and now for obscure sci fi movie cheese:
the spice extends life
the spice expands consciousness
the spice is vital to space travel
the spice must flow
bitches.
------inspired by Xip's essay------
i think i started because i was so drained of emotion and felt like i still had something dangerous, something poison in me which needed extraction.
i continued because i liked the scabs.
because i was cold and drunk and boring...somehow razors and pain and oozing made me interesting to myself. human, intricate and mortal.
because, later, i hated everything i'd become, the place where i'd looked up from having my dick to the grindstone and realized i'd worked for all the wrong reasons toward an ill-defined goal, one which wasn't in the least valuable to me and even less to anyone else.
because someone liked to watch me do it, looked on with barely contained lust in her eyes as i drew lines in myself with commonplace, cast-off metal.
lusty, damaging, mortal, carnal, steeped in pain-mixed gratification, it became somehow analogous to sex, though more a sort of masturbation and foreplay rather than something done to or in concert with another.
~~~~~~~~--a bit of burgeoning, fictional prose in the same vein. pun intended. ~~~~~~~~~
I remember her vividly, her small gasps of lust from across the room, too frightened to intervene, too far gone in wine and blue poison smoke to think beyond the greater implications of what she was encouraging me, with her silent pleading, to do. I remember the lingering taste of the wine, cheap like the knife smoothly sliding in the skin of my shoulder--across the inside of her skull and down between her thighs. As I bled by my own hand, she bled, grinding, by hers. I could smell her moans and glazed expression from where Id used my voice to nail her to the wall opposite from where I sat cutting, bleeding. Hanging desolate loneliness above her cringing head, shed do anything I merely thought would please or degrade me. I was, after all, pursuing through this some sort of assertion, some affirmation that I indeed still lived within this pretty corpse of hollow, grey nothing.
A barely breathed a word from my lips and shed come swaying, dreaming in the damp light of drunkenness to kneel before me; breasts and breath and virgin skin, a pliant ghost of a girl. Her lust, her approval, her delicate fingers tracing, in my blood, red swirls of adorationthis was life. In this perfectly balanced moment of give and take, she in submission and me bleeding over her lips and into her parasite soulwe found together something we both needed and lacked individually. We completed each other in this malign circle of trading pain for validation.
Different reds, different shades, it seldom ceased to excite me, to bring welling up in me something beautiful, bestial and tragic; something full of barely contained confused hysteria. It was a manifestation, a new bit of evidence screaming in blood and pain, affirming life despite this seeming certainty of mine to the contrary.
In her eyes, I bound myself to her as surely as if Id squeezed my desolate life into her with fervent embraces of love. She knew, I think, how false it was... but didnt care.
-pb
book: carrie's game
music: joy division
the spice extends life
the spice expands consciousness
the spice is vital to space travel
the spice must flow
bitches.
------inspired by Xip's essay------
i think i started because i was so drained of emotion and felt like i still had something dangerous, something poison in me which needed extraction.
i continued because i liked the scabs.
because i was cold and drunk and boring...somehow razors and pain and oozing made me interesting to myself. human, intricate and mortal.
because, later, i hated everything i'd become, the place where i'd looked up from having my dick to the grindstone and realized i'd worked for all the wrong reasons toward an ill-defined goal, one which wasn't in the least valuable to me and even less to anyone else.
because someone liked to watch me do it, looked on with barely contained lust in her eyes as i drew lines in myself with commonplace, cast-off metal.
lusty, damaging, mortal, carnal, steeped in pain-mixed gratification, it became somehow analogous to sex, though more a sort of masturbation and foreplay rather than something done to or in concert with another.
~~~~~~~~--a bit of burgeoning, fictional prose in the same vein. pun intended. ~~~~~~~~~
I remember her vividly, her small gasps of lust from across the room, too frightened to intervene, too far gone in wine and blue poison smoke to think beyond the greater implications of what she was encouraging me, with her silent pleading, to do. I remember the lingering taste of the wine, cheap like the knife smoothly sliding in the skin of my shoulder--across the inside of her skull and down between her thighs. As I bled by my own hand, she bled, grinding, by hers. I could smell her moans and glazed expression from where Id used my voice to nail her to the wall opposite from where I sat cutting, bleeding. Hanging desolate loneliness above her cringing head, shed do anything I merely thought would please or degrade me. I was, after all, pursuing through this some sort of assertion, some affirmation that I indeed still lived within this pretty corpse of hollow, grey nothing.
A barely breathed a word from my lips and shed come swaying, dreaming in the damp light of drunkenness to kneel before me; breasts and breath and virgin skin, a pliant ghost of a girl. Her lust, her approval, her delicate fingers tracing, in my blood, red swirls of adorationthis was life. In this perfectly balanced moment of give and take, she in submission and me bleeding over her lips and into her parasite soulwe found together something we both needed and lacked individually. We completed each other in this malign circle of trading pain for validation.
Different reds, different shades, it seldom ceased to excite me, to bring welling up in me something beautiful, bestial and tragic; something full of barely contained confused hysteria. It was a manifestation, a new bit of evidence screaming in blood and pain, affirming life despite this seeming certainty of mine to the contrary.
In her eyes, I bound myself to her as surely as if Id squeezed my desolate life into her with fervent embraces of love. She knew, I think, how false it was... but didnt care.
-pb
book: carrie's game
music: joy division
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
I never fuck with a man's dream, especially when that dream is one I share. It's no secret why I tucked my tails and ran for engineering school as a wee lad. I was hiding from what I know I was meant to do. Still am. I hope that will change soon. So I understand, believe me.
i know that'll get your back up because i know you're all about pursuing things without hesitation, but some of us weren't born demi-gods, my friend.
You might be surprised about me. The things I write about that give you this impression, I write for myself, as a reminder of what I need to do, or should do, not what I have already done, for the most part. I am about pursuing things without hesitation, but that doesn't mean I am there yet myself.
Your writing "reads" very well, which is very important. It flows. Like a wordier Chuck Palahniuk, or perhaps a more visceral Alice Thompson. Whether you will ever will a pulitzer prize or not I'm unsure, but I truly think you could publish and probably make some money on this stuff. I think it would sell.
The good thing about writing is that it never dies. You have the rest of your life to find your fire, and so it doesn't hurt to build of a stockpile of words now, while you enjoy writing for writing's sake. Emily Dickinson is one of the most lauded poets in history, yet she never published a word of it while she was alive. It's an extreme example, but the point is; write now, because you can't not write, and how you share that with the world will unfold in due time.