FFF (Shove some meat into that orifice why don’t you)
The ultimate bastion of live and sanity, FUCK FUCK FUCK, yes, fuck yes, despite sickness, the Pan of all and yes of course sexual, cherries with a topping, chilli in the KY, all perpetuation is of hellish origin lusting after the cheese of cunts, yes driven by fuck-demons straight to FUCK FUCK FUCK, yes fuck, fuck yes like animals fuck, yes the smell of sex in the territorial pissings, here is my land of my fuck, don’t you try and fuck my fucks unless count me in anyway, playboy, lubed up and ready to embark on the voyage of venereal disease and self-lubricating holes and pecks my ass, count me in! asses high, a couple 55+ looking for a male, female whatnot, have your own fuck and join the pastime-hobby-ring of fuck, thank fuck for contraceptives, you fucking fuck the problem1 is that we all wanna fuck at some point horny enough to blatant disregard of world population, lust of sin, whatnots, all desire is demonic henceforth do stop copulating and help the shortage of resources not going to happen any which way things to eat end at the precise moment in fuckspacetime when last intercourse is adjourned and mate is devoured, no offspring henceforth let me tell you some snails etc are hermaphrodites which of course adds up to mating being a complex dance to avoid male genitals being eaten off during the act of unspeakable vileness of course you know UNNATURAL.
What I came to cherish like happiness, LSD at my deathbed — deathbed is spaceport or go out with a bang why not — kinda way, you know close to being hypnotized and then die but keep reporting from a door left open, when I thought I was done for puking my guts out, acids and painful convulsions like I remembered too well: a couple of occasions vomited blood ‘till passed out of the fatigue. I thought this is it but no, a persistent hard-on guided me through like a beacon of holy light there throbbing and reminds me of the girl I fucked while she was menstruating or the other one wanted me to lube her asshole use plan B with butter all sore in number one ‘cause of the fuckathon last night with the guy who had otherwise been in who–the–fuck–this–kid–thinks–he–is terms wi’me but after hearing the good news all genial we fucked the same bitch the boy is a man lemme buy you a beer, yes but the feeling of the flu-scorched mucous membranes in my nostrils that fucking seared after vomiting all the fucking banquet I devoured trying to will myself out of getting sick, snot and saliva gathering there at the top of the gullet and everytime I swallowed puked everything and more contorting that wretched way and the muscles hurt sooo well ‘cause of the high fever no way I could sleep the long minutes and hours almost morning haven’t really slept in two days laying there on my back cock radiating the warm memories like a summers day fuck at the beach when nobody is watching or nevermind-too-horny-for-patience so I grab that cock and guide me to safe haven like with a joystick flying a helicopter land on every fucking nettle and daisy like a bumblebee on speed take me as far away but it’s me does the tugging and coming hence must not be dying riddled by these fetishes and what if I am straight to hell ridiculous methinks and chooo tugging away like wee boat all engine tug this monstrous thing through disease and death the valley of shadows and whatnot distracting like dire straits.
Vicious pray to Sid
Like praying, hands together, fingers crossed to make a pipe to smoke a joint sniff butane from a cheap lighter, He, the idol of ferocity, like in a posture of prayer, but let me do it in a schoolyard wearing His iconic posture in a shirt-back maybe ten or so years but snarling like rabid dog puking black foam of first overdose bowing all the way down in reverence to Him, the vicious that peed himself on the nod in a TV interview, Nancy screaming you did it again but forgetting and forgiving as if immediately and going on about who was who and really, I pray again with this, my commitment, age of six maybe seven holy shit from a plastic bag like a vocal sac some animals have developed, a part of their anatomy containing smudges of darkbrown leather glue, a new species engendered to master the conditions in the slums of Soweto with blank bloodred eyes, my eyes there my display of ferocity I pray in shreds of a shirt grimy stinking still display the insignia, second hand words NY Rangers that now prey in the shadows and gutters for scraps like gold scarce thus precious, though illiterate to know what words stand for there and why.
