A mortal weakness
overwhelms, the searing, scolding sun, suckling the energy, the sinister
silence of the horizon pushes Blake into a mere insanity, one of which that
derives from survival; the urge to scream with a monstrous effect, that of a
primal desperation. A despondent baby, twitching, a ubiquitous cold sweat,
shades of dirge filled skies roam the sphere, repressing the rays of the
unbearable sun, mammoth mountains drowning in a darkness, the heat dying,
evaporating, a deathly cold dispersing in the atmosphere, amidst the view of
the never-ending road are the licks of credulous lightening strikes, their rage
flickering in a haunting mute ballet of angry gods. Salvation starts to slim,
Blake is faltering as dear nature and its affects, takes its toll on him. Anton
is near dead, still and ghost-like, his lips are of an azure colour, Blake
observes the brambles and bushes on the road side, his thoughts are of a morbid
decision to perhaps leave dying little Anton behind. He ceases to walk any
longer and falls to his knees, a melancholy shudder pervasively overtakes his
will, a single tear descends, his dead wife’s carcass rots in
an automobile tomb, alone, in a bloodied mess, tangled in scraps of metal and
man-made machinery, Blake negates his tears and ascends from the warm camphor
of the concrete.
--
After the drivel of morning prayers, we perform the sign of the cross
and tend to our breakfast. I begin to feel sick. The intense visions that I
often invoke eat my nerves, the chomping of hungry jaws on their cereals
exacerbate audible chaos, the visions are often like clusters of blurred
colours yet the shades take form of figures, figures so vulgar, so vast and
frightening. I turn dizzy, light headed and cannot adjust to a state of
normalcy:
A rage of voids raping each darker soul(s),
rummaging reds in a vomit coloured orange, figment of brain in cold purples and
neon stabs of aluminous stains forming the beauty of eyes angst in a mortem of
a frenzy ferociously cascading in a reign of fire, sparks of cries, vessels of
flesh bruised in an environment of a violent happening conjuring an organism of
something vigorous albeit furious and confused. A rigour mortis convulsion of
feeling; an awakening of existence, a realisation – a sharp pain in my guts as
if my stomach morphed into a mouth of a hyena, an indigestion of bemusement,
Jesus on the cheap cross looks like nothing disembodied from its primary
meaning, my cereal feels like a torpid obligation, people are splinters left
behind of a failed design like the zebras in the field and the building we are
in is the crocodile hunting under the surface of a muddy, diseased water.
--
Violent azures, seizures of genital red hues
and headless saints, protests of messiahs scream in distortions of invocations
of the sun, dead ash, dawn eyes slit open by blade of a reality in stasis,
mother’s voice like that of a monk’s, praying, flaying skin, rosemary beads in the
flesh of ass, sweat and piss, their cloth shed, naked, vile beasts, a godless
god born in nothing, sexual acts, car crash of piety, deity murder and
cremation of virtue. Pain like electricity from my backside, the making of
blood elicits a hunger; Christ watches this freakish fair, applauses on cue, 28
hits down, Eros lives in my cerebellum, plucking the nerves in conjunction with
my penis and subconscious, not a tear, not one, shadows of necromancy inhabit
the vision, ululating, dancing round a fire that is the violence of my true
nature. 34 hits, I see mother, she bathes my feet in the urine of my excitement,
this transgression, this carnal manifestation wholly due to the flagellation of
my torturers, I cry but not of discomfort but of desire, an awakening, a
summoning of a belief found in the abyss of my spleen. Ennui crucifies with
each blow, 38, 39, 40, Erebus ejaculates…
--
I awake and find
myself strapped into a chair. My vision is blurry, a great comprehensive
confusion distils me, a table in front of me, full of dirt, torn fingernails, a
jaw bone, the odd human finger, portraits of Himmler on the walls, tarot cards
strewn throughout the room, ripped pages of porn; their sexual parts scribbled
out with a fierce biro, there is a pervasive smell of death here and even
though one finds comfort in that, I am afraid, it’s what appears
before me, a silhouette, large, brooding and disgustingly visceral. Light
shines on him, I see him, he looks as if he’s the inner me:
the turmoil, the violence, the lust, the perplexity, the colossus menace that
consumes me.
“Anton. Idiotic
name. Weak and unhuman. How did such a stubborn mess come into this world?” Blake
converses with words of condescension.
“I guess I wasn’t invited to this
world. It’s unfortunate that I have derived from your sickening
seeds.”
“It’s unfortunate that
I did bring you into this world…”
“Only because you
think that this world has only room for one omnipresent being?”
“Omnipresent? Gods
are for children’s books my dear child. You strip away all of that
philosophical afterbirth and we are nothing. Just evolved animals bound in
flesh and blood. Do you really think that the ape thought of Gods and monsters
before the inauguration of the intellect? No. We’re only as real as
the blood on our hands, the victims we create are stains of our existence, that’s truth.”
“Yes, you are an
animal. That is indeed truth, personally, I am not of man, I am devoid of that.
I stand beyond every single one of you.”
Blake laughs,
belittling I.
“So, you’re a God? Son, you
lived in an orphanage all of your childhood, you began the age of adolescence
with Newton which is, suffice to say, a fine introduction to psychopathy.”
'The Origin of Manias' is available here
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