hasn't been dreamed up yet. we're only going to breed the same old shit we already know about.

everything we abandon we abandon because reasons take on form we attach to things and other people we know. things with potential to die. all things with potential to die turn out to mean very little to us.

it's not that i wanted to leave. i didn't want to get into trouble -the government wants to send me to the guillotine for the amount of children i've had. and i agree with the government- there are too many of them. not enough jobs. not enough sympathy. not enough of people.
we become able to abandon after we become callused. wearing all black as if that fucking means something, i jump from advertisement to advertisement throwing grenades out over times square with my really cool friends who kill people in the name of a religion they don't fully understand. they don't move. their skin is turning into metal. tin. steel. they are losing their abilities to move around. they have lost their ability to reach biological cessation because they resist and resisting is all they fucking do.
i challenge the people who don't fucking move, who don't fucking do anything except fuck themselves in the mouth of the economy, in the mouth of god, in the mouth that is not their own. i challenge them to take back leadership of their intelligence. i love to "give myself away", as my mother used to say, don't get me wrong, kids. but my brain is my crown and i will die adorned with it intact.
and you'll never guess what happens next. not a single motherfucker in the vicinity makes a sound. aside from the flapping of the wings of several pigeons, it's dead fucking silence in time square. at once, we try to escape ourselves and each other.
i hate it here and i want that fucking pony i asked for, all those years ago. i want it now. don't you feel total remorse now, daddy? you didn't get me a fucking pony? you just fucked me and you fucked yourself and that's all you spent your time doing? i hope nothing but the best for you now. i hope you have interest in different things, except me. i hope i stay in your head forever.

i am just as able to bury my grief as you are. this warm earth is mine. my throne.
and now that i've violently attacked everyone out there, as much as i can, i can't live with myself. i am not able to sleep at night.

it is time to go. but there isn't a place called "nothing" for me to go to. it is time to go somewhere else until i hate myself again.

love is an infection. the reason this is so is because the possibilities of things other than love becomes a very confusing prospect. you catch love like pink eye. you need to keep away from others but you don't. you simply long to mean something to everyone. they leave you, leave where you're at. they don't want to catch an infection, after all.

it's your dick i'm sitting on in the middle of the night with bleach and shit spread on and around us. this rape is painful for the both of us.

it is possible to escape reason. the devil is hanged from a noose where a lamp used to be. he is gagged and bounded and his skin is eaten in little slivers, like deli meats. typical. i'm not impressed by this showmanship. this is what i keep learning.
and of course god lives next door. he is a junkie of some sort. he believes he needs to get high in order to survive. motherfucker keeps thinking he can get away with some shit, keeps thinking he can survive anything.
doesn't think once he's setting an example for all the sorry fucks who believe in him. they've never caught a virus of the earth once. they've never caught a disease or HPV. they don't believe that's what the world is made up of these days- viruses and sorry sorry shits. they're comfort zone types.

so caught up in their own problems, they don't even know one another exists. pleasure is an anomaly that separated from the devil long ago. a genetic mutation. the devil does not even know about his finest creation, and it's kept away from god as long as pleasure has been around. pleasure: a forgotten, abandoned child.

i rape myself with a falsity of happiness. i have been paid to convince myself one can gain happiness, the big fucking deal, through rape. it doesn't exist, happiness, but it's our job to pretend to others it does.
i'm smiling from ear to ear being raped for an enormous advertisement to rape times square with.

my body hurts from the stabbing i inflicted on it. do you hear what i put myself through? i'm falling apart. my body is falling apart. and you know what, so be it. i want everyone to be faced with the personal with no where to run to. like i said, "nothing" doesn't exist for us.
it is required we force ourselves as exhibits unto our fellow brothers and sisters. our needs are underdeveloped. we don't know what story to tell next. we are forced to make shit up.

but my pride is deliberate.
my pride is owed praise. all that matters is that i get it.

my pride is lovely, a flower. it remains open at night. that means it remains wide awake.
my pride is titian's venus- a god in a bed fit only for a god. people line up to experience pleasure with my pride. my pride is the finest pussy ought there. my pride is sought after. i exhale a delicate fragrance to draw in the hedonists, the libertines and everyone else who doesn't and won't ever toast to love.
and then they come to me and toast to fucking love. who would've thought contradiction meant something more than we give it credit for. i am spoiled with my hunger, the dick i don't have inside me; forever seeking my prides ability to rule with free reign.

epilogue:

there aren't any diseases left to catch.

all these new people in the world, these little ones, aren't doing anything but picking away at their skin until all their fluffy stuffing comes out.
they weren't born crying. they didn't have it in themselves to breathe. they were born hunting for pacifiers.

these pacifiers are called luxuries.

these children cost zero dollars. free children. free children. dump them to the other side of the border. fill the little motels with free children. we don't need to wipe our asses with paper when we could just sit on a pile among one another. wipe your ass with your reflection of me. catch everything i've got and let it burn for days with nobody to motherfucking talk about it with you.

neither god nor the devil are very, very mad at you.