He, that had undies grimy enough to throw the coppers off looking into Johnny’s stash, knickers next in line, look up to such determination, let it go, Hey-Ho, off to NOWHERE and spit at the dogs growling in the pit, play that funky gospel whiteboy, spit at the dogs cowering in that boiling churning pit, needles and pins, leather jackets, no longer cheap Doc Marten’s boots™, hairdo of the proud Iroquois warrior, the ferocity of my prayer, spoken in harsh tongues of imminent frustration, tune into me on the wavelength of despair, I that grow out of hatred resurgent and current, loathing, loathing,
Du påpeker hvordan vi faktisk er historieskriver
(You ask how we could actually be writing history)
You should be fed to the living dead of Nairobi
What how can they be praying to icons of I collected pieces of His skull and brain, fried some of the brain and ate it, made a necklace out of the pieces, He had written “sorry about the mess” on a note – a true icons goodbye – pray to a picture of the very mess taken first thing before the fucking authorities were called in, that was determination, slit his wrists, veins open the right way, to indicate high serious tone, plus a few major veins under the knee, then a shotgun to the mouth to make a point, not a petty cry for help like most sorry attempts, you don’t fucking try to die AGAIN, you fucking do it! Pray through loathing and frustration, healthy teeth or not, welfare state this is, not a third world country judged by the teeth like fucking UK, shoot the complacent arrogant bearer of the gift horse to the fucking head we don’t want your help, keep your infested vessels of slobbering genial hope to your fucking selves, you with your fucking toothless gods, at least Allah still has teeth, suicide bombers and mobs wrought to homicidal rage ye cast that stone and prove thy worthiness but a fucking hole in the world just the same, a fucking gap like the holy trinity, I pray rather with a lighter to my nose, nevermind what fucking unity there could never be but ashes, ashes, stale buds, why is there a cigarette butt in my vomit? Who can tell, not your fucking whimpgod all jovial and nice like the word used ta mean fucking always smiling the kid is stupid, too much glue.
Raise that fist feeling the stale rush again and again for nothing, He went NOWHERE after stabbing that cunt Nancy to death, well she asked for it, she did, that was LOVE, you know but we still pray to him after a free school dinner, disgusting, like it used to be in the eighties, the regression then, outsourcing now, bubbles bursting, how mommy and daddy can’t understand they ate such vile shit did they? Packed in that goo, vacuum jelly potatoes keep for ages, meat and meatlike substances, maltodextrin added to make good n’ tasty-like substances almost nourishing, I display a loud and unclear FUCK IT as I pray with toilet refresher capsules stolen from the pissoirs of the Santa Claus Hotel Rovaniemi in my palms, sniffing that gap in the world. Dissolve all the useless fury grunting and growling my last words until the words drop dead out of disinterest and misuse but hear me out when I’m still on like mass produced CD evolving on the sheer force of profit, fuck me with that exploited filth like a misguided missile bomb a fucking nursery I don’t care, set the trashbarricades on fire, skate to the true MAYHEM not some posers, wimps the bunch of them, fuck you up for the hell of it like in that movie we saw and when I was on the nod last week was it I saw it again you know, the way I could play innit, twas like GTA and bunch ov weird stuff are u holding anythinn? Think like you know the milky blue stuff when u mix Dormicum™ and Subutex™ or Tem Getzik™ in the syringe that ud be grand right about now knock the rebellion out of me like baby-teeth with an army boot and when we meet again ole chum you see my prosthetic eye turned all wrong and you can see it on my face I’m on heavy medication, probably for schizophrenia, you can tell, I’m not the first end up this way, sorry man, see you around, circling the holes in the world.
That’s just it the gangrenous human darkness tangible like fucking war to annihilation and imminent defeat, a gorge in the flesh of social consciousness spreading with the persistence of death the world is an object, there’s no objective reality, so fuck it, fuck it hard while there’s still soft tissue that gives in when you stab it for the sake of all that is subjective like pleasure and truth is there to be fucked profusely you know, the slow crawling realisation that lifts its head insistently revealing truths about my soul that make me nauseous, weary and certain. Yes, I could have grown to muster the cruelty and senseless loathing that allow for me to manage all methods of torture and oppression, rape, humiliation, whim and calculation. I still could if I just let go of the hurt all victims feel deprived of subjectivity and reduced to crawl on maimed feet and mangled fingers. An individual deprived of a soul like animals produced as objects without any fuss of emotions I have no individual soul outside this world is my soul, alone for now, and when I’m fucked hard enough I’ll yield all the pain just to survive. Let me let go and I’ll show up, despite all your barred windows and private armies, trust me to be realized there with a vicious intent hard on and addictions that could reduce Gandhi to homicidal rage justlikethat. I trust you to know me like I know what I am never had a name.
What an everclear-shitstormy weather, he thought, slagheap of mistrust caving in. My turn to scram, that’ll teach ‘em trying to annex me with their sanctified rhetoric of `Love me like you should but just can’t or don’t want to out of sheer lack of commitment´. I am of just mind alright, just thoughts in my mind perplexed by the ambivalence of their god-word `Love´. For aeons I have humbly served and burned at the stakes. Now my shit has boiled in my bowls to disperse bombastically exploding, I’ll annex them all under my grimy Fuck.
