9/6/2004
Study In Blood
Praying for thy release with sphygmomanometer fingers will only increase the fury of thy jailer. There is no escape from the poisons. Lift a trap and asphyxiate a little further. All is rotten underneath. Search anywhere for a spiracle in vain. Outside’s unreachable. The enclosure is hermetic, inviolable. Thou art the prisoner of the self. And yet rejoice for that chamber of thee is the best thou canst afford. It is in shambles, but open any door to the adjacent rooms and be thrown by the stink and the horrendous desolation. Any next station is in a worse state, in there the deteriorated cadavers and the vermin that feast on them lurk hungrily. Quit the histrionics. To thee they are tiring, to me a vexation. No soldier behaves so cravenly.Perdy morbleu! Thackeray was right. Soldiery is a thing so sold on the cheap! Poverty is our mistress. And yet with what dignity we attempt to present a composed figure. Misery attacks first on the extremities — feet, hands, head — our boots, our gloves, our caps, threadbare and scuffed. The gangrene advances on all fronts, it nibbles at our innards, no wonder our fire burns fierce; look behind the American Gothic mullions of our eyes and see our barely contained rage smolder. We stare the same Sun down. It blinks first. The Sun, god’s asshole, from where the goat turdlets that you call planets drop. The goat turdlets (the spyrathe, so-called) remind us in their sphericity those devil’s droppings with which the soldiery grows sturdier. Devil’s droppings, that’s the right appellation for the formerly named chicken peas. Who is the criminal woman tried at the degenerated origins to subvert the order of natural foods? Calling chicken the stronger of feeds for the military — cheap, abundant, delicious! Let’s not yield to any woman or womanish fay male by mistake, neither in the naming of the world, nor in anything else, especially in the consideration of What Is Or Ain’t.
Is like you have a fruity petty-assistant who never stops in his grubby nagging, crapulous garrulous blackguard — don’t be remiss — “will you shut up, badgering twit, nattering twat!” — take him all at once by his two bits, his tail, his head, and squeeze and pull rerewards, until you are about to break his spine; before it snaps for good, lift the hand that was worrying his tail, take the shiv at your side and slash his throat; return to his tail the freed hand, and hold him tight, while he debates and bleeds to death like a pig that won’t quit. Get rid of the carcass, toss it into the river that to the abyssal ocean and the all-encompassing fishes leads. When the quieter children arrive, check by yourself the healthy gleam on the recently waxed floor. How clean it looks! Only a few damp shadows from the earlier little puddles too thick with blood.
No, no, but the horror of her ways! Talkative, squandering bitch with obvious olfactory shortcomings. Trying too hard, yearning to belong, when her natural inferiority prevents all relinquishing on our part. No escape, though. Be warned. Her raucous impingement will follow us into any of the grim mansions of life we choose, no truce ever, there she’ll appear, for we need to feed in order to survive — ubiquitous we find them, in cistercian monastery, in any other grith, in the same fucking graveyard, handling the nourishments, loaded with snotty shit-spreading cubs, reminiscing old cods dressed in weeds, discussing the whole catalog of maladies, extolling tv, keeping the food for themselves, saving it for the scrawny and obese kids, repellent young mothers, suppurating lymphs, their bodies unclean, doling out the breads, dealing with the sugars and the flours, the eggs and the emboweled meats. Poor Holophernes knew one or two of their infernal tricks. He strove to gain some weight by feeding on the wombs of preggos. Grave mistake! One of the swollen bitches became his paramour. Now he was done for. She proceeded to wean him from the bean. “No more devil’s turds for you,” she screeched, “from now on you’ll partake of the delicacies that I’ll place daintily on the festering rims my beaming quim.” Fancy that, the guy’s fucked from this moment on. He grows queasier and queasier, torn between the love of the cunt and the disgust from the wishy-washy food. What an orgy of encountered emotions. Some samaritan had to make him the favor of cutting his throat. Hoity-toitily fizzled his blood as it said good-by to its veins. Cornily cried at his side his wretched aunt, a nasty dame indeed, with a wealthy fund of righteousness in her soul. Another disciplinarian with a store full of spanners to cast into your soul. Sheer malice conducts them, always promoting peace — alas, the scourge of peace — so that the killing belongs to them and not to some other soldier sap. It behooves us to be plenty chary of ‘em. Cawing like rooks, in their hortatory, slobbering female style, they admonish and urge you not to fight, they call you old reliable, old breadwinner, old dad of the kids, they pun excruciatingly, they batter your shorn ears with exclamations of their idle esteem — ah, the malignant concussions their catastrophic words produce!
Listen, boys, be firm. Be never shirkers of duty. Whenever the blind fury of your mother or your darling irrupts in a blizzard of sham tears and entreaties, and other dirty tricks dear to blackmailers…, whenever the poisonous locomotive of their sex lurches forward to claim your body and the remnants of life in it left, stave the witches, retaliate by hitting first. Show your fine judgment. Prune their rotundities with a couple of well-directed kicks. You won’t be bribed with such cheap symbolic tokens as family and stability… You won’t be bilked, your manliness will not be curtailed… Balk at their oaths for pity, shame the display of their giddying lures, spurn coziness, fondness, putative worshippers in generations hence… Abhor the sanctification of the vanquished defunct. No tycoon, his portrait hanged high, enthroned in clovers or glowering at the helm, amounts to a shit. Don’t get lost in bypaths of fog where the smell of women and dirty laundry weakens you so that you instantly become a rag to wipe the fucking floor from the blood others have funnily happily shed. The guy at the trestle is limp-wristed, a fake depleted of spirit.
Stressed to breaking point, your gear messed into cogs uncaught and sutures unsuitable sewn, sinking into a funnel of homely worthlessness, you nether nose unable to rise, frailly attempting to rape and never succeeding, always thwarted at the source, for women rule in that eerie place where it is forbidden (forbidden to rape, remember, boys!,) you just retrogress into a blob of aging flesh, which can only implode into a spasm of death, your rotten blood too spurred by its very rottenness. While at your side, feeding off the carrion you’ve become, they are archly grinning, the conquerors of the male.
Get a load of yourself on the mirror of her vanity stand. What a horror of a scarecrow! Collide against your unfair image! That’s not you! You are a soljer due to shine. Unsheathe yourself from that cocoon varnished with menses, enameled with shit. Joint the mob! Be a wreaker of havoc as intended by the sole god Mars, the true sphere that shone earlier as it will again and perdurably. Enmeshed with the braves, you are promised to the apex of the squall, to the thickest of the blood in the bloodbath, to the stretcher and the pyre, to the joys of the pancratium… To fly! To Valhalla. To brush yourself with the mustaches of the barbarian, to smell divine, to be a man, naked, amongst men — enough, you are trying my patience —
— do it — are you hemming? —don’t!
