if not the begetter of all things, certainly the hope of all begetting and pleasures. For the rich and especially for the poor. War, you mirror of our sexuality.
I who would have and would be a pirate: I cannot. I who live in my mind which is my imagination as everything – wanderer adventurer fighter Commander-in-Chief of Allied Forces – I am nothing in these times.
Nightmare City
1. The Psychosis Which Resulted From Gonorrhoea
My life began when I had gonorrhoea. I was eighteen years old. Or rather, it began when the gonorrhoea ended, if such things ever end. For the foul disease had completely incapacitated me: I became dependent on other people even for the necessities of life.
I’m now not only useless, as are all human beings and as most human beings, the ones who aren’t rich, believe they are. I’m also physically and mentally damaged because my only desire is to suicide.
I’m living on Chiba. My current fuck is always telling me that I ought to kill myself but, more significantly, that everyone wants to kill me.
‘Who in particular wants to kill me? Why’re you always putting me down?’ I know they want to kill me.
‘Why’re you always starting a war? A man.’
‘My drug supplier?’ I need drugs in order to maintain precarious stability.
‘A man wants to kill you,’ she informed me right after I had orgasmed. Then, I knew.
I didn’t bother saying anything. It’s a policy of mine: Don’t believe in human speech as anything but a stuffer of time. I would, and I would have, run away, but there’s no place to which to run, so the only safety is psychosis and drugs.
Without paying any attention to me, as if I was dead, she continued speaking. ‘Perception has become a philosophical problem.’
Because we had become too close the fuck could read my mind. But I had an answer. ‘It’s possible to perceive yourself just as you’ld perceive anything else,’ I informed her. ‘This is how strippers perceive their bodies.’
‘How can you know about normal people?’ Someone, probably her, had torn out the sleeves of her jumpsuit to her shoulders. The colours of her eyes matched those of her fingernails and of another part of her body.
‘Before I had gonorrhoea I was normal.’ I thought. ‘But now the memory of normal living is only a dream. My business in life has become infantile neurosis. When I was young, over and over again, I dreamed I was being followed. The people following me were bad. I couldn’t run away fast enough to get away from them.’
I didn’t bother telling her the particular dreams because she was just a fuck. Instead I watched her personality fragment, over a period of time, calving like an iceberg or space, splinters of identity drifting away, until finally I saw her raw need, obsession which is addiction. I was scared. I wanted to run away.
‘How do you know they want to kill me?’ I asked.
‘A birdie told me.’
I looked down at a head which was bodiless. Through my shock, I saw it was a head. Or, I remembered. Nothing lasts forever.
Sleep or ease is a priority the way love used to be. Before I was psychotic, before I stopped sleeping, my dreams told me someone was trying to kill me. My fuck told me someone was trying to kill me.
When I reached the bar I was accustomed to, the man behind the bar told me nobody was trying to kill me. Nothing bad was going to happen to me as long as I didn’t fall asleep.
My boss didn’t want to hurt me.
Then the bartender told me that the woman I had been fucking had squelched on me to the boss because, addicted, she needed the money. RAM – whoever that was – would pay her for my death. They were chasing me.
When I fuck women, they always ask me why I don’t trust anyone …
‘Why don’t you trust me?’ spreading her legs.
Since I’m a gentleman, I don’t spit where I should. Even if I don’t know who’s my boss.
I walked into my apartment. Another cunt was pointing a Luger at me. They were chasing me. I could believe the actuality of hatred now it had become an actuality.
‘Who are you? RAM? Are you the ones who’ve been chasing me? Now I know who you are,’ I informed her.
She told me she didn’t work for any bosses, she was a free woman, her name was Abhor. Why should I believe what a cunt tells me?
If reality isn’t my picture of it, I’m lost.
2. Suicide
My mother’s always sick. She doesn’t have any time for me. Nursey takes care of me by sticking a pin through my thigh. I cried so after that she didn’t have much to do with me. I cried because I loved her because she was the only person, that is, cunt, who loved me.
Then, because mommy still wanted me to be dead because she was, they gave me a new nurse. Since this one was English, she was proper and didn’t show (me) any feeling. I decided she was a witch.
As I approached adulthood I learned there are three types of females: dead, dumb, and evil.
My life was a life of separation. I remember. Even when I was growing up life was so boring and unpleasant that living didn’t matter to me. Only children who believe in something bother being evil and worshipping Satan. But I was a good child: I did everything exactly that my English nanny ordered me.
Nanny was an alcoholic. As a child I didn’t understand this. I couldn’t understand why she hated my first nurse. I hated Nanny for hating nursey. I hated Nanny the way children hate: absolutely. As fire burns. Most of my conscious moments were fantasies of burning up parts of Nanny’s body.
I knew I shouldn’t think like this. I knew my whole mind was twisted and perverted. If becoming an adult equals the process of acquiring self-consciousness, my first recognition of my adult self was my perception of my desire to torture and kill. I hated. So they sent Nanny away; I won the first round; but I still knew (remembered) I wanted to kill.
I have preserved my memory of that naughty period.
Since she’s wearing a short T-shirt and ankle socks, the beautiful naked woman looks like a child. A black leather snake which isn’t moving lies on her back. She tries to roll either way across the bed, but can’t because two extremely wide black leather bands, held by thick steel rings to the bed-posts which are far from each other, encase her pink wrists. My sister was my real mother’s and father’s daughter. She tortured me by making me look at drawings depicting lobotomies. These scenes caused me horrible nighmares, for I was sensitive.
I questioned to the point of obsession whether other humans are naturally evil, and if so why.
Unable to answer this question, I prayed to God about whom
