Delirifacient, p.16
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       Delirifacient, p.16
 

           Trist Black
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Bam ba-bam ba-bam bang bang bang. Bang. Ultraviolence up in there. And so they killt they and took all they shit. They just killed they and took they shit and walked off and aint no they done a goddam thing. No nunnah they.

  And they didn’t do nuthin cos they knew they only had beef with the rest of they and all they downtown was safe, so they let they play and act they issues out among theyselves as long as they kept that shit to theyselves in they own fuckin backyard. Population cunt-roll, motherfuckers, self-amministirred and voluntry, population of undesirables.

  And they left the crazy they behind by speeding up they walk. They was walking down the street at night, as usual, as was they custom, and they was carrying out they usual observational futilities, thinking they self away in they nothing thoughts. And then they stepped fullweight into a clump of shit that almost had they performing a 360 degree spin in shit, like a fan hitting the shit and losing it, but they found stepping in a clump of shit in they best shoes a funny occurrence so they started laughing and laughing without even thinking they should have stepped out of the clump of shit unless they wanted to claim that land in they name, claim that shit in the name of they. So there they was, all upright and afoot in the clump of shit, could really say it was they clump of shit now for all they marking they territory, laughing away like a motherfucker.

  And then a nasty wind blew out, and the wind blew the clump of shit and they smell into they nose, and as obtrusively amusing as standing fullweight in a clump of shit was, the wind took they illusions away. So they immediately stepped out of the shit and wiped they olden shoes against the sidewalk. After adorning the sidewalk with several unintelligible symbols carved out in shit that later generations may or may not found a new hermeneutic on, they walked on and thought they had done all they could to prepare theyselves to be found by or go up against things that go bumpbump in the night. So to this purpose they walked into a great hall of merriment famous for drowning many a putsch in disassembled motricity, a crispate monument to the quintessential finding that the strongest baddest Russianmost limb coördination was soluble, upon insistence, in even the cheapest of Petrograd ales.

  And they chose they tavern and the tavern was open and they were tossing drinks in the air and the most vertical of they would jump up and flop they tails and catch the drinks between they teeth and land safely without spilling any or too much of they drink, for they now could refer to it legitimately as they drink, having worked for it, having earned they drink, having extracted it from irrefutable doom by catching it in midair. And they bumped against they and they wouldn’t apologise and they shoved they back and they made they spill they drink and they drink was sacred to any and all they so they put they drink down and feign calm before welding they fists onto they jaws and they knew better because they fist to they jaw ensured an almost equal distribution of both pain and permanent damage to they selves and they other they. And they would come bursting through the they and asking what the fuck was they doing and why was they writhing on the floor, massaging they jaw and losing track of they feet, and they told they to stay the fuck away, this not being none of they fucking business, and they knew this was the signal to pop they cork and let they loose and they whistled they asses off when they would see in the morning what they’d done to they who got in they face. But that was for the mourning, now they was herding towards the back because they couldn’t hear they very well near the bar, and the back tables had been arranged circularly to create a well-lit single level coliseum and in the arena they was ceaselessly pummelling they for they bland aping of Western fads and for they bringing and working Western thought in places in beautiful places irreconcilable with they mongrel continental essence. And they wouldn’t take they shit lying down, and they lamented they cuntry’s occlusion and narrow-mindedness and incapability of seeing they glorious future clearly, for they cherished and worshipped and burned candles to they own blinders, and to they small gods in they own blinders, and they was particularly proud of they well conjured image. But the blow to they argument was superficial, but before issuing they counter they was blindsided by they vicious attack, and they refused to accept any of they pre-masticated wisdoms and they world had to burn and from they ashes an order of purity and intellect and beauty, and they was off they rocker and they knew it, and all they knew it. And not even they subsection would support they drunken walk to utopia, and they promptly told they so, because, as opposed to they, who was cowardly, they theyself refused to assign a finality to they thirst for destruction, for only they destruction was pure and beautiful to they, and they would not soil it with they pretentious and messianic notion of they salvation and reward in the aftermath of they eruption. And naturally they was having none of it, they enlightenment extended no further than the beam of they flashlight or they own burning hairpiece as far as they was concerned, what they ignored and neglected to they extreme loss in cogency was they unshakeable, holy bond to they fatherland and miraculous survival of they purity they entailed, ‘twasn’t they rationality or they fashionability that would propel they Russia into they vision of they Russia, and they Russians, but they good-natured simpleness, and no use for they slimy French word when they had they good old-fashioned Russian word, and they faith and they great Russian soul that defeated death, and their connection to they land which they called they duty. They was beautiful, they screamed, they papers would sell like they mother’s virginity in they next rust of morning, and they preened and bore closer to they and asked they politely to repeat and rephrase and simplify and digest what they’d said in one short phrase, they own short phrase of course but it wouldn’t hurt to implement some of they wordmagic in they service of they greater good no, and they needed more bang, and by they god they’d get it. And they bemoaned the confusion in they line of argument and disputation, no filling out they proper form with they foam and verve and rancid ad hominems, and how would they deliver they they proper concise and clear, that’s what they paid they they wages for wasn’t it, report, if all they did was yammer, and if they refused to submit to they own protocol, which they selves they ratified in one of they better days. And they sat near they friends and laughed in they French beards about they nerve and sad lack of they form and where they kept they manners was beyond they, and such a dreadful bore with they never a new thought or a novel interpretation for they, always they beautiful causes and they beautiful soul and they beautiful structure and they beautiful lines and they beautiful death and they beautiful boom, they was all hopeless was they not of course they was but they’d done it to they selves, all they, unfair was they, not at all, they but translated what they said and what they thought into a symbolics of cogency and imbued with they refinement for how else was they to stomach they incessant poison drivel; they was so good in losing translation that they almost succeeded in they making some final and sad sense. And they waved they gavel in they large arcs and spun they wigs in they large arcs and banged they gavel and lost they wig but they wouldn’t listen to they demands and an higher power was called for in they despair and they chaos, and they came in, majestic light, and the circular benches parted before they and they knocked they shiny stick against they floor three times and they took they sweet time but they was quiet well at least quieter than they best, and they called for order and they submission to they rôle and where was they dignity, but they strategy never worked in they times, times of they, and they invoked they favourite spirit of ’89, and they told they to shut the fuck up, and they was unseemly, and they was blind and foolish, and they was being most decidedly inæsthetic was they not, and the vengeance of they fatherland would be swift and clean like they prayers, and they saw there was no talking to they, not even using they shiny stick, and they left the well-lit circle, and they shouting would not abate, and they was all mesmerized by it, and they came back with a final offer for they reconciliation and submission by they to they, but it was even possible that they went unheard, physically unheard, since they clearly hadn’t the slightest intention o
f hearing they or listening to they or responding, responding to they was clearly a sorry waste of they time, what they right and proper had to do was shout louder at each other and impose order through the crystalline might of they argument, which once heard and rendered visible to they could not conceivably lapse to convince they and illuminate they as to they boundless idiocy and blindness and degree of brainwashed indoctrination. They stupid, they peasant, they lifeless ideology. And they shiny stick was growing frustrated, and they tossed they shiny stick at they head but predictably missed, and this didn’t even have the merit of attracting they attention, they just went on rattling, never noticed the shiny stick flying by they temple, must have thought such occurrences only natural during they speech, for they knew they ideas were new and powerful but fair and rational, and if only they would open they damn eyes and close they eyes to all they other scoundrels across the village road peddling false truths and paralytic ideologies. And when even they shiny stick went ignored they suffered they last eirenic barrier dispelled, so they simply left the well-lit circle for good.

