6/21/10
My parents had sex in the back of my dad's Mustang, necking after hours at the park around the corner from where they lived. My pops was 17, worked at the Dairy Barn, and tuned up his car after class. My mom was 15, had knee surgery that put her field hockey days behind her.
I was conceived.
For reasons unknown to me I was not aborted, but rather, I was born on September 21, 1976, a Tuesday at 2am. My parents wed four days before at City Hall. My mom started taking night classes to graduate a year early. My father enters the workforce as an auto-mechanic.
I say I don't know the reason these teenagers decided to keep this child, but I do have my suspicions. I think my father to have assumed the role out of a sense of martyrdom, quite possibly like his father. But thinking on it now, my widow grandmother on my mom's side, an Irish Catholic, was perhaps the deciding factor.
My dad showed me how to change the brakes on our car, got to really enjoy all the cool Star Wars toys, and have a small victim for his boyish pranks. It was all a joke, he was teasing, he didn't mean to scare me like that. I begin to see my father as an object of fear, of aggression, humiliation.
I cling to my mother, who reads to me at night, and smiles every time she looks at me. She loves me more than she realized was possible, quite literally shell-shocked from her nearly virgin birth. A child with a child, a girl who never knew her own father, an electrical engineer in World War II, dead of lung cancer before her third birthday.
The rift, the crack, begins to widen every day. My dad gets shitfaced and off-roads with his friends, who eventually have their own kids, and it becomes a ritual to go camping, drink, and laugh their asses off at their children's expense. Or at least for my dad that is.
My sister is born. I hear stories saying that I was sweet and tender towards her as a baby. I recall nothing but disdain and half-hearted bitterness, never fully realized jealousy. Something happens before I can really be aware of how I feel about having a younger sibling.
I die.
I choke to death on a piece of hot-dog. The thick-skinned kosher kind. I turned blue, passed out, and was rushed to the Emergency Room where they removed the chunk of wiener with tongs. How long I went without breath, I don't know. Did I subconsciously yearn for death, or perhaps attention, at so early an age?
Most of my memories from this time are vague, just as they were years before. I recall a scary Dracula in a house window, Vienna Fingers in my lunchbox, a Matchbox Car in my hand, as I walked besides my mom to pre-school. We raced cars along the floor, I came home with a bootleg, cheap ass orange truck.
They tell me there was a dog at that apartment, the landlord's dog, named Max. He was big and scary with a loud ass bark, but we were friends. As the story goes, I was sleeping in his pen area besides him. He awoke, startled from a dream, and clutched my face in his jaws. I still have the scars.
We move to a poor white/middle class black neighborhood. We have an apartment under a rockabilly couple that have a snake, rats, and a tarantula. In the driveway is an old 30's Ford (complete with painted flames and running boards) and an El Camino.
We live next to a wooded park, complete with amazing hills, a playground, and tons of inchworms and caterpillars. My best friend was the white trash kid across the street who lived with his old aunt. I piss through his window from outside, we ride bike trails we build in his backyard, and get stung by a hive of bees in the massive tree that sat in front of his property, hiding away the rundown house and overgrown yard.
I recall thinking, I'm afraid of heights, as I look up to a tree far back on his property that had been struck by lightning. It was charred and split at the top, a good thirty feet above us. Beyond the fence is the farmland where we would pick strawberries each year.
I get new sneakers, and two older boys force us into the back of their property down the street. They tell me to close my eyes, my friend yells to me not to. I am frightened by their demeanor so I comply. They tilt a wheelbarrow over, spilling gray mud all over my feet, covering every inch of my new sneakers. I walk home into the sunset with my friend and the sun dries the mud, it cracks off, and my shoes are still perfectly fine.
I watch TV with my parents, Darth Vader's helmet being lifted up, his pale, sick frame underneath. I say, "I guess Luke didn't get his looks from his dad." My parents erupt into laughter. We're a family, watching Star Search, a man singing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow', the Muppet Show, and ALF.
My dad teaches me to ride my bike, I can't make left turns for some reason, and wasn't too good at stopping. I put my arm out reaching for this rusted car as my wrist drags along the metal. I still have a scar running just below my thumb and down across my wrist.
The power is out and the windows are shaking. We're huddled around candles as Hurricane Gloria rages outside. It nearly tosses a tree from the park into the house. During the eye of the storm, we step outside, basking in the eerie calm of the moment. Everything is ripped apart and smashed, tree branches scattered everywhere, entire bushes uprooted.
My friends get together to survey the damage. My black friends all have big houses, circular driveways, and built-in pools. I watch as one friend's sister falls into the pool, getting tangled in the sticker bushes that were deposited in there. She thrashes about and almost slips under the thorns and branches.
Awhile later, we camp out in that friend's backyard, which seems to go on for miles. We goof around, jump from tree to tree, armed only with our flashlights. We get in trouble and are made to come inside. From the bathroom window we spy the next door neighbor building something as his girlfriend comes out in only a nightshirt. I see her vagina as she bends over to kiss him.
When winter comes, we hit the park's hills with our sleds and fly down the slopes. My little sister jumps on the back of mine and we slip down the big drop. A kid comes soaring down on top of us in his wood and metal sled. My leg is crushed, and my sister's head is bashed. We need to keep her awake once we get home.
As a family we sit down to play Cabbage Patch Kids: the board-game, and when they remove the top I spy it instantly. A piece of construction paper with a crayon stick figure drawing. Crude cave etching of a naked man and woman, with word balloons proclaiming some sort of unknown sexuality. I am instantly mortified at this unexpected intrusion into this, my dawn of sexual discovery.
