Posted on September 17, 2005 at 23:33:22.
mon*stros*i*ty 106
By M Satai
mon*stros*i*ty 106
Here she is, dancing in the midst of pornaclypse…
Now it’s today: February 12, a Thursday.
I wake up to banging nails. In this part of the city, the new Afro-centurions have taken over. On a line of wooden crosses, white men are hanging, writhing in agony.
Not yet planted, a man lies on his back on a wooden cross that’s still flat on the ground.
……….I was interrupted by yesterday and I didn’t finish my report of that crucifixion of a dozen or so whites by one of the ruling Afro-Centurion gangs now scattered throughout the necropolis.
Well I don’t feel like talking about it right now, but I’ll no doubt come back to it later.
What happened yesterday to interrupt me? Nothing much. Just a day, like almost all days, filled with hours of pointless busy-work, trivialities, minutae. These are the kind of days they want you to have: the kind of days that cause you to forget about the stroke that’s coming, the clogged arteries, the gutsack full of cancer, the zombies…
I got 2 blowjobs, one in the morning and one at night: what more can you ask for?
This morning it’s February 13. I heard the date on the radio while I was driving south at 6am through the dark, cold, empty streets. Already, I thought to myself, we’ve blown through nearly two months of the new year.
Life passing…
Now I’m on a bus heading north at 7.08am. There’s really nothing to say and although that doesn’t always stop me from saying something…this time it does.
…………………………………………something’s missing here, a passage on another machine. It doesn’t make any difference, not really, but I thought I’d indicate it all the same.
It’s the 14th of February, 9.45am at the moment. I’m sitting in my car, looking at some pine trees. They are the kind of pine trees that look like the ones that grow on the sides of mountains, or that the japanese miniaturize for bonsai.
There’s some leftover snow on the ground. Now I’m looking at a mailbox with a hole in it’s side. It’s nailed to a crooked wooden post with a red balloon tied to it.
The zombies are living here now…you can feel them. It’s like a bomb was dropped here turning the place into an instant “no-man’s land.”
Jim Thompson says: “You can still be polite to people and not give a damn about them.”
That’s good advice, about the best advice you can take…especially in the office, the mall, the freeway, wherever you see them: people, so-called.
Be “polite,” the way you’d be with a poisonous snake or a wolf, or even a rabid squirrel…
It would be an interesting experiment, I think, to drop from a small private plane, thousands of explicit x-rated fliers onto this quiet suburban neighborhood—fliers depicting interracial anal sex, lesbian watersports, 3-somes, gay ponyboys, and extreme S-M falling on dead lawns, getting caught in the shrubberies, drifting over swing-sets and gas grills, coming to rest on patios and pool surfaces….
It’s true, I’m not a proper chronicler, I’m not a paid spokesman, I’m not an accredited source. I’m not on the “approved” reading list: that’s because I’m telling the truth.
What’s the truth? Whatever you don’t want to hear .
I’m writing in secret, under aliases, in abandoned basements and bus stations and all-night diners. I’m a nomad of the keyboard hammering out these reports sitting on park benches or in coffee shops or in parked cars or between sitcoms or errands or whenever everyone is asleep or distracted or otherwise paying me no mind. Then I can slip away: when I’m not being watched, when I’m not pretending to be convinced, or blind, or whatever they want you to pretend…when I’m not making believe I can’t see.
Sometimes I wonder if there aren’t others like me, others that can see, others scribbling away in solititude and secrecy—liquid agents, artists of corrosive graffiti, paradigm terrorists…
All I see is flat-men, walking mirrors, surface soldiers—me, too, that’s what I am: a human being.
Sequentiality…what’s that? In my “real” life, what’s that? Its February 16th now, a Monday.
What happened to February 15th? The sun came up, the sun went down, and in between…a collage of events that add up to a lot of nothing.
On the side of the highway, thousands and thousands of white stones marking the internment camps of the dead. Empty now, after the pornacalypse. So many dead—just think of all the dead. How did we think we could ever contain them all?
When they finally rose up, they swarmed all over everything, overcoming all our defenses and immunities, flooding the malls and office buildings, taking all the tables in Starbucks, looking out from every tv and movie screen. In every x-ray, you could see the dead looking out. Like a cancer cell, they had taken over the whole operation, all the machinery, they had become “it,” or we’d become It. You couldn’t get rid of one without destroying the other anymore.
--This is a suicide mission senor. No one gets out of here alive.
The freedom fighter faithfully straps the bandolier of explosive plague cannisters across his chest. Each cannister filled with holy water. He walks, dead-eyed, into a crowded square of zombies as if staring into the promised land. The headline in tomorrow’s newspaper reads, “Terrorist bomb kills 45.”
--I am a rogue cell. I am the disease and the cure. I am a murder-suicide.
We make jokes passing the graveyard, or don’t look, or don’t mention it at all…as if the blank concrete buildings weren’t…as if the oily black smoke weren’t processing…as if all those monuments meant that what had happened were now only a memory, that it wasn’t all still happening now …
We are the slaves, and among us, the Invisible Ones, culling us for the furnaces, the underearth box-ovens, the entire planet a colonized concentration camp. Do you wonder where injustice and atrocity come from? We are imitating Life.