DISCLAIMER: this story was written as a topical challenge, and is not necessarily within my purview of taste; though i loathe censorship and so will not revoke it because of tender emotional reactions.
I was planning to rape her for the longest time. My masturbations to her ended as soon as I pictured her long hair, whereupon I grew frail and dismayed, horrified that a silhouette of something as dead as her coiffure should inherit the seed I had stored for fantasies of her evocative scents, places and complaints. I could picture her in front of me as soon as I walked outside, the murals becoming her and nocturnal animals confusing me; outside I could walk a free man at least in body, my erection condemned by the fresh air to either swallow me whole or give pause in the presence of nature.
I objectively surmised that I was not so dependent on fantasies of orificial mystery as I was deeply damaged from liver to skin by injections of the heaviest stimulants; whites that turned me green with chronic masturbation or silence, or inspired me to yawn and create great adventures about the passing pedestrians outside my window. I loved to see them slowly decrease until only black peddlers were left, pushing things I did not want to buy at a time when my only concept of a transaction was furthering my sense of separation. These immigrants and minorities I envisioned as Moorish failures, separated from grand invasion forces by our bureaucracy and forced to expend their dark colour under the lunar fogs and whispers of night time delivery.
Drugs had changed me and I could admit it; not to a doctor or my deceased family but to my old mind, constantly scanning for truth and perversion, both of which carried the acute tension of delusion so that I was never secure in any world. My dreams, when I still had them in my cadaverous bed, were of deserts of stone crowded with populated circus tents I could never enter. Their music was a whirlwind hustling things I could not reach around the mountaintops distant. To this hollow dorm of oneness I was condemned, and I expired by date every day in myriad ways before the presence of time could confirm me - could embalm me as the lost elemental I saw my bravest moments to signify.
I wished I had never installed the camera in the elevator, where my only neighbour imagined her privacy and corrected her bra, but I also knew these small secrets our channel shared were not what drove me skinless with anticipation. Part of it was imagining her thoughts of my existence, always there locked inside and secretive but for delivery of groceries and staggering, automanic amphetamine and supply boxes of cannulas and syringes. Girls imagined things, I could conceive from memory, and all manner of regular people could imagine stow-away loners with a clinical exaggeration of skin complications, mysterious wounds, a self-circumcised penis, needles flying from the skeleton like so many happy untruths, like they could imagine marriage and diseased children in Africa eating their own.
But she was condemned to never be sure I was human, while I could categorize and feed myself with her thought by thought, until surely nothing was left of me but she remained. The truth was that the elevator footage, while still meticulously archived, served only the more minor purpose of keeping track of her physiology and continuing life; without eternal nightmares of becoming only black soot, without purposeful injections forming the only mantras of body peace love hate, and her with sleep, with nutrition, even with friendship. Friends I could understand. They were ghosts not yet disgusted by the vile nature of their subject and thus bound to an uncertain entertainment of sanity. I entertained my own sanity, by having delivered myself to the carnivore of defeat I spread my own butter on the delicious bread of pumping, constant life. The thrall of my concepts was the tethering of harmony.
I was planning to rape her, in high states of medicinal conjecture, but my concepts of execution were limited by the solemn judge of my emptiness that interrupted it soon thereafter. Debates boiled within like septic disease for anything but sustenance and ideations of madness. I had my own think tank, but instead of facets of morality or opposing views in a romantic parliament, a churning stream of indifferent permutations melted me down to where I finally did put on my clothes or retracted the needle in sheer confusion as to why I no longer should not. My only secure and fast decisions were sheltered by instinct, still there but perverted, a very long time of biology shielding me from petrifaction, though I was crude to biology as I was crude to the nose of men.
I smelled the incense, familiar and regular through vents I had redirected to my home. She and her friend were giggling and sassy, frolicking in plumes of marijuana, the abhorrent drug of lighter souls. If it was so preferable to be normal unto others, why was the need so explicit to adorn the serene spectacle with laughter and cartoons? My jokes were my dreams, never lilting me to a smile or choking me with colour; I preferred the blue of my veins as an art and bit into it only pretending to be my own shadow. My actual body was the giant above me, a shameful monument to this path mysterious and symptomatic.
But rape was fantastical, and concerned idioms I could no longer encompass with imagination. Sexual concepts, degraded by time, exiled into the realm of men and genitals; genitalia, forms of flesh without geometry, fulfilling only function, the end of my comprehension -- the entire fanfare too bloated and alive to grab with hands so soaked in repetition that were they not fastened by miserable flesh they too would tell time, would tell me away like gravity.
tirsdag 6. april 2010
mandag 17. august 2009
the other side of no tomorrow, part 1
When the fog of night had cleared, both the wave of hypnotic whispering and the clunking of insipid glasses rose, like a fresh individual from the grave of night, slippery souls through mud and rain on ledges above fire.
