Illiterature

1 February 2017
I’ll start this off without any words, watching them pass like clouds in the sky, too busy sucking. On warm milk and laxatives I’ll walk you through heartbreak, show you the out-takes—all the dead wood from jungles and cities on fire.

Someone talked me into it—“Entertain us!”—odour on their bodies, even though we hadn’t had sex for a week. I was shaved, tied to an easy-chair in a room with a window in the corner. I found truth horny, but that’s okay, my will is in holes and dis-used shafts.

She kept the sound of broken homes pumping—a live transmission straight to my heart. Every wet nurse refused to feed me in the fire of daddy’s little radio girl, the lady I felt maternal love for. We talked in the heat with a hint of anaesthesia in our mouths—“We can plant a house” / “we can build a tree”—bipolar opposites attract, I guess, but you were right to walk away in silence; the animals I’ve trapped have all become my pets.

When I was an alien—sickening pessimist, conservative communist, apocalyptic hypocrite, master bastard—lights shined like a neon show. Negatively creeping, emotionally scapegoating, I learned to cry on demand—my eyes, dark grey lenses frightened of the sun. She should have been a son, not an eclipse living in the Ice Age. A duel of personalities, she would’ve had a fine time living at the Sunday swap meet in the over-bored night.

Thank you dear God for putting me on this stupid and contagious Earth. And fuck me, man, this is a waste of time, passing through wastelands once more. Look, an oversized rock! All of a sudden my water broke, scattering flowers washed down by the rain. I really wet your bed.

Oh, so this is permanence, the past now part of my future comfort in being sad.

I don’t know why I’d rather be dead than cool, systematically degraded, neutered and spayed. I feel very privileged, in debt to the centre of the city where all roads meet, weather changes mood, routine bites hard; where electrolytes smell like semen, meat-eating orchids forgive no one, unknown martyrs die; where love will tear the lights out.

You’re less dangerous turned away on your side, hanging out on clouds and moving through the silence without motion.

As the king of illiterature I’m very ape, alone here in this colonised afterbirth of a nation. Avenues lined with trees, strangled words—they take turns in cutting me up, nail me to a train. With eyes so dilated I’ve become their pupil.

This is why events unnerve me—the flowers sing in D minor in strange new rooms, maybe drowning.

There are countless formulas for pressing flowers washed up on beaches, struggling for air—do the twist by the gate at the foot of the garden, lie in the soil and fertilize mushrooms, listen to the silence and let it ring, erect a city of stars—but I lose the feeling.

I’ve got a new complaint: dreams always end and I’ve another down payment on very bad posture (I’m metallic blue turned red from rust). Oh, and the soft pretentious mountains glisten in the light of the trees. I’ve gotta find some therapy; been locked inside your heart-shaped nights filled with bloodsport. My own parasite, I’m not afraid anymore to distill the life that’s inside of me.


(after Kurt Cobain and Ian Curtis)

 


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