Tuesday, January 12, 2016

the uninteresting series: my baby brain.

okay, get it straight. this story is about the primitive stuff you, too, have inside of yourselves, past the synapses, past their functions. past everything you already know. so get ready. this will be an unbutchering owed to nature. a sacrifice to the breath-giver.
all the trees are alive. everyone knows trees cannot be corrupted. this story takes place around the trees from new york, the kingdom of sleep. the basement of the house of denial.

this is where people go to keep themselves from themselves in order to transform into walking advertisements. andy warhol prophesied this. the art is undeniable. where people can afford to emulate, they will. though, if one cannot, on the hot pavement they die trying.
countless bodies are buried in central park. i'm not sure if this is hell or heaven, with all this festering, and my not festering. there's this giant scale out there people believe in, heaven on one side, and hell on the opposite. however, like how i understand other things, new york, perhaps, is both hell and heaven at the same time. yes. this is the garden of good and evil, the two rarest species in the universe. neither good nor evil can exist anywhere else but here. good and evil working together is what pleasure is.
this is where things prefer to move by colliding into each other. here, people die even before the revolution will get a chance to take place. they are dead because their fears of freedom killed them at young ages. a snake bites everyone at some point. thus tragedy is born. somewhere, in one of the trees, the cheshire cat's isolated mouth grins widely. i hang upside down, by my ankles, from a ceiling.

trees are in your belly, in the bellies of us all; their roots connect to each other, branches tickle each other. leaves shed and pile, making love to one another. never out of place, trees have survived the splitting of the atom, the holocaust, the loss of their sight, hearing, and voices; they've survived the abuse of sharp edges etching into them the reminders of the human strife to immortalize ephemera, to protect beliefs of love from degeneration. and now they survive fucking emphysema. and last but not least, trees have survived my burning where they come from to the ground. anything can exist as long as trees exist.
but all that's left is a box i shit in sometimes. when i'm not hanging upside-down from the wall.

degeneration is the law.
there is a garden that still exists- a chunk of the earth floating in the sky. it was originally lodged in a hole but god told lucifer to shovel it out. it took hundreds upon thousands of years. god needed to talk and this particular chunk of land was shoved in his mouth. god doesn't speak often, but when he does, it's the only part of him anyone ever gets to know, because we are sacrificed into it. long live.
it was important the land get shoved out so we could hear whatever it was god wanted to say. i certainly don't remember.

in this land there are two different kinds of peacocks, the man and the woman. here, butchers get to show off how attractive they are to passing women with the size of their bloodied butcher knives. women get to reproduce all they want by jiggling around a stripper pole. i did similar shit as a young child. most importantly, everyone fucks on swings.
i was born here in new york. draped in a towel, i awoke in a bathtub after my parents raped each other with marriage.

what had happened was my parents had spread the legs of one another with matching buzzers readied, thus engaging in planning their entire lives ahead of them. lust. god, down below, choked. they wound up carving into the genitals of one another, eating them a little, mostly just nibbling at the skin, but they couldn't take much of it. they could barely even get themselves to puke even though purging clear is the answer. this all was a matter of politics and religion fucking up at each other, confusing mom and dad. sadistic pleasure.
i licked dust and dead moths for my diet, growth, and way of life. mom was on her way out, it seemed for sure. she mostly just snored when she didn't yammer on about her destroyed pussy and body fat. dad was busy at work in the world i did not care to get to know, nor did mom. while my mother wasted away after birthing me, she ordered me to reach for an apple from the branch of the tree of life, who provided us with shade, and watched over us- i'm sure an informant for god.

this apple was the beginning of my vision quest, as i see it.

this apple was golden, shimmering. however, mom only noticed it had a worm in it so it remained on the floor of the bathtub, uneaten. the beautiful apple rotted away through the indoctrination of time, through all television programs, through college, and through following guidelines, and through not getting laid, and finally divorce which was even more like outright cannibalism than planning the future was.

then death came, which was like an even worse divorce, for both my mother and father. dad was swallowed alive by his neglected emotions. mom accidentally swallowed herself while snoring. expenses, or respect, were paid.