Everyone laughs as they can just barely make out what it says, what it means. They laugh again when I fill out the ID card in my G.I. Joe wallet as SEX: No. My sister comes out with a random statement, "Dad has too much sex." My sister runs around naked often. My dad spanks me once, but it is so terrifying that I see it as a freeze framed moment of panic.
I remember a story where I sat in the backseat of the car after a fair, a smile on my face as I held firmly to the string on my HULK mylar balloon. Suddenly, without any warning, my dad whips around, rips the balloon from me and tosses it out the window. It seems it was reverberating in the wind and it just had to go.
Did my dad pick on me, not knowing how to relate to boys (having two older and two younger sisters) and acting out his immature jealous rage against me, the male who was perhaps taking his wife from him? I can't imagine he loved her with any depth or passion, and most likely just wanted her physically, unable to show emotion beyond that.
Either way my father was done with me once we moved to Massapequa. I was almost done with elementary school, where I was the quiet kid who identified himself as a klutz, and began a new life among kids who'd known each other for years. When I was 11 my dad told me he wasn't going to be there for me going forward.
I made some friends here and there, lots of people were really friendly towards the new kid in the Yankees hat. My first friend slept in his tighty-whities when I stayed over and had Barbies in his room; he came out over a decade later. My next friends lived far away, and were bad kids, a weird mix. Then I met the four who would make me leave my comfort zone.
There was the charismatic leader (momma's boy), the hard luck kid (trouble magnet), the rebel (with daddy issues), and me, the mascot, the punchline, the scaredy cat. We stayed out past curfew, rode our bikes around, talked to girls selling friendship bracelets. I just wanted to return Blades of Steel, the NES game I rented from T&S Video (our acct.# was 1012).
But they wanted to talk to girls, so we hung out with girls, stood on their corners under amber streetlights, innocently flirted with childish flair. I stood back, embarrassed, scared, uncertain. I had a paper route, and video games to be played, maybe shoot another short film on my PXL2000 with action figures. I didn't want to talk to girls.
They threatened to throw a bike at my head if I didn't ask this girl out. After our first night we were paired off. I spent the last part of the summer before High School hanging out in basements, watching Road House, doing tricks on our BMXs to impress girls in oversized Champion sweatshirts and neon skids, while they ate Combos and drank Diet/Caffeine Free Coke.
They wore scrunches in their hair, Keds on their feet, two pairs of socks, one overflowing and colorful, and danced to BelBivDevoe. I wore net belly shirts, Bugle Boy jean shorts, and had a good sized pony tail with my overly grown out spiky hair. Eventually I put my arm around my "girlfriend" and kissed her. That was it. (A few years later she had a baby before finishing High School.)
Then I met her. My first real girlfriend. She was the object of everyone's desire. A girl two years younger than her friends, but two years of physical development ahead of her friends. She had boobies. And she was really hot. And she thought I was cute. Once again, they made me ask her out.
We all went to Adventureland right around our birthdays (hers just three days before mine), and rode the rides, played games, and enjoyed ourselves. We were kids, still innocent and playing at the adult concept of dating. But we never kissed. And due to an incident where I got taken off my friend's roof by the cops, I would be grounded for two months and our young romance was cut short.
I breathed a sigh of relief, thanking my parents almost, for this opportunity to get out of this crazy, complex world I had stumbled into. There were all sorts of games and twists, to everything that was said back and forth. It was overwhelming and I was glad to get back to my simple life in my bedroom. I was raised by television and embraced it once more.
But it wouldn't last. I would be free to roam once more after New Years Eve. On January 10th I had my first kiss outside the girl's house. From there it was a slippery slope. We began making out a lot, then heavy petting. Eventually her hand took ahold of my penis and she jerked me off. It was amazing.
I wanted her to do that all the time. We went for a record 13 times in one day. I was consumed by the feeling, addicted to her firm grip releasing this fluid from me daily. You see, I had never done this to myself, never explored my own sexuality, alone in my bedroom, before she showed me the power of another person doing it.
It lead to my abandoning my friends in the living room while we were in the bedroom. If we were at her house, when her parents made me leave, I'd take the raging hard-on I had and beat off in the bushes across the street to avoid blue balls. Our song was 'After the Rain' by Nelson, although should have been 'Don't Treat Me Bad' by Firehouse.
She couldn't stop thinking about my friend. The rebel who I had gotten very close to. It was his house the cops took me off the roof of. We shoplifted wine coolers, Doritos and cookie dough. We stole recycling from one supermarket and returned to the other to make money. We paid a guy to buy us survival knifes at the magic shoppe in the mall.
I set things on fire. Leaves, paper, cars, the siding of a house. I would carry a lighter, as I took to smoking now and then by this point, and light things as I went. No one had ever gotten hurt. I was lucky. I even got beat up by a cop for not smoking weed, him insisting I was the lookout. He took me to a back alley and roughed me up.
And it was this friend that I went through it all with, all part of his troublemaking schemes, that she now wanted. I slammed the door in her face as she tells me, then I convince him to date her, while fooling around with her on the swings on the side. I abandon them both. I see them together at one of our friend's brother's funeral, who had killed himself, hung himself, out in the backyard. He was feeling up her skirt at the wake.
If I had left my metamorphosis to chance in Junior High, I would actively reinvent myself for High School. I ignored the jocks when they asked me to play basketball as I finished my paper route. Instead I discovered the kids reading comic books and playing Dungeons & Dragons, and found my way in. I would play the thief, or assassin. The morally dubious rogue, often the punching bag for the others.
This group were introverted, self-conscious, and sadistic. They would mock, taunt, insult, all to get a rise out of you, and no one would react more than me. The fat kid beat on me, the lying kid would play with my emotions, the trickster would build me up and tear me down. But I loved it. It was a dynamic I could belong to. A band of brothers, all fighting evil in our basements with dice.
