I force myself to embrace the idea of post-mortal spiritual states so that I – even in death – can repent the wickedness of my life. With every fiber of my being I vomit the purging emesis of my conscience so that it drenches my white body and fills up all the orifices until they resemble volcanic craters clogging by the minute as the beige vomit stiffen like magma in the cold air… Hearken! I have raped the ones I love; I have thrust with bestial force their naked bodies! My fists have collapsed the faces of dear comrades; my teeth gnaw my father’s bones to dust and my words curse my mother’s cunt. It has been said over and over; humans are given birth out of seraphic grace, and, sculpted passionately in the image of the most awesome and splendorous miracle of life as designed by the great Creator himself, they are beautiful… their smiles ignite the furnace of hearts and their acute sobbing calm mothers over ethnic and cultural and national boundaries: the birthing of the human child is conceived as clean, pure, untainted, even though it – in its more scenic and visceral aspects – must be the most horrifying and gut-wrenching physiological mechanism we know of – even more so than the very conception of it, which, in its own right, is appalling!
The birthing of the human child is the extraordinary repulsiveness, if it not were for its psycho-emotional implications in the humans… Bodily fluids coalescing and seeping into holes they should never have seeped into, save for in nauseating and unbound corridors of depraved fantasy… the revolting smell of a woman’s innards … red-pinkish slabs of human offal irritating the nostrils and the eyes, which tear – the content of a pregnant woman’s belly prolapsed and expulsed like someone dropped a heavy stone on the swelled stomach of a gassy corpse left for a number of days bloating under Satan’s sun; a sculpture of flesh with a head too wide to fit into the breadth of the strained vagina weeps and screams and twitches its ape-like fingers and clenches to whatever it can find in order to drag itself into the warmth of her womb again; the walls of the vulva tearing to the unsettling disharmony of her agonized screaming; it is surely a funeral – not a celebration – for the unborn! … Blood spurts out in nauseating quantities, mixing with the feces of the woman forcefully expelled from the blotted anus after hours and hours of a self-control lost; it is an outright bothersome scene – yet the search for it continues; the appraisal of it seems timeless and never does it halt; it is the thread binding the woman together with her beast ancestors! Years come and years go… minutes and hours pass and melt into the disfiguring cyst on mankind’s back called history, and whole eras dilapidate into their own fatigue; the whole life spans of the most splendorous of men just vanish into that magnificent maelstrom, which is whirling incessantly, inexorably… and we choose to call it time… three days ago, we ploughed the soil beneath us with whittled stone; the day after we read and wrote and thought and wept over our existences, and yesterday man took his first trembling steps on the moon orbiting our spectacular planet… Yet it stands monolithic – the woman’s love for her ripe belly!
Amongst all the biological debris and the filth and the stench and the diabolical and indescribable pains of a woman’s labor, they kindle themselves an undying light that guides them through the centuries, which is the most iridescent beauty, and the light of the world… the birth of a child… the unsharpened diamond of a woman’s life… But does not the human become a pig at the moment of birth, as the mother fails to wash its pink flesh with her beast-tongue? No matter how sincere her gesture, her tongue cannot reach the filthiest holes of her baby’s body; she tries, without success, to clean her child’s rectum from the clogging meconium, and the throat from mucus and bile, which inhibits its breathing, and even attempting to wash sin away from his underdeveloped phallus… the foreskin roiling back and forth… You think of the child as clean, innocent, pure, and uncorrupt – but is he not rather born filthy with the ability to lick himself clean, at best? If human nature – of which the human child is the irrefutable symbol – was inherently – as it is in itself – clean, uncorrupt; a vessel of innocence and goodness, and if the human child was the ripe fruit dangling from those twigs, then you would need to celebrate murder, rape, destructivity in order to flee the guillotine of self-deceit and deception of others…
And if you stand proud amid the echoes of your own words, which are imbued with an almost unconditional loyalty towards our human nature, then revel in meanness toward one another…! Wicked cruelty and abuse, impetuous racism, weakness in the flesh and primal states of egotism…! Unrestrained and derailed will of survival and hedonism spilling over into the crystal ponds of egalitarianism, humanism, solidarity, compassion… embittering them and making them a poison for all the children to drink… All of this barbarity, this spinelessness, inherited from the father – nothing more than a roaming beast, no better than the ape, with his roused cock – and his mother – puny, fragile, weak in her motherly instincts, submissive to the cold seed of her lover… is defining the human condition as it is, as it has been! And the conglomeration of these bestial and complementary sides of the human spectacle is also the ultimate human relation: the final stage of primeval love-making; the mending of the opposite life-sustaining principles of man and woman; and what a loathsomeness it very often is! When the phallus enters whatever hole he has chosen, something amazing – disgusting – takes place, and all the other women flocks around the love-making couple in awe; Amen! Amen! “Tonight we welcome a family member”; carry out the ceremonies; roll out the royal carpet… When the fig leaf is ripped from her vagina, the world, with all the eager cocks, invade her, not knowing of the consequence; soon this belly ripple with latent nightmares and a pregnancy the father could not by any means handle… A human becomes a piglet when it is pushed out of its mother and roils in the dirty cesspools, and it will soon call the pigsty a second home, where it will grow and grow and grow and grow until it is fat and thickened with porcine shame, and I think of it, really, as if the world was a cadaver, and all the piglets were maggots browsing in the sulphurous and rot-stenched decomposture of it… I think of them to be in the exact same roles like those of the maggots disintegrating the carcass… they, though, are not maggots, and the earth is not really a cadaver, but these are just mere words, and we should not get stuck on them, because beneath the surface, the whole thing looks the very same…
The End Commune, early winter 2014.
Written during the chorus of a great year:
A personal annus mirabilis.
Written during the chorus of a great year:
A personal annus mirabilis.
Inga kommentarer:
Skicka en kommentar