The mad narcotic orgyists slept like half-drowned plants in our cemetery of lust. Though the night had rendered many different combinations of sex and type, as far as even numbers and somnia allowed, most lay with one of the opposite gender. The nudity of the sexual circus had not left them, but they were covered in quilts, blankets, furs and coats, even the silk spread from the great dining table in the grand dining hall in the next room; a room that no doubt also contained various lingering mammals, some of them possibly awake handling their medicine and nursing wild hangovers, but all still steeped in some comatose death.
This morning was an exercise in obtaining and detailing my vivid descriptions of debauchery and the magic therein kept. Due to the constipated trickle of my reason I did not yet feel bored with this routine of demonry. But as soon as I’d felt the bells of homeward longing toll, or I was interrupted by some talkative bimbo or clown of meager sentience and perspective, the last life of the party would be squeezed from my free will, and be replaced by the normal will to flee from all these components that made up a world outside my thought. In my solipsism I tendered the fact that all flesh or material was minted of the same regular stuff; and all illusion of structure, action and purpose I dully romanced in my chapters of activity were powerful lies, only forgivable because there was no replacement for its spirit.
I sat up easily, ignored the woman-beast that had eloped with me to the space beneath the coats in the wardrobe section, and checked my coat while sitting there. I always worried that some of these religiously liberal miscreants were thieves in disguise of class and night. I respected the thief’s tenacity and tolerance in witnessing such sophisticated perversion and unnatural excitement, just to make his crooked ends meet, or perhaps to do both just as dearly. The twilight of evening would arrive, the narcotic ecstasy of unholy communion having disarmed them all to corpses and infants, and then their goods could be plundered freely. Two minutes in this wardrobe of opulence yielded all manner of timepieces, jewellery, medicine, pornographic photographs - which were of inestimable value to priest and sailor alike - and various heirlooms and treasure.
Of course, I didn’t actually carry any enviable items in my coat, but I checked the inventory to see if I had pocketed some strange goods myself, which were sometimes further stolen by a third party, so I could join in on the complaints about crime being so rampant and not finding trustiness anywhere, not even among thieves or whores. The fact was that they had all probably given their money to various abusing prostitutes and caliginous dealers of impermanence sometime before they arrived here - or they had not even brought their bullion and were just the regular fools of confusion that accuse daylight of violating privacy.
Because oddly, many of these orgiastic, lewd characters did have an expectation that you should be safe in this coven of florid debauchery, where one might be disgusted or curious to see what would happen if one placed a fresh corpse bent over some furniture. It was the typical delusion of the bourgeoisie who does not yet know that he is beyond the moral sphere of his social propriety.
To most participants, names and occupations were unspoken and of no interest. One might of course later spot an oddly familiar face on a podium giving a speech, conducting a renowned orchestra with the same jagged profligacy as they evoked sexually, or merely gambling or swilling away their statutory wealth in darker and darker dens. Of course, by that point they were no longer deemed healthy or vital enough to please the aesthetic judging panel that anonymously ruled these ceremony gatherings. But one never made reference in conversation, or preferably uttered no words or even telling eye-contact at all, no matter what tender exaltation one had had the delicate moment of sharing. The city supplied you two ways of meeting those who traversed the underground, and that was either by joining them in fleeting immorality and forgetting them forever, or by meeting them socially on some other day in your disguise of normalcy, where they might become your esteemed, wealthy husband for life, the father of your children who also excuses himself bi-weekly to visit his old friend, "the Count", and came back vital and carefree, or self-absorbed and traumatized. What happened at the Count‘s mansion? What, indeed.
Many types of men and women were there, but none were prostitutes or the like; they had all made a choice to surrender to unnameable indiscretions, as beings usually so inhibited by class, stature and shame, sacrificing their noble class as an offering to life.
I did not participate to quench any intrusive urges, at least none I could not satisfy in any common, sane coitus.
[... a suivre ... ]
The mad narcotic orgyists slept like half-drowned plants in our cemetery of lust. Though the night had rendered many different combinations of sex and type, as far as even numbers and somnia allowed, most lay with one of the opposite gender. The nudity of the sexual circus had not left them, but they were covered in quilts, blankets, furs and coats, even the silk spread from the great dining table in the grand dining hall in the next room; a room that no doubt also contained various lingering mammals, some of them possibly awake handling their medicine and nursing wild hangovers, but all still steeped in some comatose death.