I was never anyone's best friend. We'd all take turns hanging out, the dynamic always in flux as one person was around and someone else was pissed at someone else. Eventually, the abuse became too much and I fought the fat kid. I wailed on him, I held him down and kneed him in the spine, I smacked him with fake fireplace logs. But then, I finished him off a few weeks later.
He had called up one of us, and while someone was trying to candy coat why we weren't hanging out with him, I let loose: "Nobody wants to hang out with you because no one likes you." I gave him the reasons. The weakest of them all stood up and said enough; I finally stood up to someone. He was docile ever after that (despite later head-butting my sternum during art class, shutting down my heart chakra), and years later credited me with helping him change.
I daydreamed all throughout high-school whether it was a short story about a hard boiled private dick and his motley crew of mystic misfits, or looking at the girl next to me in Social Studies' bra as it stuck out the side of her tank top. I would slip my hand into my jeans and invisibly masturbate during class. I became notorious among my friends for it.
I stayed away from girls, but became a chronic masturbator. I would wait until my parents were asleep and spend hours watching softcore porn and stroking myself. I think I may've permanently screwed up my neck and back from the way I would lie as I came into the top of a shoe box. I would wait for the hottest scene with a short haired brunette and then come.
By Senior year, a shift had happened. We were suddenly cool. The jocks became metal-heads and did drugs. They thought we knew martial arts. My dorky musician friends were suddenly hot as hair metal expanded into grunge. We wore flannels and black leather jackets, ripped jeans and construction boots untied. We hung out with head cheerleaders and prom queens on our first day of class.
As the year went by, we got involved. Went to dances, I wrote for the literary journal, played battle of the bands. We did whatever we wanted, from staging broken neck fights (cracked Tic-Tac boxes), and shooting up the hallways with disc-guns. I began getting attention from girls again, and my friends could see this. Suddenly, my friends who hated me, loved me.
And I had my first crush. She was tall, dorky, on track and the basketball team, and a smart kid. She was also beautiful. Freckles with a sweet smile. She never had a boyfriend, and so after a setup worthy of a High School coming-of-age rom-com at the Homecoming dance, we dated. We made out for most of The Bodyguard. She once whispers "You're driving me crazy..." in my ear as I kiss her neck.
A week or two later we're done as she becomes even more aloof than she had been before, flirting with my other friends. And considering my track record with friends and girlfriends, I reacted poorly. I tried to control her, she let me go. She wound up dating a friend of a friend of mine for awhile after High School who I no doubt took her virginity.
I was definitely into girls again, but aiming that high was scary, dangerous, devastating. It brought out a madness in me. Then I saw her. She was tiny, thin, with curly hair and an acoustic guitar in her hands. She seemed to sit outside her group of friends. A general dislike towards her. I was smitten.
A month before my prom (as she was two years younger) I lost my virginity to her. We were fooling around on my bed, down to underwear as I grinded on her. She whispers in my ear "Don't tease me." I spend a moment in shock, before grabbing the condom I had stashed in my CD rack, that my friends had stolen from this girl's older brother's room years before, the one that had committed suicide two years earlier.
A month later we're having sex in the back of the limo after prom, my friend having sex with his girlfriend on the other side, our jackets hanging between to section it off. The odd thing is I sort of 'dated' his girlfriend for a few weeks the semester before. Nothing happened, but when that friend years later turned psycho on a girl I was dating, saying that me and him hooked up, well, that's just odd.
What distorted memory could he have? Did we do something and I don't remember? I did wake up in just my boxers on the senior trip, where he and two other friends were all sleeping in the same room. He wore dresses and makeup, liking gothy new wave, and the Crow. I don't even know what to think other than a memory I have of me with him as I cried hysterical while Candlebox's 'Far Behind' played in the car.
Then there was Freddie. All through my senior year, Freddie would ask me things like "If in the future you met a girl and it turned out she used to be a guy, what would you do?", to which I would respond earnestly, that it depended on how I felt about the relationship. I failed to see the connection between that question and his insistence that he was a woman in a man's body. I was incredibly naive, dumb, or in obvious denial.
All year he would ask me things during Government class. I was eventually told that my picture graced the locket around his neck, that the poem he wrote in the journal was about me and my "flowing locks", and his position as editor is why it featured so many of my stories and poems. Then, one day, while at rehearsal for the Disney Revue (I did it for a girl) he told me he loved me.
I told one person, who told one person, who eventually got it back to him. He was pissed, and I got the diva cold shoulder for the rest of the year. My tiny girlfriend would be threatened as things got catty. Soon enough, we graduated, and I wouldn't hear about him again until the following Fall, on the day of my birthday as I'm about head into work, as a cashier at Waldbaums.
He was dead. The morning of my birthday, he had written a few notes to friends, swallowed sleeping pills, and pulled a plastic bag over his head. My friend's brother, a firefighter, found him and the word quickly spread. I don't think I went to the memorial, or the wake. I was numb to it. Indifferent. I thought I should feel something, but I didn't.
Three months later, and it's Christmas. Just finished my first semester of Nassau Community College and had driven away my girlfriend by sleeping with the girl who was with my friend in the limo during prom. I was working at K-Mart with my now ex and had to tell her that in order for her to leave me alone. I couldn't get rid of her and she would be back months later to have random sex with me in the stock room.
She had surrendered her identity to me, left all decisions to me, wanted to do whatever I did. I couldn't stand the power and control, and I lashed out her angrily time and time again. I had to be meaner and meaner, trying to make her hate me so I wouldn't have to be responsible for her.
She eventually went on medication after a breakdown, then went back to school and is a thriving academic of medieval history. She was adopted and found her real parents to be a genius physics professor and a schizophrenic drug addict.
