Scum
The smell of my own cum floods the universe. We’re all bathing in it, really. There’s no individuation, really, and it spills over my (pathetic) boundaries. It’s both poison and antidote, depending on who drinks it. I kiss J’s navel and I descend through it into a deep space. Through her I am with Philip Seymour Hoffman in his apartment as he overdoses alone, stroking his flaxen hair (his spirit, you know…). Beauty, sex, drugs. These incarnations, apparitions, that make the male world run and suicidally consume itself, like a coprophagiac or a pica patient. As lust does, for whom even a ghost can never be nourishment. J lived there, and now (maybe) she’s escaped into the realm of the goddess, as opposed to that gnostic realm of the carcinogenic circulation of power, fame, money, etc. (I understand now why certain medieval gnostic sects practiced holy sodomy). J is in the courtroom wearing a sexy black wig that the New York Post comments on. And in an earlier appearance she’s screaming at the judge with pure rage. I won’t spend another fucking night in jail. She’s a miracle, she’s from another planet (the planet for the abolition of all rigidity, death, carceral sadisms, binary delusions, etc.). Her dopey Jewish DJ/drug dealer rich kid boyfriend. The one who killed Philip Seymour Hoffman, for whom the whole world mourns. That New York City world, a strange condensed hallucinatory libidinal concentration camp. Money is its true god. Or is it sex? Or is it money? Or is it sex? (Or is it, as I was told once, an authoritarian compulsion to rape and torture every last remnant of life on Earth?). I always lick a girl’s asshole on the first date if I’m into her. That’s how I know I’m into her. Kill all daddies. Kill all men. Etc. I start to tremble. At first in my legs and then in my whole body, like I’m having an epileptic fit. I start kicking. Licking pussy. Sapphic sacraments. Bolaño and I are in a cafe in Barcelona. He’s smoking and wearing a leather jacket and I’m flirting with him. We’re like hermaphroditic spirits. Celebrate artists and expose frauds, he says. Be a bimbo saboteur. I see a blue-black expressionist ocean in the sky, weltering. Interpret signs. Then R told me…etc. Go to that place no one dares to go, in between matter. In between the matter. The gaps in the stars. The tumors on the moon. The third voyeur in the bedroom. The one who fucks outside. The girl in the grass. The man who fucked a corpse on a beach at night. The cop who sat on the seawall watching him and jerking off. A faggot’s bones in the reliquary. The impotence of great kings. The sadness in the afternoon. Tristesse de la lune, etc. Lipstick on a dick. The cunt in your mind. The goddess Živa. A blue androgynous god appears sitting cross-legged, turbaned and serene. Floating. The alcohol demon is dead. The wailing ghosts of genocide victims (children). I kiss Dzokhar Tsarnaev on the mouth and bring him back to life. The tears of a mother separated from the child by birth. A uterus appears inside me. Now the child is me. I give birth and cum harder than I’ve ever cum, naturally. I’m my own mother. Hormone words, I write from my genitals and from my third eye. “Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions/Who fondles with a light and listless hand/The contour of her breasts before falling asleep.” -Baudelaire.
What Went Wrong
She was a stranger, an image: la perra del futuro, a futurist bitch. I still haven’t decided on the nature of the devil inside me. I idealize (femme) beauty and eroticism to the point of madness. I invite strangers into a delirium in the name of sex, ecstasy, self-exposure, self-flagellation, rearranging our solipsistic guts, etc. But on the walk home alone at night, though we’ve shared something metaphysical and something visceral (the stories of our lives, our so-called vulnerabilities, our nightmares and our lusts, which often amount to the same thing), we’re somehow more strangers than before the first time we met. She said she believed in the word transformation and not revolution, because revolution always takes us back to the beginning, that patriarchal referential delusion. Maybe I haven’t sufficiently queered the Chtulucene, but I’m working on it. She didn’t like my Soviet poster of Castro holding hands with Brezhnev, but to me the joke is in the contrast (between charisma and technocracy or between romance and industry or between dreams and reality, etc). I like to put up weird things in my room, alongside beautiful things, alongside pornographic things, alongside images of horror. She said she felt dirty talking about state politics. We talked about Lemebel and Las Yeguas del Apocalipsis instead. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her I was working on a piece entitled “The Many Coup D’États of Judith Butler in Latin America.” I don’t know if I believe in “the agency of the Cuban people” or in agency in general. I hear a voice saying it’s not glamorous to defend what’s been gained. Well, even I know that, I who worship sex and glamor (not to mention destruction and catastrophe). I hear a voice talking about the poison of academic entrepreneurialism, about lumpen fetishism, about the cynicism and the putrefaction of art, about predators and apocalypse. Wherever imperialists went they brought the sex economy with them, at the end of the day. I’ll always be the tankie in the anarcho-queer commune, I say. I have nowhere else to go anyway besides to utopia or to my own doom. I’ll stick with love, I’ll stick with mental illness. It’s not 1917, the voice says, too many people forget that. But was the summer of 2020 more 1848 than 1968? Maybe it was when I came back from the bathroom after we fucked and I kissed her smelling of vodka, though we’d been drinking beer. I was thirsty. Maybe our energies were misaligned. Maybe she drew the wrong tarot card the next morning, or the right tarot card, the one that said to keep the fuck away from me. Maybe it’s because sex is a dream and dreams never work out, not really. Dreams aren’t meant to work out. Maybe it’s because some people come into our lives in order to haunt us and that’s it. I bring a mixture of tenderness and violence to sex, playfulness and something like Russian roulette. Which is to say I can be a manic-depressive lover, though at times that’s good for an orgasm. Though maybe my dick’s lost its magic. Maybe my dick never had any magic, and in fact no dick has ever had any magic, except in the minds of sick and infantile men who have everything and nothing to lose.