Just be Them, the Beat to Roving Panic

Suffer for the television, for the so many beautiful eyes casting their agonies upon you, in relief or distress, as fragile as glass these emotions shatter across the static crawling into bodies like our own, but more beautiful, idealized, censored from the harsh caresses of realities unspoken, left off the page. Camera flash, a bind of nerves halting movement, a cradle of spinal fluid softly holding me, so sweet as I dissolve. Delicate pleasure is quickly lost. Enough violence for a tranquil afternoon. Decaying into bodies of youth. It is freeing in an emptiness. So far I descend into. Frayed consciousness enough for a stranding. Upon a shore. Dead eyes roll bloodshot. Dead as ground they rove. Movement lacks momentum. Freedom. A lack. Oh, how special are we. I know I am but a mask. Shivering despair on the threshold. Nothing inside, nothing outside. The camera rattles over oblivion. Her song is ringing in the mind. A car, a hand, a wave of white ash, a donkey on a desert road, an immaculate tree blocking the sun, a thousand more to follow, a sweetness in the air- sunsets as blades or guns or sorrowful release. My shell of skin lacks desire. All contain a lackness, sorrow it builds, as towards a bonfire. In the passions of men there is a volition towards release, in laughter it is held, as silver rain. Snow falls softly past my window. Fields are spreading wide, hot and pure. A sunset raiding in my mind. A pretty blond girl all dressed up, awaiting a pool of cum down her throat. Gripping a shiver of pleasure, as a gasping takes hold. I suffer to believe in thisness. Her innocence, defiled for the sake of movement, a flux, a maw- at the centre of things. A lasting rage, at the point of creation of my being, a fury, a fire ready to topple over, skin tight it is one with me, as much my flesh as the body that holds me during lucidity- grant me illusion, Sweet Mother, grant me the ecstasy of otherness within myself- I do not identify with this lasting panic, creating myself anew as a squirming infant. A desire is forfeit if it exists simply to desire, to want- since existence is apparently enough if we always want it- extending into a bland eternity. Cut of red rivers through the fog. Mystery held as the only knowledge. Forgetfulness is its own reward. Uttered, not held. Felt, not being. Trembling, not partaking. Holding on. Words, older than I, speak for me, being what I am, forever, a wave upon the shore. The being before all else shall be beheaded. How frightful is our slaughter, a wave of hot red before an abyss. A building for silence. With shaking hands, the altar is before us, the god we worship. Cup of bitterness. Burning pleasures lead to decay, hateful agony a joy. But enough of a speaking, enough of a description, I have laughed, fought, cried, punched against the walls of my brain, my soul, this world for long enough, rend this all apart- towards a tremendous upheaval, an ecstatic violence, before a splendour of silence walls me in, trueness is inhabited, perfection is all. I’ve milked this experience for long enough. This subjectivity is lacking, all a hot rage. A gun towards the sky, bullets to the sun- how pathetic are our resolutions. And catharsis- it creates its own dissatisfaction. Bleed for the screen, for all the desires that curdle your blood are born from it, die for the image. Just imagine i’m all girls. Just be them for dissatisfaction. 

Before transgression, the world is as open as a cunt, ready to be ravaged.