Saturday, October 31, 2009

Bacon Sizzle and the Great Bone Shiver

There are many ways to solve the riddle of ego. One can appease it with wine or spirit. One can pacify it with ideology. You can whisk it away into a psychedelic dreamland. Seduce it via hedonistic abandon. Flummox, Numb it, or dumb it—there are many ways to escape it. Me, however, I prefer to outright assault it. Nothing is quite as illuminating or enrapturing as psychological torture. It accentuates both being and nothingness—what it means to reside and what it means to depart (to perish), touching every point along the way. Stretched like taffy, my self—that is, me—I split, splinter, and fall. Atomized. Disintegrated. Like Mist, I steam into the ethereal—nothing remains except the mad, hypnotic drum-lashing they call my heartbeat. Anchored. This vibration still holds me. The assail continues as I plant the toothpicks beneath my paint-caked finger nails. My paintings a hopeful mirage, at best, but this—this torture—this is the true art, but it can never be displayed. He smells like cheap cologne and cheap tobacco doused in sex. His teeth are long—some sort of red, pulpy gum disease has polished his teeth to a fine semi-white sheen. They’re long and lean like a mouthful of skeleton fingers and I imagine what it must be like to have death take me in his mouth and suck my soul clean. In the meantime, I tremble as he uses a pair of greasy needle-nosed pliers to twist the toothpick into the delicate virgin skin hiding from the world behind the safety of cuticles and clear nail polish. I always wondered if the Korean woman who gives me my manicures thought queer of me for being so obsessed with a tidy, groomed appearance. If only she knew that it was merely the first stage of the ritual—the washing of the child’s flesh before sacrificing him to the gods. She has no idea of the blood, spit, and shit that would soon cake these godforsaken mechanical tentacles that predated (prepared) religion for man’s consumption. There she sat, happy with her work, smiling down at my squeaky clean, queer fingernails—knowing I’d tip her well—not knowing that I cannot help but imagining her with a grotesque, slimy phallic invading her, because a distant speed-binge landed me in front of a computer watching hours of Japanese tentacle porn and my American eyes cannot read the compass of Asian eyes and I never know which way they’re pointing nor to which region it points. She knows my nails are pretty. She does not know that I’m going to lacerate the inside of my thigh with a size 11 scalpel and use my own blood to lubricate my fist before ramming it into an 18 year old transsexual, lady boy’s ass. It’s all part of the torture. Mine, not his. Yes, I love women. Yes, the idea of having a beloved wife and family gives me great joy and comfort, but that’s why I have to fuck these little ambiguously gendered sluts. It’s not about pleasure—it’s about destroying everything that is me. My flesh, my mind, my soul, my comfort, my bone, my spit, my blood—my all. I need spine-sizzling cigarette burns and broken tibia-hepatitis-swine flu-permanent-scarring-hell-soaked-medical-disasters. I need this me to go. He twists the toothpick again and it penetrates deep into my finger. It scratches the bone and I shiver.


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