But I was untouchable. Having fun with friends, driving places, hanging out at diners, smoking and drinking coffee. I couldn't think of anyone but myself. Certainly not a troubled youth with gender issues, or a fractured young girl with identity problems. And definitely not my grandmother who was wasting away from chemo as cancer destroyed her.
Three days after Christmas, she died. I vaguely remember her wake, hardly recall her funeral. She was the center of our family's universe, the lynch-pin that held us all together. A tiny spitfire of a woman who showed me NYC, took me to work with her on Queens Blvd, and made me pancakes whenever I wanted. Her huge house was always an adventure waiting to be explored.
And during Christmas dinner, I couldn't even look over at the couch and acknowledge that that bag of bones was my grandmother, the greatest, coolest, hippest, most selfless woman I had ever had the good fortune to meet in my life. She was everything to me while growing up, and somehow during my teen years, I forgot that. And then she was gone.
My family dissolved over the years after that. No more holiday dinners, just makeshift Thanksgivings, empty Christmas Days, joyless Easters. I couldn't feel anything and began just having sex with any girls who showed me attention. Cute, nice ones that I hurt, and hot, sexy ones that left my house crying afterward, back to their boyfriends that I never knew about.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
Tower of Brahma 62.i Solo Inferno (edit)
6/14/10
To say it was dark, to say I was alone, would be to acknowledge the existence of those words. There was only my flesh, the energy that coursed through it, and the concepts in my grey matter. My skin was drifting apart atom by atom, cell by cell.
I lit up from the inside, glowing crimson within my groin, shifting to orange among my abs, canary yellow from the diaphragm, a burst of green from my sternum, throat tightening around bluish illumination, and purple popped from my forehead. Stoplight magnificence in eternal void.
Pulling a coin from my pocket, a beautiful woman carved into its side. Flipping it over, it mirrored my own third eye, a reflection of my insides shining within. It pulled free from my hand and slipped flawlessly onto the horn of light protruding from my skull.
Fifth Avenue decadence, dollars turning into fabric, less with each season, the money becomes abstract plastic. A new look, a pretty thing to wear, to pretend to be. Each cycle delivering the anti-dote or evolution to last year's debacle. Appearance is all.
Every shred of clothing shows how you feel about yourself. Empty in crisp starched shirts, not caring in cotton, draping yourself in sheer shimmer. You try and capture eyes, daring them to hold you higher, momentary fix for the vacant chest. You never learned to love. You are a void. You don't exist.
A pulse of golden energy rippled down the horn and swept through my body. The ring was gone. Absorbed. Passed through my person. I felt as if a rotten piece of my lungs were torn from my body. A sensitive, band-aid ripped off absence. A tumor of black smoke evaporated before my eyes.
In my left palm I held another coin. I had it pressed against my crotch, the red beam from my erect cock embraced the metal's cold touch, slipping over it like a second skin, a receptacle to withdraw into. On the side upwards on the coin I saw an image of a demonic goat face stretching thin as it pulled down over my shaft.
She walks by, the bar freezes, and you're alone, the patrons all incidental nobodies as you take her in. The smell sifting from her hair as it brushes up against the exposed skin of her back, skin that dips down the curve of her spine, dropping into a dip above the crack of her dress.
You spin the room around, diving among the onlookers, wiping your eyes over her bust, riding the division of the plunging neckline, sharp chest bones highlighting the subtle sternum rib rifts in her cleavage. You want to throw her down and love her.
Your eyes drift higher as you lower your brow. Nose twitch, smirk, inhaled breath, prowling on top of her, pinned in your grasp, smiles stifled on her lips, hair tussled as your grip, slides up and across her flesh. Gripping, biting, rubbing your chin over her stomach.
She leaves her body, electric jolt of pleasure pumping from her womb, a trigger clicked as shivers shot to her toes, tensed in an orgasmic clutch. She comes. You leave. Your use is fulfilled. Activated another to a higher calling. You're not allowed to connect with her. Any of her.
My cock feels like dead weight, a thing of wet clay, falling apart in my grip. I panic for a moment before realizing that it doesn't matter. Let it melt away. It only caused false ego, obsessive territorial marking instrument of my destruction. There is no salvation in the phallic. Only a load of empty enlightenment.
The semen seeped into my stomach, dripping into the cracks, gooping its way through intestines. Liquid life, plasma seed paste, a short lived spaceship out of the body universe into the egg, where one would strive to become a living entity in a larger reality. Only...there is no egg.
I am a shell, meat, a gear that grinds itself free of white grease. Mechanical masturbation drawing its strength from my guts, which are all becoming slippery and sliding free from me. There's no food inside, never been much of an eater, the sickly lining always misaligning my meals.
Never was I taught balance. I do it to excess, then diminish in guilt and depression from the over-consumption. If I feed my problem, it dies, but if I starve it, it will suffer. I will suffer. I should suffer. If I deny my needs I control my body, therefore myself. I exist because I can damage myself. Spite is my sustenance, bitterness my bread.
The snout that was my belly button, my rolls crumbling away, breasts drooping into pig ears, I was dissolving. Whole slabs broke free and plopped into non-existence. A torso of a man, my arms flailing about, unsteady in my undoing. I grip my sternum, slipping digits in-between ribs, dug my nub-like fingertips inside, pressing deep into my lungs.
And I tore myself wide open. An emerald elegance erupted from my chest cavity. A shaggy chlorophyll presence puffed out and blossomed. The air, or lack thereof, dried its leaves into crispy brown chips, twinkling into the breeze of damnation in a billion flakes.
Soil that once fed a great tree, the form of its roots still inverted in its dirt mold. There is no purpose now, nothing to feed, to have bloom inside you. All that remains is dug up earth, a gaping wound, nature's broken heart. Packed down tight, perhaps growing the means to dissolve a corpse. A host to worms, maggots, bacteria. It dies in you.
