BLOOD FLOWS TOO

I had begun to write as if this were going to be coherent and rational. It isn’t and it won’t be. This isn’t academia or para-academia. This is standing naked in front of you. Here it is, the whole of it. There isn’t much here but the corpse in its early heat. You can almost see where the maggots will grow. You can put your hand on my cock and it’ll come clean away. Why talk like that? It’s unbecoming. It’s in violation of the precepts. It’s just not nice. There isn’t any point to shock, it was long dead before I got here. It’s just to stand naked you have to say whatever happens to be there. There is nothing to say. For the longest time I kept silent because of it. It’s as if I thought silence were better. As if I thought in being silent there would be peace. There isn’t any peace here. Even in the depths there isn’t any peace. You think that bliss means rapture when it’s closer to horror. Have you ever felt yourself begin to come apart? Have you ever felt yourself disappear or fragment? What’s down there in the ruins of the self? It’s the tumult and the chaos, a pitiless infinity of sorrow, a black luminescence, images of the copulating corpses, endless dead children. A thousand eyes and a thousand hideous dimensions. You can’t see it all. You turn away. Don’t turn away. Least of all from this. Just stand naked. Know that speaking is a pure exuberance. Speaking is the ecstasy of silence just as living is the ecstasy of death. And what is death? Isn’t that the question. To stand naked and talk about death. We are always talking about death. It’s what we talk about when we talk about anything else. To stand naked is to stand in the presence of death. It’s to stand in the presence of the uselessness of talking. It’s to revel in that uselessness. The body in paroxysms of disease and pleasure. The red thread dripping wet the decay that infests mouths that swallow mouths down hole. To stand naked is to stand in tears. It’s to stand in fear. It’s to stand in awkward uncertainty and indecision. Here is my tenderness and here are my wounds. Here is my stammering anxiety and here is my broken heart. In the question of coping there can be no question of calling on psychological literature. The scientific charade of experimental psychology. The blind religion of psychiatry. The mysticism of psychoanalysis. There is no reason to convert everything into therapy.

There is evil and there is error and there is horror and terror and disorder and chaos. You want to deny it and to pretend that everything isn’t collapsing around you. If you can do that and you can make it through the night unscathed then who am I to criticise? This isn’t for you. This is a mute confession screamed in the alien tongues of fever delirium. I don’t need to promise insanity because we’re all insane already. Do we even want to achieve sanity? Further into our madness then! What’s the point of this? What am I saying? The red thread dripping saliva hanging from my mouth. And what is a mouth? It is an emptiness suspended in vast emptiness. And what is a life? It is an emptiness suspended in vast emptiness? Here we are in the void, insubstantial among insubstantial things, a nothingness frantically searching some permanence, some stability, security. Come. Come and stand naked with me, trembling in the Void that may be an Abyss or an Emptiness. I am crying your tears and you are crying mine. One of us is laughing as we exchange names. In the bedroom the girl takes the razor to her veins. In the darkness the light glints upon the blade. The red thread is severed and flows into the world. She has learned the uselessness of silence and language. There is beauty in this too, an endlessly insatiable beauty. In emptiness, nothing holy, in intimacy’s terrible and vast embrace…….

Out here. The red thread pulses. It is pulses in my veins. In yours. Listen to the red thread. Let it speak. Stop fucking pretending. We don’t know shit.  There is chaos. We’re alive. And we’re afraid. Hold on. We’re going into it. Standing naked in the chaos. Bathing in it. Giving ourselves over to it. Just for a minute. Let go.

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