I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
But its all like looking at photos or TV footage of thousands killed by hurricanes or gas attacks in Iraq. It has little effect. Those people have no personalities. Theyre just dead meat. Their only reason for existing is to be there on my TV screen while I eat my dinner. There is no feeling there. None at all.
It is intense, often desperate. The internal landscape is violent upheaval, a wild and ultimately cruel disregard of human individuality, a brazen, high-strung wanting that is absolute and imperishable, no attached to personality, no respecter of boundaries; ending not in sexual climax but in a human tragedy of failed relationships, vengeful bitterness in an aftermath of sexual heat, personality corroded by too much endurance of undesired, habitual intercourse, conflict, a wearing away of vitality in the numbness finally of habit or compulsion or the loneliness of separation. The experience of fucking changes people, so that they are often lost to each other and slowly they are lost to human hope. The pain of having been exposed, so naked, leads to hiding, self-protection, building barricades, emotional and physical alienation or violent retaliation against anyone who gets too close.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with clam leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than loves who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
Cancer is a much more personal death. I love shows on cancer. The victims and their families are so pathetic. Honestly-mothers and relatives and friends all gathered around some dumb saps bed, holding hands and rubbing the soon-to-be-deceaseds arms and legs. I like when people cry. I like to watch. And theres a world of difference between watching someone, say, a sister, bawl over her brother as he rots away from the inside, and a fat, hooded female covered in warts and burlap cry over her son whos died of dysentery as part of some ridiculous mass epidemic. Give me a break. Theyre not people-theyre not even entertainment. Barely a diversion. Its OK as TV, but nothing more.
Sometimes, the skin comes of in sex. The people merge, skinless. The body loses its boundaries. We are each in these separate bodies; and then, with someone and not with someone else, the skin dissolves altogether; and what touches is unspeakably, grotesquely visceral, not inside language or conceptualization, not inside time; raw, blood and fat and muscle and bone, unmediated by form or formal limits. There is no physical distance, no self-consciousness, nothing withdrawn or private or alienated, no existence outside the physical touch. The skin collapses as a boundary-it has no meaning; time is gone-it too has no meaning; there is no outside. Instead, there is necessity, nothing else-being driven, physical immersion in each other but with no experience of each other as separate entities coming together. There is only touch, no boundaries; there is only the nameless experience of physical contact, which is life; there is no solace, except in this contact without it, there is unbearable physical pain, absolute, not lessened by distraction, unreached by normalcy-nearly an amputation, the skin hacked off, slashed open; violent hurt.
Mommy told you to be careful with sharp things, didnt she?
Didnt she?
Answer
What?
Pardon?
Excuse me?
Answer me, now, cunt
SHUT UP!
Cunt.
Why does mommy want you to be careful?
Why?
Because sharp things can cut us right? They hurt us.
If were not careful.
Never eat sharp things.
Put this in your mouth.
Open up.
Open up. Wide.
This wont hurt. I was only kidding. See? Its just a toy. Its just pretend. Its not really sharp. Now open your mouth and see.
Open your fucking mouth, or Ill smash it open.
Now.
Cunt.
Stick this in.
Shut up.
Quit your crying.
And stop your yelling.
Youre giving me a headache.
Shut the fuck up.
Youre getting blood all over the fucking place.
Wipe yourself.
Clean yourself up.
Hurts doesnt it?
Yes, I know, baby. There, there
Shhhh
Shut the fuck up before I fucking rip your head off. You stupid little baby. You wanna chew on another razor blade? Then shut up. Stop crying and yelling and drooling and bleeding and jesus fuck, youre a fucking mess. Fucking pig. You really should have known better. Shut your trap or Ill hit you again.
Ill cut your lip again.
You want me to yank your teeth out?
Ill slice your lips up all over again if you dont stop crying.
