fighting over females, hungry to impregnate them (which felt like dancing), feeling the self-perpetuation compulsion in my vena, which surely slouched in a murderous volute outward from the fiery protoplasm of thanatophobia (selfish, selfish genes), which I can now see led to the self-perpetrating compulsion for control (breeds control for its own breeding) and power exerted not out of desire to live but fear of dying, a feeling which has fortunately been supplanted by certain pursuits, which
are: taking of pen dipped in ink and proposing thoughts
expansion of (born nameless I called) mySelf~Moebius Loopex [one-sided (always outward) and constantly twisted]~through communication with distant (in time and space) others~I tell you of external (interior) life (what I know of it), the words flow one after the next into the story (a promise to myself that there is a future) like drops of rain collecting in a bucket, refilling my (parched) soul~a rough portrait of a mind in a place, a pivot point trapped in a skin-tight suit, if such a thing can be abstracted, because veritably I could lap up (a thousand) words, and I still would not have captured (one thousandth of) the actual experience of being in this place in time because how can words catch the perception
of every: slant of light against surface, texture of material, square inch of your limbs, musical notes of the voice I heard (even when described in meticulous detail)
of the actual sensation of being in a scene described~this net of words is but a poor player strutting on the stage of the mind, a wisp of wind in a hurricane, a halfhearted gesture in a field of being (like a flower with pollen every shade of yellow tilting from the onset of orange at the tips to the palest of cameo at the center), an illimitable ocean of consciousness dwindled down to a droplet as it dashes from word to word~de(to)spite all that I write for the twig of pleasure in the esemplastic shaping {of ideas> because writing gets me into my mind and out of my body and sub sequentially out of my mind into nothingness~by projecting mySelf onto the page, the physical act of sucker against surface becomes succor} (and a reshaping both inside me and nowhere, expanding and contracting, a place of stillness just as)
Thus:
’twas serendipity when I discovered a clothesline [my own tightrope made of small threads wrapped like a double helix, each a nonterminous avenue (mobius loop) carrying a passenger (meaning) outward and inward, an anagogical wheel (the color of sand) upon which to clip my writings] connected to my spacious tent (taupe with fine corduroy welts that cause shadows to ripple on the surface like indeterminacy itself when I whiplash a candle to light) from a window (a rectangular flap that drops down) above my water globe (a ceramic sphere with a flat base and a hole at the top through which I can insert my drinking tube)
I send out a message, get one back invariably in dark purple [the same color as my (I do not know if that is significant, coincidence, or imitation)] ink, and I have no idea to whom (may be more than one or different each time) I am communicating (the frisson of mystery would extinguish if I knew)~I have persistently carried the pole to which is attached the rope no matter where the Zirkus has gone or how long I have been writing notes I cannot remember ever not having the pole with the helical loop that ranges as far as my (poor) eyes can see (admittedly, not very): over the rocky hills, across a brambled plain, down a brown valley; uniformly taut, endless~how many times have I rolled myself into my burlap bag and entered a germless sleep before a note came back? Indubitably, there was a time when I first clipped (pulled for what seemed like eons) a note to parts unknown, to a (my) vanishing point~my jigsaw with each message a piece that I am trying to conjoin to understand the whole (I have saved all the messages and pages and laid them out around my room):
recognizing fiction
in masquerade
realizing how my mind is deceived
(i) am able
at some moment in time, to reject the technique
will not be led.
Above the water and through icy slush,
my aeonian thoughts skate a sideways eight
perpetually sliding from the ethereal bubble of the future
to the irresistible tide of the past,
separated from the dirty god in the bowels of life
by a ravishing surface tension,
avoiding the moment,
when truly my consciousness ought to embrace that fire (god of all)
at the center that melts the barrier, to shift and overlap
the scent of peppermint.
no matter how deeply I crawl into insecurity, I remain at the surface
where cruelty inevitably finds its excuses, its necessity, for the greater good and
the freedom to have ≠ the freedom to live ≠ the freedom to enjoy ≠ freedom
for others.