So why bother? Give up the struggle. Life is dead. There remains nothing to fight for. Your purpose has been fulfilled. Propagation mechinization. Now go listen to sad tunes, have a drink of scotch, sit in your simple self-pity...and die. There is no point. That is all.
To say it was dark, to say I was alone, would be to acknowledge the existence of those words. There was only my flesh, the energy that coursed through it, and the concepts in my grey matter. My skin was drifting apart atom by atom, cell by cell.
I lit up from the inside, glowing crimson within my groin, shifting to orange among my abs, canary yellow from the diaphragm, a burst of green from my sternum, throat tightening around bluish illumination, and purple popped from my forehead. Stoplight magnificence in eternal void.
Pulling a coin from my pocket, a beautiful woman carved into its side. Flipping it over, it mirrored my own third eye, a reflection of my insides shining within. It pulled free from my hand and slipped flawlessly onto the horn of light protruding from my skull.
Fifth Avenue decadence, dollars turning into fabric, less with each season, the money becomes abstract plastic. A new look, a pretty thing to wear, to pretend to be. Each cycle delivering the anti-dote or evolution to last year's debacle. Appearance is all.
Every shred of clothing shows how you feel about yourself. Empty in crisp starched shirts, not caring in cotton, draping yourself in sheer shimmer. You try and capture eyes, daring them to hold you higher, momentary fix for the vacant chest. You never learned to love. You are a void. You don't exist.
A pulse of golden energy rippled down the horn and swept through my body. The ring was gone. Absorbed. Passed through my person. I felt as if a rotten piece of my lungs were torn from my body. A sensitive, band-aid ripped off absence. A tumor of black smoke evaporated before my eyes.
In my left palm I held another coin. I had it pressed against my crotch, the red beam from my erect cock embraced the metal's cold touch, slipping over it like a second skin, a receptacle to withdraw into. On the side upwards on the coin I saw an image of a demonic goat face stretching thin as it pulled down over my shaft.
She walks by, the bar freezes, and you're alone, the patrons all incidental nobodies as you take her in. The smell sifting from her hair as it brushes up against the exposed skin of her back, skin that dips down the curve of her spine, dropping into a dip above the crack of her dress.
You spin the room around, diving among the onlookers, wiping your eyes over her bust, riding the division of the plunging neckline, sharp chest bones highlighting the subtle sternum rib rifts in her cleavage. You want to throw her down and love her.
Your eyes drift higher as you lower your brow. Nose twitch, smirk, inhaled breath, prowling on top of her, pinned in your grasp, smiles stifled on her lips, hair tussled as your grip, slides up and across her flesh. Gripping, biting, rubbing your chin over her stomach.
She leaves her body, electric jolt of pleasure pumping from her womb, a trigger clicked as shivers shot to her toes, tensed in an orgasmic clutch. She comes. You leave. Your use is fulfilled. Activated another to a higher calling. You're not allowed to connect with her. Any of her.
My cock feels like dead weight, a thing of wet clay, falling apart in my grip. I panic for a moment before realizing that it doesn't matter. Let it melt away. It only caused false ego, obsessive territorial marking instrument of my destruction. There is no salvation in the phallic. Only a load of empty enlightenment.
The semen seeped into my stomach, dripping into the cracks, gooping its way through intestines. Liquid life, plasma seed paste, a short lived spaceship out of the body universe into the egg, where one would strive to become a living entity in a larger reality. Only...there is no egg.
I am a shell, meat, a gear that grinds itself free of white grease. Mechanical masturbation drawing its strength from my guts, which are all becoming slippery and sliding free from me. There's no food inside, never been much of an eater, the sickly lining always misaligning my meals.
Never was I taught balance. I do it to excess, then diminish in guilt and depression from the over-consumption. If I feed my problem, it dies, but if I starve it, it will suffer. I will suffer. I should suffer. If I deny my needs I control my body, therefore myself. I exist because I can damage myself. Spite is my sustenance, bitterness my bread.
The snout that was my belly button, my rolls crumbling away, breasts drooping into pig ears, I was dissolving. Whole slabs broke free and plopped into non-existence. A torso of a man, my arms flailing about, unsteady in my undoing. I grip my sternum, slipping digits in-between ribs, dug my nub-like fingertips inside, pressing deep into my lungs.
And I tore myself wide open. An emerald elegance erupted from my chest cavity. A shaggy chlorophyll presence puffed out and blossomed. The air, or lack thereof, dried its leaves into crispy brown chips, twinkling into the breeze of damnation in a billion flakes.
Soil that once fed a great tree, the form of its roots still inverted in its dirt mold. There is no purpose now, nothing to feed, to have bloom inside you. All that remains is dug up earth, a gaping wound, nature's broken heart. Packed down tight, perhaps growing the means to dissolve a corpse. A host to worms, maggots, bacteria. It dies in you.
So why bother? Give up the struggle. Life is dead. There remains nothing to fight for. Your purpose has been fulfilled. Propagation mechinization. Now go listen to sad tunes, have a drink of scotch, sit in your simple self-pity...and die. There is no point. That is all.
Tower of Brahma. 62h. Hell is for children (edit)
6/7/10
I pry myself from inside the egg, peel electron layers free from the warm embrace of an alternate reality. The digital dream of my older self was now over, his spirit in the hands of the Prince of Lies, finally at his mercy.
I snap back to my body, the scorched park wide open and tangible all around me. The eggs still sit stacked in an open pit, vulnerable flesh and blood bobbing inside. They lie there, cut off from fantasy, their heartbeats thundering through them as never before.
