‘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 freunde, nicht diese töne’, idlewild'd
‘fuck you asshole’, handjobbed
Fuck my cunt
, she screamed in orgasmic boredom.
But he told her to shut up, and put it in her ass.
Count Lev Tolstoi was not a giving man, nor was he a patient man. He was singularly proud of never having consciously provided another human being with even a modicum of physical pleasure.
So he was understandably riled when the browncoat bemusedly walked into the main bedroom at Yasnaya Polyana as the count was fucking his wife. The browncoat of late was very prone to such malapropistic entrances and was often struck by the ludicrous nature of the places to which he was inexorably driven by his homelessness and instantly visible lack of a stable daytime activity. Of course such inane sociologies could never fully attack the essence of brownback and be stretchered off victorious, and Tolstoi knew it for he despised comte. But the Count was angry nevertheless, and he jumped off the marital bed and covered himself with his beard and slapped browncoat hard and brutal. But the Count’s first slap had unfortunately been of the noiseless variety, and as the Count prepared to rectify this incongruity he looked upon the browncoat. And he read the browncoat’s first face and he could not tell how it would end, how the browncoat would end, and this pacified him. But the Count was also a biblically incompetent judge of face and character.
And Cunt Lev Tolstoi asked no pointless questions of the browncoat but told him to sit down and demanded a list of the first ten books the brownback had read as a child. And brownback said the legends of Mount Olympus (brownback’s anthology somehow snuck in a queered up version of Kneazi Igor towards the end, right before Romulus and Remus and immediately after the editorial corrections to the first labour theory of value) and the three musketeers and advanced phrenology and the rest were a blur. And the Cunt said mythology was a useful skill to peddle and inquired of the brownback if he had any more. And brownback told the Cunt he was Mother Russia’s least skilled labourer, a pair of hands so unskilled it had never even occurred to them to try to support themself through his own efforts, and that he had subsisted hitherto solely on the old man’s imprecations. And the Cunt informed brownback that he, brownback, wasn’t such a young man any longer and that dilettantism added a rosy glow to his complexion and that specialisation and professionalization and the ever-increasing competence of the professional classes in narrow segments are the mummification tools for the Russian soul, and that money, sexy smart money, was its sarcophagus, a sarcophagus with a touch so light ‘twould be a shame for the soul to object it wasn’t quite ready to die and be immolated yet.
And the soul didn’t want to ruin anyone’s enjoyment so it obediently crawled into money and money cradled it and swept it across green oceans and green mountains and green riverbeds and whispered sweet green bedtime stories and the soul fell asleep and slept on forever and money was too fucked up in the head simply to kill the soul outright and the soul would lie there, forever there, forever snoring, forever flying across money’s sick fantasies, and there would be no prince to clip money’s green wings and kiss the soul awake, and browncoat wasn’t that prince was he, of course not, not princely material and besides he couldn’t kiss anyone awake could he only time he’d been kissed on the mouth was when his nanny raped him who browncoat or the Cunt it doesn’t really matter actually. And even if some amorphous expectoration of princely material adopted this quest as his little pet quest, maybe during sophomore year in college when workloads are giving and résumé building requires pet causes, and challenged money for custody and protection rights over the soul with lofty shimmering spear, money would simply swoop down on the prince and rain down great fireballs of green moneyslime and the prince’s noble steed (a rental) would trip on the moneyslime and the prince would be intoxicated by its fumes and dream the sick dreams of money and turn his horse back and remember the dreams of money and write books about them as he grew out of his princely youth.
