Posted on September 17, 2005 at 23:40:21.
mon*stros*i*ty 55
By M Satai
mon*stros*i*ty 55
I don’t know. The self as police-state. I don’t know. What do I mean when I say anything that I say? There is a flurry of words behind which I hide—behind which I escape: I=It.
Camouflage-nihil. Hiding no-thing.
The text as a zigzag flight through zombie-land.
It’s 5.30am, a Wednesday morning, February 18. There’s a man on the bus off to my left reading the obituaries: all the lives that have come to a full-stop, all the unfinished stories.
On the parkway, driving through the darkness, almost alone on the long black road…what one realizes, suddenly, is that there is really no misery or loss that lasts more than a relatively short and finite time. And if one can overcome the natural full-body inward flinch…there are always ways of escaping the nosedive our lives might take.
This is a comfort, of course. It’s a comfort to realize we aren’t compelled to live, that not only can the whole project be scrapped at any instant, but that it will inevitably be scrapped .
I walk, naked, over frozen fields towards the zombies. Each and every one of us, living, is covered in meat.
Life is suicide.
I don’t know.
In bed that night, after another failed erection, he learns that he’ll have to wear heels and capri pants to work the next morning.
--But everyone will know, he protests weakly.
She playfully tugs on his limp penis.
--But silly, everyone already knows.
The next day, in snug white hip-huggers and open-toed slip-on pumps, he clickety-clacks down the hall between the offices, pushing a little mail-trolley.
His ass, fattening lately, jiggles beneath the thin material of the pants. He stands at the xeorox machine, mindlessly feeding paper into the tray, blushing, as the other girl secretaries and assistants giggle and gawk at him.
{whisper, whisper…}
--He’s getting sorta chubby in the butt, one says.
--I think he’s wearing a bra, says another.
His new boss, an up-and-comer, has him making lunch appointments with his old contacts, fetching coffee for visitors.
During his own lunch-hour, after a hasty meal of cottage cheese and fruit at his deskette in an open cubicle, it’s down to the corner for a touch-up on his weekly pedicure…
You are aware, perhaps, that this is February 19th, a Thursday. It’s 5.10pm.
The sun is setting.
Think of the hospitals: of all the diseased meat taken from people on this very day. They lie on beds, stitched up, groaning, with something missing. And all that stuff missing, taken all together, the diseased mass of it, discolored, lumpy, leaking virulent sauces…what kind of separate being does such a pile comprise, what kind of provisional assemblage do such organs without a body form?
That, I think, would be zombie.
Imagine a dream—a nightmare, really—without a dreamer: a common office stapler, for instance, that suddenly came alive and began eating it’s way across the floor.
You see a woman’s body, nude, by the water-cooler, a row of heavy copper stapled across her belly, slanting across the mastectomy crater of her left chest, piercing her cheek, puncturing the skull bald on one side due to trauma…
Why are you here at this hour of the night? Where is security?
On the other side of the floor, you can hear the sound of chattering, of something machinelike and repetitive, that keeps coming, that seems to know without knowing anything, that can’t be fooled because it cannot think…
Death-machine. Zombie.
Cut to: A jewelry store and a woman looking at diamond engagement rings. Or is that a man, feminized, dressed in skirt and pumps, admiring the sparkle on his pretty finger? Beside him, a balding lawyer-type looks with evident satisfaction at the tranny’s narcissitic self-absorption. He’s pracically licking his lips.
I have such plans for you my darling little faggot…
Cut to: A sushi restaurant and a couple eating what are called “salmon” rolls on the menu, but what everyone suspects is really rolled inside the rice are delicately-sliced strips of human flesh.
How delicious it tastes with wasabi and ginger!
Back in the kitchen, a japanese woman in a kimono designed for restaurant wear, tends to four naked bodies: a pair of teenagers, a housewife, and a man of about 40, all kidnapped randomly. The victims haven’t been shaved and washed yet. The man, lying on his back by the washbasin, has a long blue hose sticking out of his ass, brownish water dripping from the puckered hole. His pale belly is distended.
Cut to: Two bodies sleeping in a bed, in a bedroom, under blankets. The bodies are nearly naked, dark-haired, a man and a woman, ostensibly, but from a certain perspective of distance, increasingly similar, increasingly indistinguishable from each other—one might almost say: identical.
They are curled into each other like twin fetuses, or albino peanuts, like kidneys, perhaps, or some kind of white psychic sex glands. Two bodies dreaming separate dreams.
They could be the next victims of a serial killer, of a killer watching them, reflecting upon them, unseen, like god, even now.
Did I say they were both sleeping? That was a mistake.
One of them is wide awake.