Saturday, June 6, 2009

The Viscera and The Bile (The Horror Beneath the Surface of Things)

Hate and swarming anger bubbled up from her mouth like she was choking on rotten semen. It's uncomfortable for both of us. Her dirty feet stomp on the weak wooden floor as she pounds out her point, second by terrible second. Making sure. Letting me know. Each little movement is a tantrum that stretches back to the earliest days of her childhood. When we fuck, she goes back to her first time, raped at 14. She relives the horror and dread every time I choke her or push her into the mattress. Every time I spank her, she becomes at once intwined and liberated from those first moments of her sexual identity. I am her escape and her reality. She goes shopping for toys and bondage equipment instead of groceries. I live by fucking her brains out and fantasizing about the day that she'll betray me and I end up in prison after killing some poor fuck who came to my house expecting an easy lay, but found a hunting knife and a shotgun instead. She's working her way to being a firestarter, but she's never done it before. She's feeling me out, waiting to see if she can predict or control my behavior. I tell her it's pointless of course, but this doesn't stop her. She needs to feel like she has some say. It's my life though, and I've never been good at taking direction.

The apartment is filled with little garbage flies. The kind that find their way into the tops of open liquor bottles in corporate bars. too busy serving drinks and counting money to take any care in the preparation. They stop on the wall and wait for something in the room to move before they begin frantically searching for something else to land on and feed off of. There is no food in the house, only remnants of half meals and takeout packages that for some reason don't give off an odor, but give the illusion of the idea that we are alive and that we consume. However, I happen to know the truth. We are dead. We are the living dead and we want to feed on flesh. Our own flesh is enough for us now, but our hunger and desire will continue to become fierce and carnivorous in the way of all evolving life. We cannot be symbiotic.

Plagued by curiosity about other people who share our affliction . . . our sickness, we reach out constantly. We use the internet and find the things that we want to know, but the necessities escape us. Why must we work so hard so that other people may remain wealthy? Why must we bother with these scraps that they leave for us. We live in the haunted amusement park that is the decaying and rotten part of 20th century america. We were born into a system that can't fix itself. It has run down. It has been running down for almost a hundred years. We don't know why we are drawn to drugs and violence. We don't know why SEX is greater than GOD to us. We know that we are lost and we sense that we are somehow doomed. This is only an illusion. Priests rape children and retire in Ft. Lauderdale. Rivers dry up, while there's flooding two hundred miles away. Everything we think we know has been called into question. We are living and yet skeptical about whether or not we are alive. We have ontological issues. We love fire and we use it every day.

She's made her point. I know that she needs to believe that she can affect my behavior. So I am letting her believe that and I am allowing her to gain some evidence in that regard. I have allowed for her tantrums to alter how I behave and I give it back to her full force when she wants to fuck. Which is most of the time.
We are running. We are not so much frightened as we are horrified at the idea of this country. The whole damned mess has started to become clear to us and we can't stand the sight of blood. The bile and the viscera beneath the skin that covers the bone has shaken our understanding of reality. We know of skulls, but we have never examined one. I fear that our curiosity will grow further still. I fear that when we really start running, that we will be running for a reason, and that there will be something very real at our heels.

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