And browncoat asked the Cunt whether he truly thought there were no greater and hungrier hic-sunt-dracones whites than money to black out, and the Cunt replied that money and its cognates and its undefeated myrmidons and its writers of books were pervasive and immodest and would cook all of civilisation over a lazy fire just to ensure it was adequate safe and full ready for mass consumption, for remember how life expectancy jumped five hundred per cent when man started cooking his friends, and money did not like judicial exposure over a civilization that taught man words like dyspeptic and how to use them in an expensive suit. And the brownback was curious if the Cunt had an alternative, and the Cunt said to eat raw meat and like it and would say no more on the matter. And the brownback had an aha moment, and said this all went back to Shakespeare didn’t it, and the Cunt threw his pound of flesh off the shelf in saying that there is something strange, and which wd. now be thought very affected in the language of Shakespeare whose common thoughts are expressed in uncommon words, and that yes it did go back to Shakespeare for Shakespeare lacked awareness, and when pressed on the meaning of awareness the Cunt said consciousness, and brownback speculated that a man as well-bearded as the Cunt surely thought such miserly consciousness as was pickled in humans could not fail to be propped up by an higher truth and higher powers and higher orders of what humans misname consciousness and that all forms of consciousness, of which art is the highest, and the easiest to sodomize, knew it as their duty to bind man and his consciousness tighter to this higher truth, and this higher truth said the Cunt could not fail to be either god or a parody. So was the Cunt affirming that Shakespeare had, among other items, invented the unconscious (since most higher truths and values were too busy playing five finger fillet with Hamlet during the premiere of Coriolanus to show up on Shakespeare’s stage) through his refusal to lend words and scripts to the higher truths exiled into man by god, exiled so as to roam man and plant their flags in his desert and in his hungry mouths so their higher flags could create new sand hills and pretty pearls, sand hills and pretty fake pearls vaguely shaped like flags and silent truths. No, the Cunt was simply saying Shakespeare lacked consciousness and therefore his art could not fail to be deficient in matters of consciousness also.
And the brownback wanted to know why pick on Shakespeare in the first place, and the Cunt ejaculated that Shakespeare had been auto-da-féd as the mascot of the human and of humanism to such an obsessive extent that it was indigenous to each new generation to discover humanity in and through Shakespeare, and so a lack of consciousness in Shakespeare made it fathomable and even sadly preferable to build one’s humanity in a sandcastle where consciousness was nothing but the moat. And often enough, consciousness, which is in effect religion or at the very least spirituality, was found inimical to the expansionist projects of humanity, and the patient little x of consciousness was unsolvable in their universalist, elegant little equations, and so they feared it and expulsed it from the things that really mattered to them. But what was so painful about the Cunt’s humans was that without consciousness they were no higher in terms of being than stones or insects or fish or the wind, they were objects and true they had their precious objectivity but had attained it by being fucking objects, objects like a rock, and money was perfect at juggling objects because for one atavistic reason or another it was still immoral to sell conscious human beings openly at least nigger them up make an effort show someone cares, and having shed the metaphysics of consciousness they had nothing more interesting to occupy them than political philosophy and the fungi of postmodernism, and another thing consciousness is morality and without consciousness there is no morality and there is instead only the law, and the law is not founded on the higher but on the immanent which happens to be self-interest.
And the Cunt was also against over-population and hence vaginal intercourse (a gutted dislike he shared with both Shakespeare and Lear, surprisingly).
And the Cunt also thought that no man should model his body on the shadow or the cloud of god and pretend the form is rightfully his.
But the browncoat told the Cunt that he only directed an heavy traffic of negatives and did he not have any positivities and guidances and novel moralities to offer and that criticising is always easier than actually fucking up or even unfucking the upfucked thing that ends up being criticized. And the Cunt acknowledged this by telling brownback it was a lazy objection to make and he would hear no more of it.
