The danger I’m seeking everyday undoes me in literal forms. Everything is false. I don’t know where I am or if I’m alive. My insides start concealing followed by an oppressive emptiness; some sort of machine keeps me alive, pumping air into me. Then after about two years of molesting myself I stand up from a seated position, from the ideal chair made of meat: pig’s feet, chicken feet, chicken legs, chicken breasts, chicken wing, bacon, beef, frog legs. Babies born in meat slime have a shrunken brain, a mess of unworkabilities or multiple relationships that carry no necessary information, the pain, this fucking feeling of hope and how to save the world: It’s OK! We’re fucked, and you know it, tell me I can fuck you. But the realm of the mortal tricks me: senses of taste and smell, digestion, bone structure, a hand, gripping my jaw and pulling it open. Accumulated fallacies. I’m told to be modest and patient enough to understand nature and the stamp of our origin, I’m God. I killed him. I ate him and I shit him out. God is my shit now. My thoughts and actions disfigure everyone else. On the alter is a toothbrush, a pen, a sleeping pill and a makeup case. I’m looking for something factual other than the yellow pus from my eye soaking into the pillow.
The guy likes pegging. I bang him up the butt with a dildo, approximately the same size as his dick. Some gray, leathery shit expels right in front of me. The mistress reaches out for some vaseline and latex gloves, she moisturises her forefingers before she grabs a metal plug to relinquish his control leading to total submission. Two minutes earlier he had scotch taped his penis to the dildo to see if I could put both in my mouth. Ten minutes before he had fucked me from behind. You know, this is not a gender-flipping sex act getting shit in my face. What upsets me the most is the anus, his emotions: extremely vulnerable. I’m trying to think of it as art. Then nothing, no explosive orgasms, except it hurts. I pull out the stinky dildo and he grabs my throat. I love to be the centre of a man’s attention. He came to kill her. He hits her. He sees that she passes out. Is that really all there is? If I were him I would have jumped up and masturbated on her face, raped her in the mouth. I would have a lengthy history of attacking women, and have sex on their dead corpses. Their guts would slide out on the floor and shit. He sees that she gets up. Then nothing.
We potentially fall in love, the mistress and I. But imagine a space with no poetics. I turn my back and seven months later we smash, then glue back together moving in circles but in opposite directions. My whole life unfolds in this circle, all the people I will meet in the future are here, I’d love to kill all of them. There is a dog. One guy puts his dick in its mouth, another pounds its ass. The dog is laughing; in a couple of minutes both dicks will be injured, slammed to the floor.
Her mind climbs the staircase. She decides to settle, to go where he goes, where capital goes, replacing circles with roots. “Can I urinate on you?”, she walks into the shower stall one last time as she whispers “not the killer but the victim must be blamed”, God still loves me, I start kissing her where urine had just been passing through. We finish off by taking the final piece of meat, a big raw cow’s head throwing it into the shower and blocking the drain.
My days are irritating, I still wake up in the morning comprehensibly pointless like the nomads obeying restrictions of freedom and the five reasons why you should never date a girl with dyed hair. Interdependence of individual parts; your smell, blood stained undies, your hair, hands, around my waist. In my mind I snip your head off and peal the skin so all that is left is meat and a skeleton. Only those that love without hope get what they want. Dead silence. I close my eyes and imagine she dies in a traffic accident.