The devil gives me a vision.
Anthropological devolving, mankind disappearing before my eyes, from meta-post-post-modern (MP2M) to neanderthal, primate/lizard division, amphibious single cell organisms, entwined tails, penis to anus, testes within womb. The balance is restored.
The atom spins wild, rollercoaster centrifuge, colliding on magnetic force field pulls. A vibrational superstring wobbling in the spaces between neutrons, eleven dimensions rippling in the cosmic wind. A freshly laundered sheet, flapping on a clothesline, spring in full bloom as the sun sets.
The end.
Sixty three lives simultaneously...suddenly, cease to exist as each body within each pod ignites with hellfire, scorching the individual inside into ashes in the blink of an eye. I hear a dull screech as the internet dies. The electronic age has become extinct.
I return to my body just as the devil draws me down into his realm.
A void of ash, wind scattered remnants of entire species whipping about us. Every sinner left is gone. All traces of human anatomy has been torched, all souls converted back into bio-electricity, siphoned back out into the fourth dimension.
He scoops up a handful of cinder, remains spilling over the sides of his long slender fingers, and raises his open palm to me. I know that this is me. What I become. My death, or rather the moment just beyond. My final judgment.
And I am to be the judge.
I pry myself from inside the egg, peel electron layers free from the warm embrace of an alternate reality. The digital dream of my older self was now over, his spirit in the hands of the Prince of Lies, finally at his mercy.
I snap back to my body, the scorched park wide open and tangible all around me. The eggs still sit stacked in an open pit, vulnerable flesh and blood bobbing inside. They lie there, cut off from fantasy, their heartbeats thundering through them as never before.
The devil gives me a vision.
Anthropological devolving, mankind disappearing before my eyes, from meta-post-post-modern (MP2M) to neanderthal, primate/lizard division, amphibious single cell organisms, entwined tails, penis to anus, testes within womb. The balance is restored.
The atom spins wild, rollercoaster centrifuge, colliding on magnetic force field pulls. A vibrational superstring wobbling in the spaces between neutrons, eleven dimensions rippling in the cosmic wind. A freshly laundered sheet, flapping on a clothesline, spring in full bloom as the sun sets.
The end.
Sixty three lives simultaneously...suddenly, cease to exist as each body within each pod ignites with hellfire, scorching the individual inside into ashes in the blink of an eye. I hear a dull screech as the internet dies. The electronic age has become extinct.
I return to my body just as the devil draws me down into his realm.
A void of ash, wind scattered remnants of entire species whipping about us. Every sinner left is gone. All traces of human anatomy has been torched, all souls converted back into bio-electricity, siphoned back out into the fourth dimension.
He scoops up a handful of cinder, remains spilling over the sides of his long slender fingers, and raises his open palm to me. I know that this is me. What I become. My death, or rather the moment just beyond. My final judgment.
And I am to be the judge.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Tower of Brahma. 62G. God's Not Home (edit)
5/31/10
"So, now you know why I've got to end it. All of it. Before it goes any further."
I was convincing. Years of running a mass(multi)media empire refined my charisma to a fine edge, capable of stabbing right into your brain like a needle.
But his success has made him weak, out of practice, having bent the remaining humans to his will, their very survival dependent on his vision.
And I'm not him.
Not yet. But I know how he thinks. I know it's not an act of altruism, a heroic deed, like he's trying to pitch it to me. This is a way out. A way not to deal with the consequences of his actions. Even at sixty I still can't own up to responsibility.
"Bullshit. It's all about you. Just tell me the truth."
What does it matter? At this point, the last scene between two living human beings, dialogue zipping between our neurons like electronic telepathy. Our chat room simulation was that of the villain's lair, complete with viewscreen, dome, and throne. A place he could think. Somewhere this desperate future version of myself could hide and scheme to save his soul.
"You know the deal then. It's what landed you here. Forced to handle me. Yourself." His shoulders went slack, he tried to let go, be himself once again, but I saw the tension cling to his muscles.
"You're the one who brought me here, to the future, to the end of all things." I fought to muster up righteous anger. Where was wrath when I needed it?
"Yes. At great expense." Turning towards the background, he produced a thumbcontrol from his pocket.
Click. The walls flickered and vanished. The secret headquarters of the man who kept the devil at bay just ceased to be. In the dark of imagined space, we stood there, not looking at each other.
"Then why do it if you knew I'd come here to stop you? You must have done this when you were me...", my voice was oddly confident, a rumble in my chest like a proud lion.
He spun around, pivot on heeled boots, a whip-crack of an arm, extended finger pointed at me, aimed directly at my brain. He held it as the spotlight popped on, then slid his shadows at me as the beam dropped. Glancing upwards in a snap, sunglasses popped on his face.
"I never succeeded when I was young...", the stabbing tip of his piercing obsidian fingertips darted into my peripheral vision.
My hand whipped up, slapping aside his shadow, spinning his body sideways, he was ready with a cocked back southpaw. I finally make eye contact, and take a good long look at who I really am, what I eventually become.
An old man with a sack full of theatrics. Playing the streetfighting action hero, past his prime, shades of supercool wannabe in every step. Afraid of people so finds a way to be alone. Afraid of not being the most important person in history.
So secure in the idea that he's Jesus, unwilling to believe himself to be Judas. Fame makes strange bedfellows with faith. Not a young man, but still a kid. Damaged goods. He tried and failed to stop the end of all that ever was. I will try and fail.
Therefore I will destroy the universe.
His fist slaps into my palm. FWAPP! I pause the scene just long enough to crack him into pieces. The crinkled bits littered the floor. The burning embers of his remains howled as the digital dirt digested him.
"See you in Hell."
"So, now you know why I've got to end it. All of it. Before it goes any further."