  – and what about over-fucking-population, they bellowed –

  And so, bereft of shiny stick and made crampingly aware of the tininess of they tiny voice amid all they steel-heeled pontification, they circled the tavern from they outside and they made they, they good old uniform faithful people with heart and god in that heart, some god at least, bring forth they biggest cannon on they smallest wheels, and on they command they dropped they biggest iron ball in they biggest gray cannon, and they plugged they ears while they lit they fuse, and they would have liked not bearing to watch but in fact couldn’t drag they eyes off they sad trajectory, and the iron ball tore through the tavern’s wall and collapsed a great swath of tavern roof and landed miraculously almost in the exact centre of the well-lit circle, taking a pair of heads of angry speakers (there were about sixteen of they at that exact moment) with they. And then the iron ball had they fun and they went boom and the bureaucrats and the grannies and the schillers and the auditioning overmen and the promiscuous free dealers and all of they played catch with tiny bits of iron and tinier bits of wooden floor and somewhat larger bits of tables and chairs and extremely tiny bits of glasses and mugs and jugs and earthenware and tiny droplets of good sturdy cuntry wine. And except for the droplets of wine, which were rather gracious and photogenic in flight and quite decorous when splashed on faces and open chests, all the other tiny bits were quite carnivorous and drove into they like they finest bed and ploughman, and, contented with a few immediate strings of blood and clouds of bone, rested quietly in they softest of lodgings. And suddenly they had nothing more to say, and the cannon felt so empty on the inside they wanted to cry. None of they wanted the floor, and all they motions lay abandoned, and all they theories lay unactuated, and they finally knew ‘twas time to let the tavern grow and let the tavern weed theyself into a museum.

  And despite not having heard they self in any of they tumefied expatiating, they regretted not being able to feel just the tiniest fragment of well-justified litost in they circumstances, in they proceedings, in they dandelionseed peregrinations, in they thought muteness. But no, really and truly no shit was given, exchanged or donated. So they erased they tavern and they built they self a booming bangbanging empire, and they also erased the tavern and they walked inwards, muttering into they brownback self how he’d always fucking hated fucking plurals.

  Chapter vii

 
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