This morning was an exercise in obtaining and detailing my vivid descriptions of debauchery and the magic therein kept. Due to the constipated trickle of my reason I did not yet feel bored with this routine of demonry. But as soon as I’d felt the bells of homeward longing toll, or I was interrupted by some talkative bimbo or clown of meager sentience and perspective, the last life of the party would be squeezed from my free will, and be replaced by the normal will to flee from all these components that made up a world outside my thought. In my solipsism I tendered the fact that all flesh or material was minted of the same regular stuff; and all illusion of structure, action and purpose I dully romanced in my chapters of activity were powerful lies, only forgivable because there was no replacement for its spirit.
I sat up easily, ignored the woman-beast that had eloped with me to the space beneath the coats in the wardrobe section, and checked my coat while sitting there. I always worried that some of these religiously liberal miscreants were thieves in disguise of class and night. I respected the thief’s tenacity and tolerance in witnessing such sophisticated perversion and unnatural excitement, just to make his crooked ends meet, or perhaps to do both just as dearly. The twilight of evening would arrive, the narcotic ecstasy of unholy communion having disarmed them all to corpses and infants, and then their goods could be plundered freely. Two minutes in this wardrobe of opulence yielded all manner of timepieces, jewellery, medicine, pornographic photographs - which were of inestimable value to priest and sailor alike - and various heirlooms and treasure.
Of course, I didn’t actually carry any enviable items in my coat, but I checked the inventory to see if I had pocketed some strange goods myself, which were sometimes further stolen by a third party, so I could join in on the complaints about crime being so rampant and not finding trustiness anywhere, not even among thieves or whores. The fact was that they had all probably given their money to various abusing prostitutes and caliginous dealers of impermanence sometime before they arrived here - or they had not even brought their bullion and were just the regular fools of confusion that accuse daylight of violating privacy.
Because oddly, many of these orgiastic, lewd characters did have an expectation that you should be safe in this coven of florid debauchery, where one might be disgusted or curious to see what would happen if one placed a fresh corpse bent over some furniture. It was the typical delusion of the bourgeoisie who does not yet know that he is beyond the moral sphere of his social propriety.
To most participants, names and occupations were unspoken and of no interest. One might of course later spot an oddly familiar face on a podium giving a speech, conducting a renowned orchestra with the same jagged profligacy as they evoked sexually, or merely gambling or swilling away their statutory wealth in darker and darker dens. Of course, by that point they were no longer deemed healthy or vital enough to please the aesthetic judging panel that anonymously ruled these ceremony gatherings. But one never made reference in conversation, or preferably uttered no words or even telling eye-contact at all, no matter what tender exaltation one had had the delicate moment of sharing. The city supplied you two ways of meeting those who traversed the underground, and that was either by joining them in fleeting immorality and forgetting them forever, or by meeting them socially on some other day in your disguise of normalcy, where they might become your esteemed, wealthy husband for life, the father of your children who also excuses himself bi-weekly to visit his old friend, "the Count", and came back vital and carefree, or self-absorbed and traumatized. What happened at the Count‘s mansion? What, indeed.
Many types of men and women were there, but none were prostitutes or the like; they had all made a choice to surrender to unnameable indiscretions, as beings usually so inhibited by class, stature and shame, sacrificing their noble class as an offering to life.
I did not participate to quench any intrusive urges, at least none I could not satisfy in any common, sane coitus.
[... a suivre ... ]
lørdag 8. august 2009
english-only (and entry moved)
the former content of this entry, titled "morgenvill", has been moved to the norwegian blog tungsinn (heavy mind) i'm running opposite this one. please follow both if you speak both languages, otherwise, i hope the material i produce in english will satisfy the common masses. and you, the special. i will keep you especially squalid with my beauty.
introduction
this tacky blog of mine will fulfill in the temporary degree my constant need for affirmation through publication of flashy thoughts, reviews or other delightful mitigation of cosmic bad taste. in the more permanent degree, the tardy crypt is quite literate in that tomes i create for the purpose of writing often turn into tombs, with all manner of cobwebs and time waste. with the love you supply i shall attempt to change my character, into the mythical form from olden times known as the philosopher god. in this shape i can govern my workload and forget the heavy weight of space gathering upon the mind of all men.
i assume that the reader has either intimate or fleeting knowledge of yours truly. this has no immediate significance but i guess it helps. as you will notice i abstain from capitalization except, i suppose, for more aggressive enhancement like CUNTS. if you are a random visitor, i'd advise you to not take offence at my profanity, but instead read some later post about censorship, blasphemy and the profane. i've got garbage, brains and a life to kill; i can work this baby like a street lady.
i assume that the reader has either intimate or fleeting knowledge of yours truly. this has no immediate significance but i guess it helps. as you will notice i abstain from capitalization except, i suppose, for more aggressive enhancement like CUNTS. if you are a random visitor, i'd advise you to not take offence at my profanity, but instead read some later post about censorship, blasphemy and the profane. i've got garbage, brains and a life to kill; i can work this baby like a street lady.
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