this amount of money i had to pay back is what hurt me instead of anything else.

i become friends with the dead burnt inflexible worm from my fairy-tale apple. he never got to know reality the same way i do- since i was alone, i thought he'd be my teacher. we're supposed to have teachers.

this worm was to be the only teacher i'd ever have.

one day he told me to back off. "piss off," were his exact words.
he told me to feed his body to the birds outside. "kill my deadness," i remember that, too. he told me that if i know anything about africa than i'd know children starve and that is horrible. he told me, in respect to this, birds starve, he was so sure, and that they were probably waiting for him at the dirty bathroom window, slobbering. panting. necrophiliacs. god fainted and it turned into an earthquake.

suddenly, i refused to believe in death. i believe what's really happening is the losing of the body. and honestly, i don't see anything wrong with getting some true rest; with being set free. with cutting the crap.

without any teachers other than myself, without any people, really, everything i did was something i meant to do. intent became an important part of life. i secretly asked the ghosts to guide my way. i didn't want to have anything to do with anything else.
for a while, i closed the door to my world any time i was to engage in an hedonism. society, spanking itself next door, was ashamed of me. i liked that i could feel the weight of society crushing my body underneath it.
though it was intentional, i couldn't help masturbating. i wasn't any good at it, but i was frustrated, so frustrated, all the darkness runs away from me. i focused too much on scanning my passing images in order to make sure i was absorbing information. i fucked myself more than the entire world population could; more than even the dick of king kong could fuck me or anyone.
by the way, i hadn't really left the bathtub so much yet. i had been conditioned into believing this was the world. nothing was going to take away my conditioning, destined to clash with my values.

i charmed the hell out of every motherfucker that happened to pass me by. they only cared about themselves and what their wives were serving them for dinner. (other people.) when they saw my unkempt foot daintily hanging over the rim of the bathtub, they come here. it's me they ask what i charge for my services. i charge, because i look up to myself.
i don't felt upset about this, i can sleep at night because guys don't die from me, and i exonerate both my sex dreams and my masturbating though they both often disturb me. i am unable to exonerate myself otherwise. i do not impress my herculian expectations of myself. i've been unable to distance my sense of self from myself as an animal.

i birthed a babe of my own for company, because babies don't have to last forever. hi, i'm the mother of new york city. we share the same father.

without admitting the truth about some things, i imprison myself, ill-advised. however, each time i do admit myself, a liberating act or not, it seems to myself i lose touch with my sanity. it seems sanity is irrelevant.

truth number one: nothing interests me except the thought of my dad.

without admitting the truth that my dad fucked me in my bathtub where i've lived my whole life, starving for experience, i would've never left it. i don't know where i am now, but it's a city street corner, and i'm bleeding. somewhere. i take my hands and smear my blood on surfaces around me- that what i do all day. it's getting people to look at art. give it vulgarity. remind people your pussy is tasty. give definition to art. make it something more than it actually is.

every time right before i orgasm, i feel a major piece of myself coming out slowly and painfully like a cavity that has to go. the pieces are chunks of the bathtub i broke. huge and porcelain, pressing their ways away from me. i have to think of myself getting beaten sexually in order to get there.
i do know it's important to admit that my father was being mean to me; emotionally ignorant. he had told me that virgins cure the disease of impurity, as if that's what he was interested in. he told me next that all virgins are for is impurity. pleasure, in our pleasureless gallery of dead roots and dead ideas, and their reflections of each other, is important beyond anything.

i needed the fucking experience dad gave me. he set me straight with my "i need some kind of life experience" shit.

hi; i am a mother to the depraved city. i knew it wouldn't have a chance in hell escaping being depraved.
hi; i am a mother also to that which crawls on the sidewalks spreading their legs for people on the hunt for life experience. the men and the women bow to the pride of one another. this is an undoubtedly sick act. hurt me, jesus; i deny your teachings from my own insides. hurt me, father. hurt me in my sleep in the middle of the night so the origin of my sickness could never be uncovered. so it could be i've only been dreaming this whole time.