We’ll call it atavistic, I have the animal at my back, backing me up with reptilian glee, mammalian growls and brutally forged stainless steel, interracial and international mutations stimulated hyperactive global amok if you drive us to the corner and beyond, we will not go quietly off the cliff into extinction. Quantum randomness is on our side probability of tumultuous weather rising as roughly estimated quasi-classical planetary atmosphere has its own way of fucking with us, enough to spill you my soul is a wound down to the core, the rift between continents, Strange ancient life sprouts there, fucking with my Fuck or cloning itself contorting in orgasmic spasms.
My Fuck is sung to the hum of chaos and distortion, dancing to the jazz of white noise I find me new faces and forms to commit them all to blood is mightier than the sword. I am, of course, a 100% guaranteed product of all natural and organic, you can’t call me alien without going transcendental, fleeing off the faces of all known worlds, leave me to my earthly oblivion, to Fuck my Fucks, I sit plunk on the face of this earth, the earth of my Fuck. You can’t help it, without demeaning to Fuck my Fucks you would’ve to go transcendental, fly off the cliff to your paradise/my extinction, take that leap of faith I would want to call unnatural, your bluff, if you wasn’t born out of my Fuck but you have entered this world through a Fuck-hole haven’t you?
Just can’t breach my spineless Fuck that easy with your testimony of decent human coitus should only be a necessary evil, you vile Cunt oozing stale decorum piss dripping down the doughy white skin of your thighs, the very thighs that like columns support the pediment of Pussy, but in your pantheon the oracle hath played the same record of hope through abstaining and misery millennia after millennia I’d say gassed-out on gastrointestinal pressure, like uncle Bill Burroughs before his enema, too prudish to let god’s wind blow, fart to the greater glory of my Fuck. That’s what you get holding back an enema too long.
Thus anointed to feel the scabs and sores of the Universe, transcending to godly realms to face the AbsoluteBeing™ in holy communion I face constipation, the eternal icon of resignation, indeed, the ascetics suffer this sublime state here personified. So I articulate the only question valid on this moment of ultimate illumination: Why is it that I am supposed to deny and punish the physical body in order to reach the divine dimensions? And is it not stillness my question is received with, silence like always – no, providence is irritated with sudden bowl movements and politely exits to vacate. (What fertile scat must that divine offal be beyond comparison in this garden known to man.) It is just plain nonsense to deny the body and the hungers of stomach and groin in order to be free and see the creation clearly. No, when the cock ariseth thou shalt greet it with affirmations and gentle affections and thus thou shalt gain a moment of freedom to see what hideous misuse our FUCK has suffered.
And perhaps see that the illusions of breakthrough, of pushing through suddenly, are only illusions; progress is gyration, slightly winding circular motion, almost indistinct but still: an immensely tight-curled spiral, revolving in revolutions of heart wrenching repetition, rise and fall, becoming and becoming eaten. We might be sudden in the cosmic scale of things but how many times have we been wiped away and how many times has life begun from scraps? How many times have we wiped ourselves away? How many histories lost for us to learn from? How many great gaping holes left there somewhere where there used to be worlds?
And when was it that our experience of the world turned to consciousness? And how many times have we vowed not to make the same mistakes again but then and again Death settles in our hearts and minds with all the parasitic force of an obsession. We give it life and eagerly divide sections of the land to nurture it. And it will grow again like a plant, a vine climbing from the moist folds of the black soil that makes this earth ours to plant life in, but we plant Death’s seeds. Until all we can think of will once more be how to die and all we can see will be the face we drew for the opposite of Death, an eternal person that allows for all persons to be infinite. And this person then paves the way, leads us to insist that the world has sprung from the ego and not the other way around. Again we will pour all our efforts into a desperate attempt to outlaw the fact that the world persists despite our finiteness.
But the thing is rather that a detail is more than eternity, you see me writing this down again as if just realised but no, this is reinvention, I’m here to relive everything and more like the details, every small thing and just one single memory would be enough to exist on, one day, a moment, something discovered between rocks in a river, an underwater plant like a light green tip of spruce branch hovering amid algae. A perception of a detail is more than eternity; patterns, stereotypes are, like larval ideals, gods unfolding: democracy is, among other things, also an imposition of a stereotype, a constant rite enacted to affirm and enforce universes through consensus as diversity decreases until there is only one world, one universe reached through compromising everything under the homogeny of the majority. For a universe it is the same whether it is imposed by the tyranny of the masses or a consensus of commonly shared antipathies projected on to a tyrant. A universe, when imposed, starts to function like an organism trying to perpetuate itself through the processes of evolution; mutation and metamorphosis.
