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Friends of
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stuck in the world
11/7/01
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stuck
in the world not by pressure, as in a vise, but
adhesion. a sticking to things. an uncomfortable
stickiness made urgent by movements. a tearing apart
by the (inevitable) passing of small and large objects,
to which i was more or less stuck. the skin itself
took on an adhesive quality, all objects passing
with the effect of a plaster pealed painfully from
my person.
it got worse. you see, i was stuck to the mental
objects as well. the passing of mental objects,
slower, more painful and odious. having these bandages
all over, and far too long. the hairs, without an
anchor in the saturated skin, pulled out with a
horrible facility. the small bulbous root making
a soft sucking sound, of unrepresentable horror.
i screamed, as if it were the only thing i knew
how to do.
it would not stop, and it would not speed up. the
things fell apart painfully, pieces of my own flesh,
the tender meat parting like lips, lips burning
with chili sauce, parting in pain, and gasping.
all life is a tearing away, in anguish. with shrieks
and wails. lacan says, every act of speech is a
demand for love. fuck that. every act of speech
is a shriek of terror. gasping, grunting, groaning,
all at once. oh, where did the good thing go. o,
bring it back. o crap. o.
crumbled into screaming bits, i was.
and then it hit me. a great mass of flabby matter.
tons and tons of it. the sound alone, this prolonged
grotesque thumping and plopping. odious in the highest
degree. and it went on for minutes. blind people
at great distances wretched in horror, vomiting
and wailing greatly. gurgled yelps, sonic bubbles
in a sea of barf. shock and disgust in mutual exponential
relationship. accelerating disgust, a rocket lifting
off and headed for light speed where time stops
and you are a frozen lifeless lump hurtling through
infinite empty space, a cold blue head screaming
at infinite volume. but no. it was you, with your
flabbergasted float toys, dropped in a thick wet
gas, flabby and loathesome. a flabby gas slapped
you with its flaps. an obscenity of sound pouring
in your ears like maggots. the sound of your deformed
planet falling into a great ocean of oil, cold oil,
plopping slowly, and irregularly, gushing with many
plops, but slowed down to 1/100th speed. you could
hear satan chuckling through a cracked bullhorn.
and they were all besplattered with flabby matter.
people screamed "oh yuch", each with the voice of
thousands. all glass things shattered. people tore
their own ears off, yanked out their tongues, with
sneers of disgust that spread their faces right
round the backs of their heads. they yanked out
each other's tongues and slapped their faces with
them, slapped people in their faces with their own
goddamn tongues, with others' tongues, with any
old tongue lying about, saying "bad bad", slap slap
slap.
it was all so goddamn silly, i don't know what to
think.
_______________________
NEXT TUESDAY: Primal Scream Crapping, get in touch
with your dark-brown side
ALWAYS: yell at elmo@redbrain.com
A LONG TIME AGO: previous installments of the misanthropic
rocket in the archives
*BONUS* QUOTATION OF KNOWLEDGE:
1977 'E. CRISPIN' Glimpses of Moon iii. 38 'One
spends his working life in a perpetual seascape,
another writing wah-wahs on trumpet parts for people
surfacing in mud-baths into which they have comically
fallen..and so on' (Oxford English Dictionary)
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