I was convincing. Years of running a mass(multi)media empire refined my charisma to a fine edge, capable of stabbing right into your brain like a needle.
But his success has made him weak, out of practice, having bent the remaining humans to his will, their very survival dependent on his vision.
And I'm not him.
Not yet. But I know how he thinks. I know it's not an act of altruism, a heroic deed, like he's trying to pitch it to me. This is a way out. A way not to deal with the consequences of his actions. Even at sixty I still can't own up to responsibility.
"Bullshit. It's all about you. Just tell me the truth."
What does it matter? At this point, the last scene between two living human beings, dialogue zipping between our neurons like electronic telepathy. Our chat room simulation was that of the villain's lair, complete with viewscreen, dome, and throne. A place he could think. Somewhere this desperate future version of myself could hide and scheme to save his soul.
"You know the deal then. It's what landed you here. Forced to handle me. Yourself." His shoulders went slack, he tried to let go, be himself once again, but I saw the tension cling to his muscles.
"You're the one who brought me here, to the future, to the end of all things." I fought to muster up righteous anger. Where was wrath when I needed it?
"Yes. At great expense." Turning towards the background, he produced a thumbcontrol from his pocket.
Click. The walls flickered and vanished. The secret headquarters of the man who kept the devil at bay just ceased to be. In the dark of imagined space, we stood there, not looking at each other.
"Then why do it if you knew I'd come here to stop you? You must have done this when you were me...", my voice was oddly confident, a rumble in my chest like a proud lion.
He spun around, pivot on heeled boots, a whip-crack of an arm, extended finger pointed at me, aimed directly at my brain. He held it as the spotlight popped on, then slid his shadows at me as the beam dropped. Glancing upwards in a snap, sunglasses popped on his face.
"I never succeeded when I was young...", the stabbing tip of his piercing obsidian fingertips darted into my peripheral vision.
My hand whipped up, slapping aside his shadow, spinning his body sideways, he was ready with a cocked back southpaw. I finally make eye contact, and take a good long look at who I really am, what I eventually become.
An old man with a sack full of theatrics. Playing the streetfighting action hero, past his prime, shades of supercool wannabe in every step. Afraid of people so finds a way to be alone. Afraid of not being the most important person in history.
So secure in the idea that he's Jesus, unwilling to believe himself to be Judas. Fame makes strange bedfellows with faith. Not a young man, but still a kid. Damaged goods. He tried and failed to stop the end of all that ever was. I will try and fail.
Therefore I will destroy the universe.
His fist slaps into my palm. FWAPP! I pause the scene just long enough to crack him into pieces. The crinkled bits littered the floor. The burning embers of his remains howled as the digital dirt digested him.
"See you in Hell."
Monday, April 9, 2012
Tower of Brahma. 62f. Over & Over (edit)
5/24/10
I dove deeper into the system. The web of illusion that these overgrown unborn babies all pretended was reality. They changed the channels on each other, watching private lives that were lies, wish-fulfillment imaginings of personal experience...no more than dramatic reenactments.
There was a hierarchy. A tower to climb. Each flabby, sleeping slob brought me closer to the reason this humanity holdout was able to even exist. How could it keep going? What held it together? Solar powered panels, inter-connectivity, hive mindless entertainment machine.
Why not just let go?
There were scientists, mixed among philosophers, those of us that had answers, or at least a study guide, a rule-book, that made sense of the chaotic cauldron we were birthed in. A step by step reason formula that formed structure around the formless void. They were plugged into a meditative state, pumping knowledge into recording devices, free to ponder and pontificate.
There were theologians. No actual men or women of faith, but historians and scholars, briefed on the great beyond. They too processed bits of data, translated from ancient alphabets, the musings of early mankind. The bold truths that came over told them everything that they already felt.
Fictioneers, fictionauts, falsehood mythmakers, the greatest living writers, story structure specialists, all hammering out a plot that was so precise, they believed it could puncture the essence of all dimensions. This was the armory, letters lined in rows, grouped in paragraphs, given power and purpose.
Destroy the entire thing. Everything. The reality of Earth. The concept of reality. The idea of Heaven and Hell, the Devil, and God itself: these would all die, stuck and bleeding across the higher realm. And if we were lucky, that too would burst apart and be obliterated, and beyond.
Devout disciples drilling into the ether, whipping together adventures, played out before them, for them, by them. Self-satisfying action, the dramas each sprouting a new direction, inspiring each creator to fine tune and edit. There had to be one last story to tell. A final epic where each word died as you read it, a book that evaporates upon absorption of even just one reader.
It must be at the end of this race. For infinity was merely a word for the endless unknown, a word and idea created by man, so therefore irrevocably flawed. There was a cliff, known reality was flat, an edge to carry what was left towards, to jump off of. The bliss of non-existence.
Surely that was better than suffering eternally.
I dove deeper into the system. The web of illusion that these overgrown unborn babies all pretended was reality. They changed the channels on each other, watching private lives that were lies, wish-fulfillment imaginings of personal experience...no more than dramatic reenactments.
There was a hierarchy. A tower to climb. Each flabby, sleeping slob brought me closer to the reason this humanity holdout was able to even exist. How could it keep going? What held it together? Solar powered panels, inter-connectivity, hive mindless entertainment machine.
Why not just let go?
There were scientists, mixed among philosophers, those of us that had answers, or at least a study guide, a rule-book, that made sense of the chaotic cauldron we were birthed in. A step by step reason formula that formed structure around the formless void. They were plugged into a meditative state, pumping knowledge into recording devices, free to ponder and pontificate.
There were theologians. No actual men or women of faith, but historians and scholars, briefed on the great beyond. They too processed bits of data, translated from ancient alphabets, the musings of early mankind. The bold truths that came over told them everything that they already felt.
