like human beings and they’re pretty proud o f it so there’s no
point in pretending they are; though you want to— pretend.
Y o u ’d like to think they could feel something— sad; or
remorse; or something ju st simple, a minute o f recognition.
It’s interesting that yo u ’re so dangerous to them but you
fucking can’t hurt them; how can you be dangerous if you
can’t do harm; I’d like to be able to level them, but you can’t
touch them except to be fucked by them; they get to do it and
then they get to say what it is they’re doing— yo u ’re what
they’re afraid o f but the fear just keeps them coming, it doesn’t
shake them loose or get them o ff you; it’s more like the glue
that keeps them on you; sticky stuff, how afraid the pricks are.
I mean, m aybe they’re not afraid. It sounds so stupid to say
they are, so banal, like making them human anyw ay, like
giving them the insides you wish they had. So what do you
say; they’re just so fucking filled with hate they can’t do
anything else or feel anything else or write anything else? I
mean, do they ever look at the fucking moon? I think all the
sperm they’re spilling is going to have an effect; something’s
going to grow. It’s like they’re planting a whole next
generation o f themselves by sympathetic magic; not that
they’re fucking to have babies; it’s more like they’re rubbing
and heaving and pushing and banging and shoving and
ejaculating like some kind o f voodoo rite so all the sperm will
grow into more them, more boys with more books about how
they got themselves into dirt and got out alive. It’s a thrilling
story, says the dirt they got themselves into. It’s bitterness,
being their filth; they don’t even remember right, you’re not
distinct enough, an amoeba’s more distinct, more individuated; they go home and make it up after they did it for real and
suddenly they ain’t parasites, they’re heroes— big dicks in the
big night taming some rich but underneath it all street dirty
whore, some glamorous thing but underneath filth; I think
even i f you were with them all the time they wouldn’t
remember you day-to-day, it’s like being null and void and
fucked at the same time, I am fucked, therefore I am not.
M aybe I’ll write books about history— prior times, the War o f
1812; not here and now, which is a heartbreaking time, place,
situation, for someone. Y o u ’re nothing to them. I don’t think
they’re afraid. Maybe I’m afraid. The men want to come in; I
hear them outside, banging; they’re banging against the door
with metal things, probably knives; the men around here have
knives; they use knives; I’m familiar with knives; I grew up
around knives; Nino used a knife; I’m not afraid o f knives.
Fear’s a funny thing; you get fucked enough you lose it; or
most o f it; I don’t know w hy that should be per se. It’s all
callouses, not fear, a hard heart, and inside a lot o f death as if
they put it there, delivered it in. And then out o f nowhere you
ju st drown in it, it’s a million tons o f water on you. if I was
afraid o f individual things, normal things— today, tom orrow ,
w hat’s next, w h o ’s on top, what already has transpired that
you can’t quite reach down into to remember— I’d have to
surrender; but it drowns you fast, then it’s gone. I’d like to
surrender; but to whom , where, or do you just put up a white
flag and they take you to throw your body on a pile
somewhere? I don’t believe in it. I think you have to make
them come get you, you don’t volunteer, it’s a matter o f pride.
Who do you turn yourself into and on what terms— hey,
fellow, I’m done but that don’t mean you get to hurt me
more, you have to keep the"deal, I made a deal, I get not to feel
more pain, I’m finished, I’m not fighting you fucks anymore,
I’ll be dead if it’s the w ay to accomplish this transformation
from what I am into being nothing with no pain. But if you get
dead and there’s an afterlife and it’s more o f the same but
worse— I would just die from that. Y ou got all these same
mean motherfuckers around after yo u ’re dead and you got the
God who made it all still messing with you but now up
close— H e’s around. Y o u ’re listening to angels and yo u ’re
not allowed to tell God H e’s one m aggoty bastard; or yo u ’re
running around in circles in hell, imprisoned by your fatal
flaw, instead o f being here on a leash with all your flaws, none
fatal enough, making you a m aggoty piece o f meat. I want
dead to mean dead; all done; finished; quiet; insensate;
nothing; I want it to be peaceful, no me being pushed around
or pushing, I don’t want to feel the worm s crawling on me or
eating me or the cold o f the wet ground or suffocating from
being buried or smothering from being under the ground; or
being stone cold from being dead; I don’t want to feel cold; I
don’t want to be in eternal dark forever stone cold. N othing
by which I mean a pure void, true nonexistence, is different; it
isn’t filled with horror or dread or fear or punishment or pain;
it’s ju st an absence o f being, especially so you don’t have to
think or know anything or figure out how yo u ’re going to eat
or w ho’s going to be on you next. It’s not suffering. I don’t
have suffering in mind; not jo y , not pain— no highs, no lows.
Just not being; not being a citizen wandering around the
universe in a body or loose, ethereal and invisible; or just not
being a citizen here, now, under street lights, all illuminated,
the light shining down. I hate the light shining down— display
yourself, dear, show them; smile, spread your legs, make
suggestive gestures, legs wide open— there’s lots o f ways to sit
or stand with your legs wide open. Which day did God make
light? You think He had the street lights in some big
storeroom in the sky to send down to earth when women
started crawling over sidewalks like cockroaches to stay alive?
I think He did. I think it was part o f the big plan— light those
girls up, give them sallow light, covers pox marks, covers
tracks, covers bruises, good light for covering them up and
showing them at the same time, makes them look grotesque,
just inhuman enough, same species but not really, you can
stick it in but these aren’t creatures that get to come home, not
into a home, not home, not quite the same species, sallow
light, makes them green and grotesque, creatures you put it in,
not female ones o f you, even a fucking rib o f you; you got ones