mother
mother
mother
mother
i am
i am
a good boy
right?

mother
mother
mother
i'm sorry for these thoughts
if they make you cry
i'll buy you a chocolate bar

I didn't get any sleep. I lied awake all night next to my wife. I thought about my college days. In college I took a double honours major in philosophy and garbage disposal. I thought that I'd apply these studies with my creative writing inclinations and have a career in blogging. I would pretend to be a philosophical garbageman, without having to actually collect garbage. I've been blogging about garbage and philosophy now for over two years since I graduated. It's gotten me nowhere. The following three men are my fathers: Jim Morrison, Marilyn Manson and my wife. I'm gay. I'm disillusioned. This is my blog. Life's a bitch.

I'm an object that's done. I'm a disappearing act. I'm split so I eat myself.

I eat. I fuck. I pray to Darth Vader. I'm a good Christian God. I'm your fucking boss. Now wipe my fucking ass, you weak, weak liberal. You're so weak. Do it. Get down. I'm in charge of your puny genitalia. I make you shit and fart when you want to be sexy. Now obey. Just obey and whimper with your legs crossed. I like it like that.

It's disheartening to say that the world is ugly in a common way. We want to say that the world is ugly in a beautiful way.

I used to get a runny nose a lot in high school. Sometimes I would wipe it with my hand, and then wipe my hand with my jeans. I had another method, though, and it was kind of artistic. Actually, it was resourceful. If I was in one of those 'alternative' high schools, they probably would have sent me straight to a fine arts university because of my nose-wiping methods. While the teacher was explaining away the mystery of the universe with Newtonian physical laws, I would be discreetly dabbing my runny nose and wiping it off on the loose leaf that I was not using to enlighten myself about the true nature of the universe. I noticed that the paper would get very damp, and then it would quickly dry. I decided that I would tear off little pieces of the paper, just a little bigger than my nostril. I would soak the pieces up real good, on both sides. Then when no one (or every one) was looking, I'd stick the soggy papper to the wall beside my desk. By the time the class was over, I wasn't any closer to understanding the laws of the universe, but I had noticeably changed my environment: there were dozens of of crusty white flakes hanging on the wall by my desk. Looking back, I think it was beautiful as a visual and a gesture. It was at least inspiring as the Einstien poster beside it that said "Genius is 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration" or "The world may be big, but there are no small things."

It was like performance art and sculpture. And there was probably a lot of conceptual stuff in there about the Enlightenment and Existentialism. I am aware that doing this was very rebelious. Most great ideas are born of rebeliousness. But I was also very bored. The values of the Modern world were dulling me, and making me turn inward: not to reflect, but to make paper-mache snot-flakes. The teacher should have been alarmed and sent me home with the complete works of Albert Camus. You could only go so far pushing the Sisiphian rock up the hill, but there was no end to what you could do to the appearance of the public school with stationary supplies and snot.

I was chasing rabbits in the woods. When I was a kid I caught one with my bare hands. No joke. It had deep snare scars on its neck. It was a toughshit rabbit. Human kids don't catch toughshit rabbits with their bare hands. I guess that's why I was an android.

I was running the Dirt Road, just like before I got my skull fractured, but this time on foot. The neighbourhood kids were cardboard cutouts. I was the runt, but this time I was the leader. I guess I was the leader the real time too, but this time I wasn't an accident. There was no car this time; just a rabbit, and I chased all the way back home through the brush because we were all going to die otherwise.

Once home the rabbit became a great ape and lumbered off. My eyes became mechanical extrusions. Interface periscopes. Little groping tentacles. In the basement window of my homeshed I merged mechanically with the Eye of Cthulu. Eyes into eyes. Male to female. A perfect match. I didn't want to be this thing, but it was what I was meant to be.

I woke up in bed with you, in a nonexistent room next door. You were naked and sex, and I was too many layers of clothing. I wanted to fuck you like I was inventing the idea of fucking, but we were in a glass room next to all of everyone's histories, and you wanted to go back to the nonexistent room through the glass to get away from people and into the eyeball interface. That was the most evil thing. Your tits glistened like the last rocks jutting out from the sea. "Soon everything will be done. Please touch me to validate my violation."

All our best friends were on the other side of the glass window. I wanted to fuck you so hard, but I couldn't go back there, couldn't be on display like that. Oh god oh fuck.

I've been thinking about Big Macs for a long time. I'd kill a Buddhist for a Big Mac.

A humiliated Jew and his massacred family once told me that all dreaming after them would be barbaric. So should I stop? Should I kick and flail like a drowning child to wake up? I guess I could. But I'd really rather not.

After fire, after eyesight, there is a time of no-feeling. The vacuum signifies depth. Then there is a gentle budding of feeling and a distillation of the familiar. You know that dread, that familiar dread that once was a subtle plague? That is now everything. It is the only thing. Everything is dread.

Everything is dread, which is violation. Violation is the essential truth. Now we understand each other. Understanding is violation. Life is rape. You, delicate flower, you are a perversity. You, the prettiest of things, are a horrible monster to be destroyed. You lull me with the resonant patterns of your menses. You pry open my dread and enclose upon me to feed. Sucking the semen which is life from me.

Now the world is completely dry. We are all husks. We've sucked all the moisture from one another. Life is dread, dread is truth and truth is the rape of all things. We fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and we are aggregates of something like destiny. This is the process of love.

"Dearest Flower, can you help me?
You see, I'm in a bit of a bind
I haven't any money
And I've lost my fucking mind."

I wish I could go back. No I don't.

Fire gets funny. If you think about it enough it gets funny. It eats the air.

Certain things are not compatible with fire. Those are the things I want burning. Fire is the perfect confusion. It means everything. I see crystal-hot. I see absolute licking. I see until my eyebulbs pop.

Senses gone. This is the all. Imagine a blowjob.

I am confused about choices. I am confused about what messages mean. I am confused about everything. I don't know what to do. I can't make a decision. The dogs are at my heels.

I am with fire.

There's a lake of silver liquid up ahead. Now I'm in a dark cave. I see towering stacks of Penthouse magazines. They probably belong to someone's dad or a dragon. I wish I was a pre-Internet teenager so that this would excite me. Maybe I'll make a collage. There is a pair of scissors and some masking tape.

Now I see a lot of naked children and I'm reminded of the smell of soap. Cars line up along the periphery. Men are inside them eating popcorn. They all look the same but have slightly different haircuts. I float over to get a closer look and realize that they are pedophiles with children of their own. I stay close by to make sure they don't murder the children. They see me and immediately they all shoot themselves. Their heads explode like melons filled with pizza. It doesn't look real. It looks cool, though. The children are gone. Now all that I see is the preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. It says "The artist is the creator of beautiful things." The next line is blurry. Now it fades into focus again. It says "There are women who fart..." Now it's blurry again. Now it says "There are women who live as slaves in the dreams of the men you just killed. They are so skinny. They are so pretty." Now I'm frustrated because I know that's not what it really says.

There's a lot of legs lying around everywhere. I recognize most of them from magazines and movies. Some of them are wrapped in sheer nylon, some of them are bare. Some of them have wounds on them and some of them are without a scratch. I can pick them up and touch them. I can put a couple in my bag to explore for later. I know it's okay, so I do it. I know I can do anything now. It's exciting.