Every time I receive a new note, my pod unrolls and puckers like a snake plucking fruit with its mouth (a single sucker)~the notes haven’t been arranged properly yet because all is still deranged~so I cram words into a bundle like robin (redbreast) and (re)distribute them (looking to cure the meat of specieosis, the poor of mind)
Symbols materialize, heralding the construction of an idea, sneaking behind my eyes to burst forth a new paradigm~life is not like this, it is like that~Magick
Let slip the Words of War:
slipknots looped around meaning found loose when tugged too tightly,
frayed at the fringes, the Awful Unraveling;
words divulge vacuity crossing the lips of agony,
strung along like a wide-eyed John;
words, I’ll pocket you,
in my mouth, word for
words with another;
words to your mother;
Secret love notes slipped in your pocket (set on fire for good luck),
words are in(distinct)definable
I hold up the cards and read (with one eye) in order to (craft a response word for word) concatenate this story to mine [a forlorn attempt to build a form (relationship, mental sequence) larger than my (solipsistic) body] which is as important as all the matter that exists or at least in[dis(]ex)tinguishable from it
And leave me with more questions, a (my)(i)stir(eeeeeeeeeee)~what or who is
dancing ∑ moving to a place of nothingness,
which is full like [a beginning acts, and an action begins,
to become just movement, just thought, no Self(is-ness); to be selfish (self-ish) is to act with a commitment to illusion and illusion by committee] emitting, squirting, effluxing, expostulating, expectorating sepia {|it’s a [(tingle)
in my head, wrapped around ideas, letting them carry me places, representing being and language and time~I try to squeeze down time as small as I can, to the very moment of being, but I can’t figure out how to isolate the moment from the flow and the paradox: I can neither experience the moment nor a wider span, neither is comprehensible~so~how small is a moment~when I oscillate a tentacle in front of my eyes I see it in several places at the same time~if my eyesight can so easily be fooled, our consciousness may similarly be unable to note the discontinuity of time itself, the flow is fabrication~a cup shapes emptiness; time is both discontinuous and experience is continuous~but if the present is not limitlessly small (to nothingness) then how either could it be in bubbles (dropping into the past) a thickness of the moment as if the past could be nudged aside to make way for experience~no thinking has cracked the nut of time~there are no answers (life is chaos trapped) can you conceive life without time? I am unable~what is the experience of an experience like outside of time~we inseminate ou
rselves with the idea of a subconscious because none can channel the present moment~but physics reverses when you concentrate and the moment enters you like a soul, you remember you are alive~or (shall I contradict myself) let Time be {(easier) a concept : what we experience is change not time [if nature is timeless, then how do things (the problem is with the word) happen?] and dying occur(s)ed due to entropy (all degenerates, our bodies become more chaotic, not older)} a metaphor for change, movement being a translation~
flowing softly, jetting through water, when there was water~enough to cover me, enough to swim in~
I don’t believe that will ever happen to me again
I am thirsty
What? Where am I? Sitting on the floor surrounded by tents, tents everywhere. Corridors. In a white robe with a red and black pattern. My red suit. Shit. I lost it. Godamnit. That hypnotist took it. The Zirk. Right.
“Sssit. Hey there, gene queen.”
A snake’s head. Two fists across poking through a slit in the wall, blue light spills out. I step through into a darkened cube. Deep blue fabric walls and two baskets of glowing lichen. Now poking out from a silken wall opposite, the head looks at me. It enters: a python’s body as thick as my waist. Muscular arms flare from its sides while the body forks into three short flimsy-looking legs. Python Princess paces toward me, stopping uncomfortably close, its sheath like rusted copper. Strangely arousing, I want to tear it apart and see what’s inside. As if on cue, it tucks its fingers between some loose scales at its neck and tears downward just like that, like a gimmick cigar that backfires in sheets. A striking contrast is revealed beneath: opalescent striations alive and fluctuating. My wish fulfilled drips down my thigh.
