Delirifacient, p.18
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       Delirifacient, p.18
 

           Trist Black
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‘But the actuation of self and the realisation of rational freedom is impossible under a monarchy,’ formalised a.

  ‘Not if one cedes the world to others and lives fully within oneself. Then the self becomes master within its world, i.e. is actuated, and the freedom to do as one pleases conforms to the rational precepts, born of the self, that most favour the self itself,’ atomsplit c.

  ‘Which entails abandoning one’s fellow humans to the crime of existence, slavish existence, and drowning one’s precious self in self-perpetuating selfishness,’ robespierr’d c.

  ‘And why are you so fixated on the others, to the point of seemingly denying the self the right or opportunity to live outside them,’ rorschach’d d.

  ‘This air is rife with eggshells and hardened mucus. I absolutely detest it,’ parallel-parked e.

  ‘Why are there always so many opinions. And why is it so embarrassing to have one, an opinion I mean, and share it and do so without having to laugh at one’s own opinion,’ i-dotted f.

  ‘And ultimately the white cream will dry, and your wound will be surrounded by small whitish mountains, white cream that looks like lovingly recycled pus’, signed g.

  ‘and your pink wound will look like a rabid wound, hungry for healthier flesh, so as to remember itself’, plagued h.

  ‘you are dialoguing marmoreally, craving nothing more than to avoid each other’, bloodcrusted i.

  ‘or at best to ricochet off one another’s backs and broken jaws, and carry on with your shadowdancing’, convalesced j.

  ‘shadows dancing on a wall are western civilization’s first metaphor’, candlekilled k.

  ‘and its most beautiful, a level of mastery never matched before or since’, fled l.

  ‘so my brothers and I would appreciate it if you toned down your anti-rational contempt, and tried just this once to bridge our warring monads with meaningful, standard-embracing dialogue; communication – the road to godhood’, m bored through.

  ‘by which you of course mean standardising dialogue. ‘tis difficult even to laugh at your tautology, since dialogue tends to be based on some sort of language or other, and languages are one of the first and most efficient methods of standardising both the world, i.e. the expressed, and oneself, i.e. the expresser’, cartwheeled n.

  ‘what of the community of expression-capable selves. do they not defy this deathbrung standardisation by their potential to wield it, the untamed standardisation itself, in the creation of the new from the standard, the creation of the transcendentally different from the immanently same. Or at the very least through their awareness of the uniformity of the world they live in, which awareness – and ensuing pain and primal screams – in and of itself threedimensionalises them against a flat world contented with its flattened worldness’, bowlingballed o.

  ‘the word is the world. take the capital i, l, the word-giver, from the world, and all that is left is the word’, horsequartered p.

  ‘most assuredly, and since the word dialectically serves the princely word-giver by deriving its being from his being and by enhancing his being with its separate being which encompasses the whole world, and then subsumes the world under the word-giver as soon as he re-appropriates the word by saying it and by playing with its meaning, effectively you’re saying this all goes back to mastery. Mastery of the word, mastery of the standard, the standard’s mastery of the self, the psychotic ping-pong of dialectics and enlightenment, blah blah blah. Shut up, read a book, grow a beard, rot me out’, q whipped itself.

  ‘I have nothing to say and I am saying it. loudly’, rummaged r.

  ‘and the browncoat walked up to the high wall, and saw that is was high, quite high, and the wall was busily growing out its protective spikes, and an highly nude blonde misogynistically emerged naked on top of the wall, sitting on the wall, and she propounded her misology in meaningless readings from meaningless dreamjournals, and then threw herself off the wall and landed on the spikes and all her organs were cavitary, and the browncoat said nothing and did nothing and walked away. And the browncoat… well naturally it needs work, yes, and no it doesn’t strike me as very original either, and yes it somehow manages to be simultaneously overwritten and underwritten, but ’, s tripped.

  ‘I will personally suck your dick if you erase this line of text. This is a promissory note, good as gold. I will go down on you and suck you dry like mother Teresa would the anaconda-bitten penisoid of an orphan child stranded in the deepest jungle (dumb bitch doesn’t know anacondas are non-venomous), if and only if you take a permanent black marker, or whip out your pocket knife, or that pair of scissors you maniacally always carry with you just in case for that one lock of hair – and hopefully for that one half-inch of clit – off that foxy 13-year-old that’s always on the subway with you, and proceed to black out, or scratch clean, or cut off and toss away or swallow or whatever, the first line of this monologue, the one that starts in I will personally etc. Scout’s honor’, circusfreak'd t.

  ‘fuck you asshole’, u punched v.

  ‘how can you possibly deny that Mann’s on shaky musicological ground in Doktor Faustus, when he essentially admits it’s a rewriting, a vulgarisation of Adorno, only with pretty pictures and shorter, less combative words’, crunched x.

