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Divest the corpses of infants into the epilimnion to rotate their emaciated limbs like filamentous cyanobacteria reorienting themselves, heliotropic, nitrogen-fixing vernal blooms. This is what has superseded and invalidated nursery finger painting the days away. In spring, the endosymbiont organelles of Rhopalodia allow for the fixation of nitrogen too. With lightning, Nitrobacter, Rhizobia, God has almost all he needs to do nothing. Foraminifera will turn the skeletal remains into limestone again, the years coldly effaced to marble. Like the dust of animal bones, dead from anthrax that we cut our heroin with. An end is put to the profligacy of the Republican oligarchs prophesied by Plato. Timocracy ruminating over a thin green veneer, glass ceilings over starvation, sifting, waist-deep through the waste products of genocidal multinational corporations for salvage, or lost children, a lit cigarette loosely dangling from his lip, fixed in place by the adhesion of spit and paper. When scientists got tired of submitting to the every whim of bureaucrats with ulterior agendas, they ran their own tests, and at some point, before the newfangled anarchists corrupted themselves they proved the pseudoplesiomorphy of man and God. And the nihilistic void was too much, schizotypical psychopathy became pathological holy delusion and all started screaming, “Don’t use the term ‘gay’ unless as an acronym for ‘Got AIDS Yet?’” at children holding hands with same-sex pupils on school trips to the junkyard to learn useful knowledge for later life. Margaret Mead had at least elucidated the pathology of our education, or lack thereof, playing with dolls. Mercury was in retrograde when London was razed in nuclear holocaust, but by then we had lost social psychology and all recollection of anything called ‘The Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon’. With the population cutting themselves with biodegradable razor blades to social media feeds, most missed the self-immolation of books at 233 degrees Celsius, 451 Fahrenheit. It was a hot ash cloud summer, choking on exhaust fumes like cigar smoke sucked in too deep. “Analysis paralysis, tetrapharmakos. She wants me more than you want me, so let’s all fuck over my car crash wrist. Grave harmonics. I remember the twenty-third of March, 2015, love and other demons. Serena in the City of Angels, with dead wings of Ephemerids, and pornographic graffiti on concrete.” Vergangenheitsbewaeltigung in Chemnitz, where music is made truly industrially, the metal workings of machines recorded by machines and played on the radio. Pop: ‘Music to Lose Focus To’. Insufficient volume. Multifunctional orifice. Disfigured. Dead. Profit? No more lay years cut with clover. Biodiversity reduced to one. The Anthropocene extinction, where God sends his son to anally rape all our dead bodies and cum in our fucking faces. It is what we deserve.
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Ignacia
05:37
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Ignacia sat on top of the collapsed husband as if to pin him down. Sedated, incapacitated, he could hear, see, and feel everything but his muscles just weren't responding to the maelstrom of signals in the storm of his brain. He knew for sure that they were both going to die, he and his wife. He just wished he could turn his head to the side and gaze one last time into the hazel eyes of the woman he'd loved more than half his life - and maybe reassure her that at least the kids were safe, far away, at least they'd survive, but her gorgeous face was contorted and twisted like a caricature waxwork by Ignacia's cruel handiwork. She called it art. Art that'd make you want to vomit and gouge out your eyes at the same time. You'd never guess how warped the human face can become without falling to pieces. Little did he know that half the reason for her cries was the fact that, splayed out on the lawn of their front garden, she had the perfect view of Henrietta swaying from a noose, naked, bloodied and bruised right in front of the bedroom window bathing in the bright sunlight that lit up the room where she and Charlie had been waiting to surprise them on their thirtieth wedding anniversary with flowers, and champagne, and chocolates, and a dinner reservation overlooking the purple sunset river where all their bodies would eventually be dumped. Henrietta was going to let them be the first to know that she was pregnant with her first child of a husband who jumped off the top of a car park when he got the call from the police that everyone was dead. He'd never know about his child: the baby who forever lies choking in the bloody hole of her belly, a bit like Charlie, dead and bloody in the bath, bludgeoned, his brains all across the ceiling, walls and floor in the adjacent en-suite bathroom, his hands clasped around the stems of eight once-white roses, apart from their new colour, otherwise unchanged. Ignacia reached down her dress and pulled out her favourite blade from her underwear, already dripping wet, and kissed the sticky side before she plunged it deep into his chest, and looking straight into his eyes, kissed his hand, and snapped every finger, watched a single tear fall from his left eye before she grabbed a nearby rock and started the process of breaking every bone in his body. She'd saved the ones in his torso till last, ran to the shed and came back with a sick grin, thick black blood dripping from her mouth, and the old rusty circular saw. When I dared to look over again, she was done. She'd emptied the organs from his torso, and sat in his ribcage. Split agape, she sat inside him, the same cavity that once held the heart now leaking in her mouth, the same cavity that once held the arteries she'd tied into jewellery. She looked like zombie Jesus with a bloody crown of thorns and a matching necklace, and that was her throne as she refocused her gaze on me. His wife had been reaching for his hand the whole time as I glanced down, one hand up inside her, the other pressing down on what was once her symbolically intellectual forehead. She probably could've fought me off and saved herself. I guess she didn't want to abandon her husband or live without him. She couldn't save him. She'd just been grasping for his hand, clawing the dirt with broken fingernails. So I drove an old metal pole through her hand, which quivered for a second then stopped, like a different creature dying all alone. Not a treatment for uterine atony, she’s my post menstrual canvas bitch. I begin the bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy. Congratulations, it’s an organ! I need new eyes. Disgusting human filth. May fear and despair and loathing be everything. The meaning of life? The fine game of nil. When she finally saw the finished piece she began her screaming, and I guess that gave birth to that frantic, desperate frenzy, all other thoughts cast aside as I began the same violent process to stop her screaming. I just kept stabbing and stabbing but it seemed like it'd never end as Ignacia's blue summer dress collected more splatters, which as they dripped down made it look like the swallows were crying the same blood they were drowning in. Her screaming never ended. I just wanted to silence her, but now that's all that's left of me. There's no feeling left, nothing.
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We’ve just slit our wrists and we're slowly, but passionately, making out with bruises over our dead weight eyelids. Crushed between two walls, the blood flows down our forearms, forming little rivulets that grow like vines. So as we die I can't help but feel that we're not taking anything from this world, or anyone, or anything. We're giving back more than we ever could living. Flowers will grow from our grave, uniting our bodies, transcending the paths we razed, searching in desperation through increasing sexual chagrin. We will become the earth, and sky, rain, and eventually the tears of lovers shed on seeing their others adorned in marriage suits, gowns, or whatever people will wear if marriage still exists eight centuries from now. Darling, no one could live so passionately, burn with fire so fervent for so far into the future in these animated bodies. So let's become the animated stars again. The ones they can't see yet, because we're so far away the light won't reach them for another million-and-one years. I said I'd love you till the end of time, hell, I'm going to prove it. My love, I'm sure God poured kerosene over all our souls. What a tragic idea that we should hinder love and social progress for an after-death life, and not live.
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Violinsolo20
07:25
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Absconding Life London, UK
Not-for-profit experimental music project. Any money received by me will go directly to a registered charity of your choice.
If none is specified it will go to this month's charity: The Orchid Project.
Please see the Tumblr post linked below for more information.
P.S. Hello Genevieve, I love you. You are great.
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