It was too much for us inside each other. It was too hot. There was smoke coming out. It was hell. We could hear the nearby worms gagging in our diluted feces. Our precious bodily fluids squirted into the worst sort of effluvia…into the play-giaristic gases of eructating geysers.
Exploring the language of hatred nurtured our queer acceptance of life. We’re all made to be eaten. Motherfuckers. All.
And so it appears to me that the most honest statements, the truest ones, tend also to be the most fantastic. So the maximal truth is the chief hallucination extrapolating one’s most extreme level of awareness…a living fiction making sense of us.
If ideology is what we do without knowing it, fiction is what we think we’re doing with what we believe we know.
My elusive end, I imagine, is singing a song as best I can with a failing voice.
…[and] so with the killing of Leo I was unhinged by the Intruder, the Repulsive Ghost, who contrived to engage me in a worldly divergence from which I’ve been denied any other recourse but to write my way back into line so I can have the first-hand experience of bearing witness to the ultimate victory of unparalleled Truth over all the uncertain bullshit and horror!
Therefore, ambitious people make me cringe. They forget they’re just word-beings, that their flesh occludes their no-thingnessness.
An ultimate truth is necessarily irrational.
There IS no Other. The signifier IS the signified. Everything IS Fiction.
“God” Is a fictional process…no big deal…no such thing as a big deal…
Everything—now and forever, here and everywhere—depends on Attitude.
God is cool. God is bored. God is nonchalant. God has Attitude. God slides with the complexities of matrix on matrix, matrices in matrices, layers rubbing out layers…the ohms generated from spiritual abrasion…the virtual static of your clinging…and God keeps sliding by…cool as a cucumber against your calamitous clit…
Finally, I don’t trust anybody, not even myself, and I’m learning to be cool with it.
And I want to fuck the chicks on Assparade.com.
Because a misanthrope still gives a shit.
She knows everything human feels alien to me.
It stems to or from Celine, perhaps, this feeling that Western civilization wasn’t so much a manifestation of desire as a primal fear emergency over starving, failing and being tagged a loser, facing exile and expulsion from the in-crowd, unless one can make one’s self worthy in some other way…resulting in an overall dread of sex & dying…that malaise of belonging…as if being truly individual were ever really possible.
You might ask yourself or someone else, if you’re so inclined, what a body is that could say I would prefer not to? And actually doesn’t.
Claudia Del Solis. Bella Rossi. Susanna White. Sara Jay. Claire Dames. London Andrews. Kelly Divine. Chantel Lace. Pinky, Dragon Lily, Angelina Castro, Christina Carter and Karen Fisher. These are the women Ziggy Fumar will select for his harem when he’s anointed world emperor. Everyone will oil up and prepare to wrestle as Ziggy sings his national anthem. The IOC will be stripped naked and forced to watch. And listen.
He was not what He was. Or will be. One way or the other. Preferring not to…
On Valentine’s Day.