The light it gives off hurts. Shield my eyes and look away. The curtains, so rich in the dark, now shabby in the light. A funnel rests on a stand; a tube runs down from it and under the curtain.
“I hoopoe you enjoyyyy my formance,” round bassoon-voiced. My eyes adjust to the light: it looks like an obese glow-in-the-dark maggot with a pouting lower lip. “If you would be sooo kind, leeeeve a do-nation on you-are exiting. Jus a droperful of water wood be moose generoos.”
“I have … no water.”
“No water?” It takes two steps toward me; I flinch.
“I’m sorry!”
“How deed you get in here?”
“I have this,” I show her the ticket.
“Hey Zeus!!!” she hollers, hurting my eardrums. I dodge out, down the corridor, duck into another tent.
“… room!”—the Talker is inside, stage left on a low stage, speaking to a crowd of Pures. “Query: You like to kill. You there! Nothing? Projection: You can watch if that’s your pleasure. You. Query: Half you want to kill. Suggestion: Hybrid that looks like an ugly Pure. Stupider. A monster, perhaps? See nodding. Let me think. Let me think. Analysis: We can do that. Oh, you’ll be pleased. Just a moment.”
The audience is rustling when a human shape poured into a suit shuffles out from behind a curtain. Its body bulges in awkward, inappropriate places while the face is flat and mushy. Asymmetrical. Bumpy and splotched in shades of mustard. Instead of a thin, straight nose, it’s wide and off-center, fatter at the top and narrower at the bottom. The scooped-out, toothless mouth is mumbling, “Whubba? Whu? Pyuh-r. Pyou-err.”
The Pures squeal: “Ewwww,” “Command: Kill it,” “Command: Cut it.”
“Here, you are good man.” The Talker hands someone in the front a flat sword with a sharp point and gleaming edge as long as his arm. The Pure takes the sword by the handle and warily sidles up to the creature, point at waist level. The creature looks out of small, dull eyes.
“Pyou-err.”
“Uh-RUUU!” grunts the Pure with effort as he sweeps the blade up and across, putting his whole body into it. The blade sinks halfway into the creature’s head—dead into its mouth. The mouth opens and closes around the blade as if it’s trying to chew on it or maybe to continue speaking. The creature stops wobbling, almost resting its weight on the blade. The Pure yanks the blade out and swings again, misses the bloodless gash he’s created—cuts from a point above it angled downward into the mouth. A pie-shaped slice of head slides out and falls to the stage with a plop. The creature sways forward, almost falling.
The Pure backs up, lunges forward, “Hayahhhh!” Strikes overhead—slices through the creature’s shoulder as if nothing was between the sword and the stage—point buries itself in the floor—the arm dropping. The now armless, faceless thing caves in and forms a jumbled, agitated pile.
“Well done, well done.”
The body becomes still. Applause. The warrior Pure—pupils dilated, breathing heavily, swaying and smiling—clutches the blade against his chest.
I turn to duck out and SMACK!—face-first into Tender Hooks. Someone told me that name. Must’ve been Sarasephi.
“Hello, that guy. I doan think you tposta be here.”
“I’m looking for a friend. Can you please help me find him? A lion eagle … eagle-like lion with big wings. Have you seen him?”
The humans have stopped to stare at us now. Warrior Pure is still swinging the sword, lunging as if attacking an invisible opponent, and making karate sounds.
“Whatsee look like?” asks the bodybuilder. Hes thick Norse-god hair hangs down in front of hes face.
“Well. Like a lion’s … body … with a … eagle head. Bigger than you. And with big wings.”
“I doan know. What’s a lion?”
“Well, it’s a … cat?”
“Sorry. You need t’get t’th greenroom. I think that’s where you’re tposta stay Baby Joey said.”
“But I need to find Sphinx.”
“Djawantme t’carryyuh? I’ll carryyuh.”
“No. Okay, I’ll go back.”
Tender leans over and pulls up the canvas tent wall. I go out and under it with hem right next to me, dropping the wall behind us. “There.” Tender points at another tent, and we walk toward it down a narrow passage, stepping over guy-wires and pegs.
