Finest

– “The game made me.” –

__

“Isn’t it funny.
Literature makes dystopias.
No one wants to read for twenty hours.
In one film, for two hours.
They could still be fucking.
Dumber dumber.
451.
Talk about metacognition.
Literature is aware of itself.
That’s perfect kharma.”

I think my friend was drunk when he said that. He was well on his way to the liquor bottle, but his head was stuck there. On the point of a sword, or his vision was humanely castrated, when he fell. Knees were cold, likely, in the winter and the coke and the kingpin weathermen. “It’s marinal. It’s barginal. Just grab me, just grab be. Abu.”

He didn’t titillate, as was his manner — he just dove under the cover of liquor tarpaulins, or a mannerism. “Salute me. Salut.” He wasn’t a skyy king, though. That’s what he admitted.

“Is literature self-aware? I am not sure I understand.”

“Writing about writing about the downfall of those who write.

At the same time, those who read stop reading.
Stop writing.
The government wins.
The government is the literature, and that’s the people.”

He knew they were coming for his blood. They had it on every stone goyle’s nose, and he looked at the moon with the dearest fear. He slipped again, and spat on the mirror. Superstitious. “I’m a casket and my ribcage is the quivering desposal bin. I knew them, too, and the lands that cover it.”

“That is very true. Salut.”

“The people stop being people.
From there, you’ve an endless cycle of kharma.”

“I know what you mean now. It is very true. The lakes do lap; coursing, lapping, drinking, eyeballing the moon. That shit. Kidnapped, and lunatic — see, they can’t, not anymore. They’re the broken, we’re the Cajun. Play fair, man. The land is hostile to a king, and the barons tend to flee. Just go. Just river.”

“Good.
That’s the trap we writers have.
There needs to be a new term for this.
‘Trash procrastinators.’
Who writes.
We just boggle so we don’t have to perform labor.
Our spines are fresh.
Our eyes, though.
Never see the world, but make it.
Look how bad it is.
We made that shit?
That’s the end of kharma.
Boom.
Everyone’s nirvana.
The crystal of thought.”

He drew some more. Charcoal, and smokes. His lungs were the plaguewind to his wrists, it seemed. He coughed, he thought, he bled, he concluded. “I’m rabid today. It’s schooltime, and I’ll give everyone the lung-clap. Persia won’t be pleased. I’ll have to drivel again.”

“I think when we write, we’re just interpreting the world and we’re just interpreting ourselves and what space we define within it.”

“For that, we can count.
Try to be a god.
God was the only original motherfucker to ever live.
Lived a long time, too.
From then, we’ve the same stories.
Over, over, plot rehashed and shat upon.”

He was overheathen that night, and his legs were still marked. The dart was bleeding, and the child inside it looked like it was pleasuring itself. It had lost its foot back toward the other end of the path. The piranhas were spitting on it. “He taught us how to sup, you know. Cain taught Abel how to crouch, and they pleasured each other with murder. He smiled, and the cross-pin entered. It had a heaven in his quivering chest.”

“But that’s the only type you’ll ever have because humans will always write about humans. Stevie was a hippie. He had blue eyes, rangy hair. It guarded the forests. It ate the forests, his hair.”

“See?
That’s where the genius needs to be.
Past what we know.
It’s not possible.
There is no genius.
Just piss.
From nothing, that’s god.
That’s genius.
We have chains.
One to two. To nine.
That’s it.”

He pushed up his glasses and derobed. He had lost the gentle touch when he’d been caught; the goyles still watched him walk, watched him quiver. The child lost another foot and it said “Fuck. Salut, mon measure.”

~ by Voodoo on December 15, 2007.