Black poisonous bile seething through my veins, calling to me in my sleep, you open diplomatic channels through a plenipotentiary: the jugular, pressed against my pillow, establishing connection with the ear. Millions of unsifted microplastics act as a disruptive fifth column. I long ago lost myself, somewhere in scorn's burning miasma. What remains is a sickness engorging itself on my innards, eating its way out from the inside. My body shudders and collapses from its pulsating rot, at times I am consumed by a hideous laughing-flood; it bellows from a proto-physical drive that has made some evil pact with the mad black decay within.
It erupts at tragedy, sends me into a fit of delirium, a mockery that starts and ends in ego-death: annihilation. Sleepless eyes guided by a paranoid conscience scan the laments of a perceived enemy, the poison swells up and tickles the larynx, and a flood of haw-haws pours forth. I delight in suffering, and I make no division between myself and my neighbor. The blight inside, I can see, leaves its sludge in any unlucky soul that happens upon me, and yet the most plagued are those that have done all they could to uncouple themselves from this corpse I call mine and the toxic cyclone therein.
I realized long ago that I have entered into a society of grandmasters initiated in an artistry of metaphysical defilement — something within us all calls for torment unchained, flowing like water through the nearest, most readily available crevices — a high command educated in an esoteric Clausewitzian current once only available to the foremost intelligence agencies of the USian Empire. Psychological sorcery sends a full frontal assault forth on the psyches of vulnerable individuals, clawed waves, contra-reikis, dissonant energies unleashed on the unwilling. There is no planning ahead in the war room, all marshals are educated in a sinister dharma that affirms one's entitlement to action but not its fruits. Some skirmishes end in the enemy's suicide, others end in a zombification that inevitably leads to their enlistment or impressment.
This particular victim that falls under my gaze, my own personal pet project after my reincarnation-in-scorn, has fallen to the latter, joining the invisible war room, becoming a cadre of an invisible party, platforming both thanatos and the reproduction of a trauma virus. Whatever churns in her, whatever churns in me, is hostile to all human life, it begs to break with that moniker, and it desires something that escapes my feeble mind. I can only feed it and hope that my metamorphosis grants me the same annihilation found in my bursts of disturbed, nervous, sickening laughter.
I find myself in league with monsters bent on consumption, opulence, beauty, and transgression. The heads of Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin, and Mao disintegrate and spill into each other, as if splashed with acid, leaving behind anonymous skeletons, then recast into a venerable assembly of past chairmen of the Invisible Party: Dionysus, Gilles de Rais, Marquis de Sade, Ballard, Bataille, Land, and yet I can't help but indulge in hero-worship more abhorrent than the most diehard Marxist-Leninists. I can’t help but add more and more heads, one-by-one, until an entire field of decapitated philosophers, artists, deities, nobles, and authors are impaled side-by-side, arranged in a veritable regiment of death. I can’t help but to behead. Until all the world is populated by a decapitated citizenry, I must strive, like the sans-culotte Sade praises, to stay vigilant against the encroachment of stratifying heads, phallus-tips, and tumescent (that is, upright) citizenries of puritanical light.
I let one final giggle escape and crown it a hymn of adoration to my work, my bag-of-nerves, shuddering, face flushed in alcohol and embarrassment, clinging for dear life onto the smallest shred of love, which soon turns black and gooey under a palm that mimics Midas but trips, stumbles, and falls face-first into concrete. She is beautiful! My defiled Shekinah!
The disease spreads and I am content. Heads fall and all is well. How rotten was the French Revolution, how right for the Chouannerie to take up arms against it, and how entropic of them to fail. Ours is a project subterranean, reptilian, and hostile to all notions and values that fall under the umbrella term 'Human.' Robespierre's forked tongue flicks and spits, Mephistopheles dances with no inhibition, and Toussaint Louverture migrates his consciousness into a gestalt machine intelligence.
Liberté!
Egalité!
Fraternité!
..........Dans............................................................la............ . .
........................ .mort!