Fictioneers, fictionauts, falsehood mythmakers, the greatest living writers, story structure specialists, all hammering out a plot that was so precise, they believed it could puncture the essence of all dimensions. This was the armory, letters lined in rows, grouped in paragraphs, given power and purpose.
Destroy the entire thing. Everything. The reality of Earth. The concept of reality. The idea of Heaven and Hell, the Devil, and God itself: these would all die, stuck and bleeding across the higher realm. And if we were lucky, that too would burst apart and be obliterated, and beyond.
Devout disciples drilling into the ether, whipping together adventures, played out before them, for them, by them. Self-satisfying action, the dramas each sprouting a new direction, inspiring each creator to fine tune and edit. There had to be one last story to tell. A final epic where each word died as you read it, a book that evaporates upon absorption of even just one reader.
It must be at the end of this race. For infinity was merely a word for the endless unknown, a word and idea created by man, so therefore irrevocably flawed. There was a cliff, known reality was flat, an edge to carry what was left towards, to jump off of. The bliss of non-existence.
Surely that was better than suffering eternally.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Tower of Brahma. 62e. White Lie Like the Devil pt.1 (edit)
5/17/10
I got inside. Networked my self into one of the oval cocoons sitting in post-apocalyptic Prospect Park. Connected with one of the last sixty four people left alive, if you could call this living.
Naked, encased in gelatinous electrolyte rich ectoplasm, asleep and surfing the world wide web (now no more than a sad server no larger than a message board). They lived digital dreams, recharging and recycling their energies, feeding their personal re-wombs. Safe from Satan.
Or so they thought. I psychically slipped into one, a developer for the wonder material that comprised the skin of these lifesaving eggs. He was granted passage as one of the creators of their salvation. In return for his genius, he plugged in and tuned out. I patched into his video feed.
Brushing his teeth. Shower scene masturbation. Dress for success and off to work. A coffee and bagel as he passes thousands of artificial simulations of the rush hour masses. None of them real, but for the illusion of a real life, a mundane routine, boring living, 9 to 5 workweek humdrum. This is what he wanted.
I rode his signal to the next pasty person floating in goop. This one wired the globules for audio/video, was integral to the development of the interface, and was otherwise completely and utterly a drone. His feed fed him sex in a non-stop loop, penetrating and pontificating upon every manner of persona.
I skipped along a few more technicians and mechanical misanthropes. They all sought some singular simulcra of happiness. Drugs, endless streams of pixellated heroin seeping up into veins. Pain, straps of leather slapping and cracking against electrical inputs that served as skin. There was nothing but self-destruction spread among the saved.
Until I came to a poet. A garden. A gifted lad, living renaissance simplicity, dining in decadent halls, gliding along in suits with maidens at balls, lounging with feather quill pen and parchment, scribbling along for days on end. He sought to uncover the mystery of love eternal, while alone in a bubble.
Next to the poet was the artist, swiping across landscapes, thinking outside the canvass, breaking physics down and reshaping all that was around him. The cosmos came into being as he tipped his finger into the dark infinite, rasterized edges sawing into the endless monitor display. He swapped paintbrushes, hit the airbush tool, added a gradient.
I thought about what art would be with only the artist to gaze upon it, what poetry would sound like with only your own voice to speak it. There would be no audience, no outside force to create meaning or be communicated to. No one there to place a label upon your creation, no pressure to please anyone but yourself.
Most likely a Hell disguised as Heaven.
I got inside. Networked my self into one of the oval cocoons sitting in post-apocalyptic Prospect Park. Connected with one of the last sixty four people left alive, if you could call this living.
Naked, encased in gelatinous electrolyte rich ectoplasm, asleep and surfing the world wide web (now no more than a sad server no larger than a message board). They lived digital dreams, recharging and recycling their energies, feeding their personal re-wombs. Safe from Satan.
Or so they thought. I psychically slipped into one, a developer for the wonder material that comprised the skin of these lifesaving eggs. He was granted passage as one of the creators of their salvation. In return for his genius, he plugged in and tuned out. I patched into his video feed.
Brushing his teeth. Shower scene masturbation. Dress for success and off to work. A coffee and bagel as he passes thousands of artificial simulations of the rush hour masses. None of them real, but for the illusion of a real life, a mundane routine, boring living, 9 to 5 workweek humdrum. This is what he wanted.
I rode his signal to the next pasty person floating in goop. This one wired the globules for audio/video, was integral to the development of the interface, and was otherwise completely and utterly a drone. His feed fed him sex in a non-stop loop, penetrating and pontificating upon every manner of persona.
I skipped along a few more technicians and mechanical misanthropes. They all sought some singular simulcra of happiness. Drugs, endless streams of pixellated heroin seeping up into veins. Pain, straps of leather slapping and cracking against electrical inputs that served as skin. There was nothing but self-destruction spread among the saved.
Until I came to a poet. A garden. A gifted lad, living renaissance simplicity, dining in decadent halls, gliding along in suits with maidens at balls, lounging with feather quill pen and parchment, scribbling along for days on end. He sought to uncover the mystery of love eternal, while alone in a bubble.
Next to the poet was the artist, swiping across landscapes, thinking outside the canvass, breaking physics down and reshaping all that was around him. The cosmos came into being as he tipped his finger into the dark infinite, rasterized edges sawing into the endless monitor display. He swapped paintbrushes, hit the airbush tool, added a gradient.
I thought about what art would be with only the artist to gaze upon it, what poetry would sound like with only your own voice to speak it. There would be no audience, no outside force to create meaning or be communicated to. No one there to place a label upon your creation, no pressure to please anyone but yourself.
Most likely a Hell disguised as Heaven.
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