We got your favourite thing: Disappointment!
What if I choose to live and what if I killed you, Inhumanity
There is no light out of all the places
There is no sign of our help
There is no time and a chance of relations
What if I choose you?...
Sometimes I feel like a fucking pathologist, digging deep into the rotten ectoplasm of somebody’s soul to find out the reasons for their premature rigor mortis. Rigor mortis, you see, is the condition that describes your internal affairs after you have successfully managed to mortify every last living bit of humanity in you. As with the dead body, rigor mortis of the soul has different colourful and odorous stages. Most are irreversible, simply because people eventually get used to the smelling pile inside their chests.
Whether because it is the common practice, or 'cause it is fucking easier to glide only on the surface of the skin and bone bags wriggling in the dirt instead of digging deeper, most people take the red pill and switch off their souls. Sad but true, but we are still just animals with this little addition of our souls that can be cured quite easily with just the right amount of excesses and perversion.
Going deeper into the medical metaphor, I find myself feeling like a coprologist by choice. I shove my arms up to the elbows in others’ assholes, groping all the shit I can get, taking it out in the sunlight, smearing it all over myself. I probably enjoy the whole mess. No, actually, I need it. I need all the torment, all the ugliness of the semi digested leftovers of other people’s lives in order to understand one thing: why in god’s name have we chosen to go down this road? Our physical shell is the only thing we recognize as a self, the animalistic nature of our bodies is the only thing that guides us, that determines our choices, that sets the goals for our happiness. We are just protrusions of our dicks and pussies, ladies and gents, a morphing mass of gastrointestinal tracts, ovaries, testicles and rage.
In other words – we eat, we shit, we fuck, and that’s just about it.
Oh, yes; and we want MOAR of it all.
In this train of thoughts, my favourite Hunter called just the other day to lament his broken heart. How could I explain to him I would go a hundred times down the hard road just for one chance to feel something real? But I guess again that in a world of faecal matter being anything but a piece of shit just won’t do. I for one thing gradually start to feel attracted by the whole scat exercise – the deceit, the lies, the pretence, the carnal thrive.
In the end I guess we all – conformists, rebels, freaking mass murderers - turn into some sort of politically correct coprophiles, who take shit for granted because it is served on everyone’s plate.
What I fear most however is that in reality I am nothing but a hypocritical necrophile. I detest the carnage around me, the whole lack of moral or spiritual purpose, but I can’t help feeling aroused by it. All these beautiful, shiny succulent bodies; their lustful movements and juicy secretions; their sweat; their smell; their imperfections.... I adore every single bit of them. I want to suck them, maim them, pleasure and distort them, just to fill the gap left inside from the lack of any other substance. They are dead, I know, but still, the life they emanate in my groins keeps me alive, albeit not truly living. Happiness is a warm gun, sang Lennon once and then they shot him. I just want to get sucked into this vortex of flesh and dissolve into oblivion. Sometimes I just don’t think I can take it anymore, at least not as myself.
I turn my eyes at the Little Prince. He is asleep now, so peaceful and magnificent. Watching his beautiful chest being moved by his breath, long dark dreads framing his calm face, one hand on his groin, the other over my naked shoulder, I can’t help but wonder whether there is anything beneath this perfect shell besides lust, will and survival? Was he also stillborn, another fucking disappointment, or did he like me decide to silent the voices inside his head with as much carnalities as possible?
I don’t know, really; and who am I to judge anyway? Sober for once, I am simply laying down next to my latest object of adoration, one happy necrophile slowly consumed by the rest of the naked, post orgasmic world around me.
Happiness is a warm gun... Shotgun mouthwash anyone?
There is no light out of all the places
There is no sign of our help
There is no time and a chance of relations
What if I choose you?...
Sometimes I feel like a fucking pathologist, digging deep into the rotten ectoplasm of somebody’s soul to find out the reasons for their premature rigor mortis. Rigor mortis, you see, is the condition that describes your internal affairs after you have successfully managed to mortify every last living bit of humanity in you. As with the dead body, rigor mortis of the soul has different colourful and odorous stages. Most are irreversible, simply because people eventually get used to the smelling pile inside their chests.
Whether because it is the common practice, or 'cause it is fucking easier to glide only on the surface of the skin and bone bags wriggling in the dirt instead of digging deeper, most people take the red pill and switch off their souls. Sad but true, but we are still just animals with this little addition of our souls that can be cured quite easily with just the right amount of excesses and perversion.
Going deeper into the medical metaphor, I find myself feeling like a coprologist by choice. I shove my arms up to the elbows in others’ assholes, groping all the shit I can get, taking it out in the sunlight, smearing it all over myself. I probably enjoy the whole mess. No, actually, I need it. I need all the torment, all the ugliness of the semi digested leftovers of other people’s lives in order to understand one thing: why in god’s name have we chosen to go down this road? Our physical shell is the only thing we recognize as a self, the animalistic nature of our bodies is the only thing that guides us, that determines our choices, that sets the goals for our happiness. We are just protrusions of our dicks and pussies, ladies and gents, a morphing mass of gastrointestinal tracts, ovaries, testicles and rage.
In other words – we eat, we shit, we fuck, and that’s just about it.
Oh, yes; and we want MOAR of it all.
In this train of thoughts, my favourite Hunter called just the other day to lament his broken heart. How could I explain to him I would go a hundred times down the hard road just for one chance to feel something real? But I guess again that in a world of faecal matter being anything but a piece of shit just won’t do. I for one thing gradually start to feel attracted by the whole scat exercise – the deceit, the lies, the pretence, the carnal thrive.
In the end I guess we all – conformists, rebels, freaking mass murderers - turn into some sort of politically correct coprophiles, who take shit for granted because it is served on everyone’s plate.
What I fear most however is that in reality I am nothing but a hypocritical necrophile. I detest the carnage around me, the whole lack of moral or spiritual purpose, but I can’t help feeling aroused by it. All these beautiful, shiny succulent bodies; their lustful movements and juicy secretions; their sweat; their smell; their imperfections.... I adore every single bit of them. I want to suck them, maim them, pleasure and distort them, just to fill the gap left inside from the lack of any other substance. They are dead, I know, but still, the life they emanate in my groins keeps me alive, albeit not truly living. Happiness is a warm gun, sang Lennon once and then they shot him. I just want to get sucked into this vortex of flesh and dissolve into oblivion. Sometimes I just don’t think I can take it anymore, at least not as myself.
I turn my eyes at the Little Prince. He is asleep now, so peaceful and magnificent. Watching his beautiful chest being moved by his breath, long dark dreads framing his calm face, one hand on his groin, the other over my naked shoulder, I can’t help but wonder whether there is anything beneath this perfect shell besides lust, will and survival? Was he also stillborn, another fucking disappointment, or did he like me decide to silent the voices inside his head with as much carnalities as possible?
I don’t know, really; and who am I to judge anyway? Sober for once, I am simply laying down next to my latest object of adoration, one happy necrophile slowly consumed by the rest of the naked, post orgasmic world around me.
Happiness is a warm gun... Shotgun mouthwash anyone?
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