  ‘why must one recycle the same myths and the same images and the same owntailbiting logics. Why can’t one kill them off once and for all, the fausts and the arthurs and the fucking ulyssi and the igors and German nature and English bullshit and Western rationality and the Russian soul, and rewrite the fairies into whores and palimpsest the heroes into egomaniacs and palindrome the gods into dogs, wretched corpsified stuffed dogs that they are.’, carpetbombed v, who had been late to speak the last time as well and could never forgive himself for it.

  ‘to get back to your previous point, Comrade Adorno is of course conflicted, and adopts numerous positions the ideological purity of which is ambiguous at best, but we like him fine since he seems to find our modest little experiment boring as philosophical material, and ignores us, and instead commonly uses his modest little platform to shit gigantically on the other end of the ideological pendulum. So we have no objection to him in that respect, no. Mann, on the other hand, is a dried-up bourgeois shit’, dunked y.

  (in peccant-oxbridge accent) ‘why don’t we get the hell out of here and take a nocturnal tour of the quads and maybe go up to my room and maybe I can let you put on my gown once you’ve shed your unnecessaries and maybe we can have a nice little tea party for two and maybe we can even engage in a little tête-à-tête teaspoon duel. You can be the big Z, and I’ll just be an huge C’, z dripped sultrily to q, who nodded eagerly and raced after z. q unfortunately didn’t get a lot of attention, and didn’t even know z very well.

  ‘prostitution is the only solution’, swept i.

  ‘I am the light incarnate, and I have descended upon this earth and these peoples under the avatāra of the Torch, for I am the guiding flame and the warming torch of enlightenment. Men shall need the sun no more, for I am the Torch and I make the night into day’, entombed ii.

  ‘fuck your torch bitch, we got flashlights and flamethrowers now’, crouched iii.

  ‘do you believe in god.’, inverted iv.

  ‘no more than I believe in the tsar as the benevolent father of the nation. And I’d like to thank my mother and my father and my spiritual beacons and my teachers and my community and my nation for ensuring ’, OD'd v.

  ‘do you believe in words then.’, snorked vi.

  ‘words. messy messy messy. there will be fucking consequences’, vii facefucked v, who only ever did it for the money.

  ‘there was a blind bitch in the house right next door to me who i swear spent at the very least four hours on make-up, daily. she even took care to position herself in front of a fullbodied mirrour whenever she did it, and she did it as meticulously and lovingly and obsessively as any sighted woman i know. and she always had the best makeup of any woman i know. and at night, she was always
so indifferent when it was time to wipe it off and it took her no longer than five to ten minutes tops, and all that work poof, and her movements in removing the makeup were majestic and disdainful and somehow offended even. i know this because i stalked her, silently, and she was rather at a disadvantage in this, and being blind she often, very often, forgot to draw her curtains towards the evening or sometimes even in daytime when she did something private like cut her nails or sniff her own panties and so on. can’t be helped i suppose. god i miss her’, viii sniffed.

  ‘you do realize of course how radical and discomfiting your theories are to 1860s Russia. I can’t have you preaching that destructive filth outside my church, it’ll scare away the clowns and the saints’, suicided ix.

  ‘but does one really need the intellectuals’ and the faggots’ agreement on this. Can’t one just ram it down their throats and threaten to make them go to church if they don’t swallow.’, snuffed x.

  ‘legislated church every day.. oh forgive me sir, but I do beg to differ. I’d sooner fuck an inebriated semi-retarded girl in front of my father again to prove I wasn’t deviant than submit to that’, undressed b.

  ‘words words words’, B staccato'd.

  ‘you are regreeeeeeessing’, the b decapitated the second v.

  ‘Community of words, words of pomp, instigated by my sub-tongues, tongues of pomp, racing to craze out of the mouthslit and die meaninglessly in the meaningless air’, the B obnubilated.

  ‘Instant mouse coffee, ladies and gentlemen, gashes and bloats, fresh grind every mourning, complete with iron maiden style cup lid to prevent the intrepid little moustachioed darlings from escaping the scalding water. For your extensive and transparent enjoyment – meaning you can purchase it in translucent bulletproof glass also’, trailed the c.

  ‘I’ve got a story for you. It was told me, handed down to me, by our foremost storyteller, a man so Hemingway he scratched all the ink used in entries for adjectives and adverbs out of his oed and made his dog drink it’, toiled C.

  ‘Masturbate so much creaky hands turn to dust, wilt away; cock so dry the skin peels off the shaft if handled’, c agonised.

  ‘Place it under water tap, turn it on using teeth (no more hands), lovely rejuvenating feeling of warm water’, the C groinkneed.

  ‘It turns scalding hot, all red steam and impatience, but I don't remove my dick’, wreathed b1.

  ‘Then the water stops and all I feel is an intense flow of hot air pouring over my dick, then mere wafts of mist’, impeached b2.

  ‘will o' the wisp’, the B2 came, shaking.

  ‘Then the air flow is reversed, the faucet starts vacuuming up my member’, swarmed the b1.