And the Cunt decided it was time to make conversation and he asked brownback what he thought of the Moscow Metro, and brownback said he loved it because it spared him the city, the actual city; for him, it was always axial to be always never knowing of his host city, never emerging from the damp of the subterranea. Always coursing through the underground like a drunken bacterium through a slightly cirrhotic patient's veins. No bloodstream, no lifestream under the sun. The Cunt retorted that art and life in general would be infinitely easier and much more interesting if only one could, in kindergarten, in school, in the club and in the lecture hall, identify the ones who are meant to fail, spectacular wipeouts etched in penknife on the reverse of their foreheads just behind their petroleum eyes, and befriend them in advance instead of having to read them off the front page of the times. In fact, it often struck the Cunt as tragic how much easier and simpler life and art would be if they just for once in their useless existence just listened to him and did exactly what he’d tell them to do and thought exactly what and how he’d tell them to think and then it was inevitable, logically inevitable, that they learn to love it and grow into loving it and they would just carry on like that without him and the proper way would be instilled in them forever and most things would be right at long last. And browncoat suggested that you sometimes just have to bid them free float and even self vaporise, even the laziest and stupidest of the begotten, and the Cunt nodded and told him he didn’t have much sympathy for the browncoat after all, the only reason he was still tolerating him was that he was slightly less arborescently rooted to his recurrent fate, every single time you open him, than a blood Nietzschean in the throes of pubescence. And the browncoat masticated through this in silence and finally told the Cunt that he was right on Shakespeare but not much else, Shakespeare really was bullshit, and the Cunt sniffed that it truly didn’t matter whether he was right or not, it would take the West well over three centuries to get rid of Shakespeare, bloody Darwin would die out before Shakespeare even hinted at displaying the slightest sign of weakening, and they were all paragons of egotism and such people couldn’t be reasoned with because one can never reason with the axiomatic centre of the universe. But hadn’t money displaced man in the centre of existence in a transCopernican shift wondered the brownback, and the Cunt said that for all money cared existence itself might be uninhabited, and money needed no centre and wanted no throne and didn’t want to get its moneyed face dirty with the attention of lower beings and the brownback said for all
he
cared existence might and should be uninhabited, in fact he was quite convinced it was. And as brownback fed on the Cunt’s membrane of rebellion their minds lay prostrate at their feet, and they lay there without moving, and under them all moved. And the Cunt sermonized at length on the indispensability of a fiery pillar of consciousness chaining man to god like an inverted Babel, and when god would shout at man through the hollow pillar the echoes would make man’s ear bleed and man would cower in fright as if at thunder and through man’s blood god’s instructions and wisdom would cake themselves around man’s being, and this consciousness would keep god and man coagulated. And browncoat asked the Cunt why would man desire to enslave himself to his own creation, to a fickle dream of power man had created in his own image, and the Cunt said that obviously browncoat hadn’t it in him to understand the mysteries of creation and explaining such matters to him was self-evidently a philanthropic dissipation of energies an old man such as the Cunt could ill afford in his advancing senescence. But this was a cheap swat and the Cunt knew it and being a garrulous fellow he could never retreat from the podium in so noble a renunciation so he told the brownback that despite his the brownback’s general immobility and aboulia and inability to engage the environing world in a genuine stranglehold deep down even he the brownback acknowledged somewhere in his embarrassing places that we are stuck inside ourselves like statues in a block of stone, and so we have to sculpt our way out and we have to force each other to do it if necessary. And the brownback wanted to ascertain what exactly had persuaded the Cunt that his the brownback’s statue for instance was in any way preferable simply to a block of stone and why retch his own personal statue upon the world and that most people’s statues would be Rodins anyway and that he personally much preferred the image of the genius sculptor sinking decades into the one perfect sculpture and caressing the stone and sweating black marble sweat all those decades and the statue would finally be ready and it would be so perfect even Borges’s one-word poem would be unworthy of sandaling or licking its feet and the genius sculptor would discard or destroy the brilliant statue and gather up and keep and forever treasure all the black marble sweat he had sweated during the labouring on the statue. At this the Cunt stated that to think outside good and evil is cowardice, and the browncoat said that to think inside god is castration, and the Cunt said aha so the browncoat at least admitted that to think was an important and vital component of man that like his testicles is vital to his perpetuity and progress and the browncoat said no but thinking, like castration, is painful and unnecessary but fun and the Cunt underlined how little sense this made and the browncoat told the Cunt he was welcome. And the Cunt asked brownback whether he, the brownback, understood anything about art and literature at all, and brownback almost smiled but didn’t and assured the Cunt that he, the brownback, did know about art and literature and said in his best paper tiger that one needed to murder one’s darlings and find one’s voice and write what one knew. And the Cunt did not even bother scoffing and brownback hastily wiped his mouth clean of failure and the Cunt emphasised how writing what one knows was already what one’s parents inevitably end up doing – writing their sorry creations, writing their sorry creations’ story like they know, in the only language they speak – that of safe materialism. Each man may or may not live out his life as a character in a story told by someone else, but why indulge Freud and have one's parents write the pre-biography, why give them creative control over the first draft of one’s biography asked the Cunt. And thus writing a novel about what one knows is not so very different from writing a cheque for tuition or a permission slip for P.E.