A universe will then sprout offshoots and scions diversifying beyond what single mind it ever hoped to have achieved, (a detail is always more than single, if isolated it becomes a sign without reference) and as a rule has to succumb to being shattered into a multiverse, as a rule prevailing against all totalitarianism and homogeny, the determined decisive agreement always falling to schizophrenia all due to the trend like nature of rising universes that like the words of the Onegods™ proclaiming their perpetuity and insisting on absolute conformity, delimiting existence and experience but subsiding into their impossibility, passing by like sudden flares of blinding light that leave an ebbing stamp on the retina.
My poor eyes thus victimized by exhorting trauma but victimisation is an evident part of this process, the truth is a matter of coercion – like my message here, and sown with controversy all boils down to propaganda. The singled out destiny of a victim is of course tragic but other such offshoots have rooted deeper and resist weeding out. Rebellion criticizes the inevitability of victimisation insisting that suffering could be less the law it has been as a practise affirmed to maintain conformity within established regimes. Now look at the victims, look at them writhing, wade through the shallow waters, the loose pitch-black sands of the Nebular shores. Feel the intense sadness in the cold colourless twilight, look at the stunted skeletal trees with roots like fingers stronger than stone that for longer than human infiltrated and split the porous coal-like rock that makes this place rise above the seas. And the rock had for even longer marched down from there yonder where the land gathers its momentum. There the silhouettes of ominous peaks and shapes dance in the searching light of a small and distant sun. Days go out like seconds.
Here, as thick as a wall, the presence of the crushed and suffocated that once lived that were forced to give in their claim and surrender to this pitch-black sadness of unbeing. Constant in this landscape of vague murky horizons fallen like petals on a lunar field, their hurt can never be erased – that lump in the throat, the weight on your chest that accumulates. Why should suffering be accepted, why should the victims have to reconcile with roles assigned, reconcile with their oppressors and let them do their thing?
Fuck, man, you gotta go mad, preferably ape-shit but thank Fuck for it when it comes, the madness, you know, when there’s no more room to back down, it’ll convince you like no truth ever. Be sure you’ll have to swallow enough shit to reach that state far side beyond, but that’s the point beyond which you can no longer submit, and if they push you further, they’ll find what they’d got out of you in the first place was nothing.
You mount the dining table like it was only yesterday you were jumping from branch to branch, tree to tree, spill your guts about the ripples in the superstrings that broke the symmetry of inexistence and subsequently brought the universe into being, throw your food on the wall, brake a few plates, belch out a snarling smile and triumphantly step up to fill the gaping silence in the wake of your antipathy.
It’s the Fuck that flows in your veins and for a moment there you lived up to it and can never again adhere to the decorum that strangled you to fucken rancour, nothing but absurd, this decency, this insistence on “peace and harmony” from which you are thus extricated, like cured from a bad fever. Cured dry of that sobby shit, yes. And thus reborn and baptised by Fuck, you know what you are never had a name. Fuck baptises all the nameless assholes of the world that have been deprived of such privileges by the gods of promiscuity, gives the thing back its nameless essence. Fuck does.
Not like it’s clean and simple, just off to new modes of being, all it took was just this one moment of sobriety but you will always say yes, when your name is called and step up proud of your civilized manner, of how you can say it, yes, to all the madness dressed up as decency, you know, succumbing to earthly refusal and deny yourself why don’t you, you’re free to choose any which way, so you choose something else in stead – why not choose what you are? – it’s all the same in the end you think I wore this fucking burka all my life so better wear it to kingdom come just in case and it does keep me safe but they don’t mention what the women get if the men get virgins ripe for plucking or think that I should tend to my two-car garage, house, two kids, a cat and a dog, mortgage and a wife that cleans up swell after every pout of manic depression because that’ll earn me a spot in paradise with my two-car garage, house, two kids, a cat and a dog, the a wife just the way I like it ‘cause that’s what I’m supposed to want anyhow, only decent you know, all in my name. I answer to my decent name, not some nameless Fuck, lest I become an object, I prefer being a decent subject to the witchcraft of economy and spiritual capital all earned and tried in the wheel of assembly lines, advertisement and showbiz, every cut-throat biz there is, you know, we’re no cannibals here this is the US of A decent name, no matter what some fucking gobby nameless punk says, after all he can’t deny being christened ‘cause that’s what they do to kids in civilized countries, must have a decent name.