This is not going to end, dear. Youre going to be like this for a long time. This isnt going to be any fun-not for you, anyway-so be quiet, starting now. You really are giving me a headache.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then no star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
But its all like looking at photos or TV footage of thousands killed by hurricanes or gas attacks in Iraq. It has little effect. Those people have no personalities. Theyre just dead meat. Their only reason for existing is to be there on my TV screen while I eat my dinner. There is no feeling there. None at all.
It is intense, often desperate. The internal landscape is violent upheaval, a wild and ultimately cruel disregard of human individuality, a brazen, high-strung wanting that is absolute and imperishable, no attached to personality, no respecter of boundaries; ending not in sexual climax but in a human tragedy of failed relationships, vengeful bitterness in an aftermath of sexual heat, personality corroded by too much endurance of undesired, habitual intercourse, conflict, a wearing away of vitality in the numbness finally of habit or compulsion or the loneliness of separation. The experience of fucking changes people, so that they are often lost to each other and slowly they are lost to human hope. The pain of having been exposed, so naked, leads to hiding, self-protection, building barricades, emotional and physical alienation or violent retaliation against anyone who gets too close.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with clam leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than loves who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
Cancer is a much more personal death. I love shows on cancer. The victims and their families are so pathetic. Honestly-mothers and relatives and friends all gathered around some dumb saps bed, holding hands and rubbing the soon-to-be-deceaseds arms and legs. I like when people cry. I like to watch. And theres a world of difference between watching someone, say, a sister, bawl over her brother as he rots away from the inside, and a fat, hooded female covered in warts and burlap cry over her son whos died of dysentery as part of some ridiculous mass epidemic. Give me a break. Theyre not people-theyre not even entertainment. Barely a diversion. Its OK as TV, but nothing more.
Sometimes, the skin comes of in sex. The people merge, skinless. The body loses its boundaries. We are each in these separate bodies; and then, with someone and not with someone else, the skin dissolves altogether; and what touches is unspeakably, grotesquely visceral, not inside language or conceptualization, not inside time; raw, blood and fat and muscle and bone, unmediated by form or formal limits. There is no physical distance, no self-consciousness, nothing withdrawn or private or alienated, no existence outside the physical touch. The skin collapses as a boundary-it has no meaning; time is gone-it too has no meaning; there is no outside. Instead, there is necessity, nothing else-being driven, physical immersion in each other but with no experience of each other as separate entities coming together. There is only touch, no boundaries; there is only the nameless experience of physical contact, which is life; there is no solace, except in this contact without it, there is unbearable physical pain, absolute, not lessened by distraction, unreached by normalcy-nearly an amputation, the skin hacked off, slashed open; violent hurt.
Mommy told you to be careful with sharp things, didnt she?
Didnt she?
Answer
What?
Pardon?
Excuse me?
Answer me, now, cunt
SHUT UP!
Cunt.
Why does mommy want you to be careful?
Why?
Because sharp things can cut us right? They hurt us.
If were not careful.
Never eat sharp things.
Put this in your mouth.
Open up.
Open up. Wide.
This wont hurt. I was only kidding. See? Its just a toy. Its just pretend. Its not really sharp. Now open your mouth and see.
Open your fucking mouth, or Ill smash it open.
Now.
Cunt.
Stick this in.
Shut up.
Quit your crying.
And stop your yelling.
Youre giving me a headache.
Shut the fuck up.
Youre getting blood all over the fucking place.
Wipe yourself.
Clean yourself up.
Hurts doesnt it?
Yes, I know, baby. There, there
Shhhh
Shut the fuck up before I fucking rip your head off. You stupid little baby. You wanna chew on another razor blade? Then shut up. Stop crying and yelling and drooling and bleeding and jesus fuck, youre a fucking mess. Fucking pig. You really should have known better. Shut your trap or Ill hit you again.
Ill cut your lip again.
You want me to yank your teeth out?
Ill slice your lips up all over again if you dont stop crying.
This is not going to end, dear. Youre going to be like this for a long time. This isnt going to be any fun-not for you, anyway-so be quiet, starting now. You really are giving me a headache.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then no star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.