Coming toward us: a flying being—light and sleek with blinding fast wings—a miniature, well-formed female except for bird legs and vestigial hands on her wings. Our paths intersect at the greenroom tent. She almost flies into me, chest forward, but glides back at the last second. A transparent mask disguises her nose and mouth. Her eyes gleam in disagreement: one is bright sapphire, the other clear. A birdgirl! Throwing a bird against a wall. The Big Head. An angel with gilded wings. I reach for her—“Wait! I remember you. I need to talk to you, I think I—”
She screeches, dives, claws in my eyes—I trip, flailing, try to protect my face—claws catch under my chin—lifted up, my head thrown back—burning urine splashes on my face—rising upward—a powerful force clamps on my leg—“PUT HIM”—I’m spinning
“either pain or pleasure, nothing else,” I say, fondling her horn. Mmmh, delicious. Unihorn tosses her head no. No of disagreement or no of annoyance? “Attracted to the poles. I am whole. Holy. Hole and phallus. That’s what I said.”
Uni tilts her head at me. Can’t read her eyes. Communicates well for not having a tongue. When she wants to.
“I fuck therefore I am. Where’s your cock and cunt? I asked if hem forgot it. I forget their shortcomings. Perpetually coming short.”
She raises both eyebrows at me—a shrug.
“You get it with your cunt and this phallus. The male side wants to hurt others because you hate yourself. The female side hates herself so you want others to hurt you. But I”—pull my sticky cock down and out of my cunt and rest it on my palm—“can’t help loving myself. Riding the rhythm.” I cup myself. I rub her back.
“Matter is alive. Opposite poles arouse. The enemy is the repressed.”
Stroke her horn and touch it with my tongue. No, again.
“All right. Be alone. I have my brothersister clone, my body, myself, all my gifts from G’Nesh.” I hop onto my bed and gesture at my pussycock fu
cking itself. I am feeling rather sleepy anyway. “You should know. Fucking is best. Thought ceases to exist. Consciousness is where all the sadness lies.” Two body parts, pleasure-filled, mindless. I will rest; I will join with them, separate their parts and wrap them around me so I can fuck and be fucked. Orgasm. Everything else is just conversation. Please. Gorgeous, the sound of sweet sloppy wetness next to me, I can swim in it endlessly as I fade into sleep, pretty squishy sounds …
SHATTERED AWAKE, scorch it—someone in the tent—like splintered glass, holding a long blade—
into Uni’s side, stabbing, Uni falls like a sack of bones—
I’m grabbed, a weight on my back—
It’s a Pure—
it’s on me—
that’s Uni’s blood dripping from her side a rivulet coming toward me—
in me—
that’s a cock in me, he strikes the back of my head—
I come immediately, he is riding me but that blood, his rotting flesh rage is hot, my cock crushed into the dirt, rubbery and hard, dripping semen, he has cut up Uni. Uncool. I squeeze my cunt closed; he grabs my arms hard—
his grip loosens; he slides off.
I stand up—he’s backing away, mouth forming a circle, hands pawing at the puckered hole between his legs, milky pus and blood oozing out. I relax my cunt, and his cock drops into the dirt at my feet.
He falls to his knees, grabs at his cock. He rolls over onto his back, clutching it. My cunt directly above his mouth, my cock stiffly bisects his face left and right. He begins twitching and blinking rapidly, taking short sharp breaths, clutching his penis to his chest, but it slips from his grasp and drapes awkwardly across his neck. I kneel down over him and his frightened eyes quiver toward me.
“See, you should’ve just asked. Stupid unit. Disgusting.” My clit pulses like hummingbird wings, and my cock thrums like a harp. Aching. I place the tip of it at the hole between his freshly neutered legs. And thrust inside him. Ah. He inhales deeply and warbles a guttural sob. I have to fuck fuck fuck him fuck him harder and harder slamming against a bone until his eyes freeze, and I come inside him. Ah-oh, so so good, good lover.
A Greater Monster Page 22