  ‘can't fight it, glans is swallowed, then entire upper third of shaft, pain enormous, trying to resist but failing’, puked

  ‘With one final band-aid movement I tear myself (meaning it, my cock, funny but logical wording) away, sacrificing what had already gone in’, fetishised

  ‘The sink is coloured red, but there's no more water in the tap. No dripdripdrip’, quicksilver'd

  ‘dialogue is stupid’, fettered

  ‘it’s painfully stupid to write dialogue’, penanced

  ‘it’s hard to write dialogue’, carouselled

  ‘I refuse to do it any longer’, unicycled

  ‘I dedicate this to’, inebriated

  ‘to…’, assfucked

  ‘fuckit’, hammered

  ‘A Paul Claudel, poète, ambassadeur et traître’, tinctured a.

  ‘I insist into the implementation of a programme of mandatory euthanasia for anyone in the unfortunate – and malodorous – psychological stage of actively seeking gainful employment’, shrivelled

  ‘là ou ça sent la merde ça sent l'être’, rained and reasoned

  ‘et le néant au surplus n'a jamais fait de mal à personne’, coughed

  ‘l'espace de la possibilité’, salted

  ‘me fut un jour donné’, severed

  ‘comme un grand pet’, bubbled

  ‘que je ferai.’, brought down the sky

  ‘fuck him. i blinked him, and he fell inside an heavy lash’, dangled

  ‘the history of mary’s bastard is one I would shoot-off-and-then-cut-off-what-little-remained of my middle finger to forget’, shockshelled

  ‘biographies, science explained to the general public, popular histories, magazine articles blowdried to paperback proportions. I don’t read these kinds of books, adults read these kinds of books, tired people satiated on emptiness, nothingness and mirrorcalm complacency’, cindered

  ‘I could have produced a better text if I shot myself in the head and hoped the brain drippings would form linguistically valid symbols across a blank page’, tethered

  ‘but I didn’t. no better, no good from me. instead, my liquid love vroomed across the dormant wood, wildfiring through the whitepures row by row, line by line, leaving only smoke and a series of regularly charred shrivelled black skeletons against the still lucent blandness [blancness] of the surviving wood’, wreckingballed

  ‘true. So true. All literature is just fucking the blank page. Sometimes she loves it, sometimes she just thinks about her hair, and most frequently it’s rape. Ask fucking Mallarmé. All literature is just the repeated fucking of the white page. And you can fucking quote me on that’ starfucked

  ‘you’re just dreaming. Sweetly dreaming. Me, I love nightmares. I love nightmares because they are the only times I feel. Fright, angst, hysteria-wildfired annoyance, sweet sweet despondency with a tiny whisper of crushed hope sprinkled on top. I love nightmares. The most feel I get while awake is boredom with life, life which to me is fundamentally economics and maths and frustration with the obsessive recurrence of calculus. Existential calculus. Nightmares feel. Not real, not palpable, they just feel. I just feel them. Pity I hardly ever have them. I want more nightmares’, bloodcaked

  ‘dees is dee essence of deegging holes’, namelessness'd

  ‘decadent motherless Keynesian holes’, winked

  ‘like a falling star shooting a loving – and lustful – gaze at an enraptured watcher, although in fact the star was just admiring itself in his telescope. Like an earthworm developing a particular fascination with the patterns on the sole of the shoe about to crush him’, left the door ajar

  ‘I hate stars. And worms. Stars are worms. I dated a star once. Sex with him was strictly bring your own orgasm’, copypasted

  ‘english as a language has horrible decision-making processes. Case in point: the pronunciation of the word oxymoron. Perhaps the language being so obnoxiously stupid influences the way its inhabitants think or act. Worthy of investigation...’, killedcandle

  ‘my warmth is like the light of a black hole, kissing you thousands of years after it has died out’, assraped

  ‘nothing but a pretty name to me now. your face, your touch, your voice – evaporated, and monosyllabic all of them. Gruff Arabic syllables best forgotten and scraped off the ear. can't summon your voice from the nether. even your texts are other now, so no anchor in your authorial voice’, circusbear'd

  ‘this ductile receptacle for my cerebral mucilage and industrial waste; how am I to mould it into something, a thing itself, a real thing of reading.’, sunlit

  ‘there is nothing but bombast for me, out there, in the world. the world strikes me as fundamentally absurd, and bombastic. The trees and their foliage are bombast, the cars accelerating and slowing down the street, and blinking always, are bombast, humans in a train willing it forward to catch a plane are bombast, your employers and your parents and your wives and your progeny and your policeman having demands on you, moral and physical, are absolute, pure bombast’

  ‘bombast is too fine, too sturdy, too tinywoodenshipinaglassjar a word for what you’re describing. I suggest that in the future one call this repellent state of mind bombasm’

  ‘hypocrite. Bombasm is the only orgasm’

  ‘it’s your only orgasm’

  ‘O fr
eunde, nicht diese töne’, idlewild'd

  ‘fuck you asshole’, handjobbed

  Chapter vii

 
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