Empire of the Senseless. Кэти Акер
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The cunt was dead. Afterwards I went down into the tube to wait for her. I had been a travelling man, but now it looked to me like I was to stop travelling. Besides, the tubes didn’t go anywhere. No government sinks money into dead tubes. I stood; I cried: I waited. Nothing. I cried; I cried. I would do anything to have her touch me again even though she was partially human and I hated my own wanting.
I looked for her burial place down there. I looked for the burial place of death. I looked for her whom I wanted. Because I wanted her, she was my demon. Dead and demonic.
Even though I knew she was dead – particles of soil and pieces of garbage and Thames water and whatever else humans are, that is become – I cried for her. I knew she was shit, but I cried because I would do anything to get her back!
(‘Oh sis,’ I cried in silent words which are tears, tears in the fabrics of reality, ‘I will become you: I will become as unreal as you.’)
Pieces of chopped-up snake tail. Using my tail as bait. Fuck me so I can hate you. Children are born by being shovelled out of wolves’ bodies, but who does the shovelling? Are all wolves, therefore, females; are all females, therefore, as vicious as wolves? Tell me, my heart, what reality is.
When I got home, which was like every other home, my love was waiting for me. She wasn’t dead, yet. She looked like a piece of red and dead meat. It was St Valentine’s Day.
She wasn’t dead. ‘I’m on your meat line now,’ I told her.
‘You’re what I make you,’ Abhor said.
Raze
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