muse: reflection on a thoughtgolem

the twin human impulses are sex and violence.

and you pace and you pace and you pace and you pace and you pace and you pace and you pace

and somehow you get around to thinking it might be better to lie on the carpet, broken and bleeding, ripped eloquently open from navel to ribcage with organs spilling on the ground, heart crushed and wrists broken, hands mangled, eyes torn out, mouth opened in a silent scream as your last breath gurgles away from ruined lungs.

and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace

somehow this would be better than curled up in postcoital glow beside whoever it was last night he was brilliant. somehow this is better; somehow the bleeding and hurting and dying in a grisly, gruesome fashion--we all have fetishes about our own deaths--somehow this is better than the manic repitition of libido gone skew.

and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace

we fetishize things about our own deaths and violence and injury. i always seem to prefer broken wrists, broken ribs, evisceration, with the hands left intact but ineffectual, or perhaps choking to death--blood, blood, blood, blood everywhere, coughing up blood, blood where blood should not be--but never bloody tears, that's far too dramatic.

and pace and pace and pace and pace and you pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace

but either way the rhythm of the fatal violence distracts, the rhythm of the violence distracts, all rhythm distracts; because rhythm appeals to the body--repeat the word often enough and you establish rhythm and abolish meaning, so that obscenity invades our language because it has no meaning, it's the mere rhythm of the words that invite them to settle in at the ends of interjections and as tmetsic invaders in our normal injunctions--rhythm appeals to the body, the rhythm of violence or the rhythm of sex, and thanatos, the death-seeking impulse, invites us to break the rhythm, once and for all, in a final shattering of bones and sundering of flesh and tearing of eyes and tongue and mind.

and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace

so that is why you throw yourself against the iron bars of your cage, and you scream until you are hoarse, because there is no other way out of the libidinous rhythm than through death, no way you can see, no way to leave at peace with yourself, that is why you pace and pace and pace and beat your wrists and bruise yourself and drive yourself in the rhythm of battle and the rhythm of work and any other drum to dance to, so long as you choose the drum and not your body.

and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace

you have been betrayed.


facelessmuse