black magick hustla
21st February 2008, 04:55
I think I secured my one-way ticket to hell with this. I suppose I will see you most of you down there!
---------------
Knight of Faith
She is dead.
The rock in my hand drips with blood. A swift slam against her head, and bam, her lights went out. No mystical magic except beautiful newtonian mechanics.
Now my beautiful Lauren is laying on the grass—dead. Her eyes are rolled back--looking at paradise. No more nightmares in earth, just little mischievous cherubs and God. The string of blood coming out of her head signed her one-way ticket to heaven.
People will never understand this true act of love.
People wouldn't have understood Abraham's willingness to kill his son Issac. Only God is able to understand the knight of faith. Only God is able to understand that the only thing that guides this knight is Love.
I am a knight of faith. The blood dripping from this rock is the testament of my love.
People would always stare at me and Lauren. There is little more scandalous than a sixty four year old theology professor dating a twenty-something graduate student. I could hear the raging sound of universal morality imploding as people, with their god-given mental faculties, would picture an old man fucking a young, nubile body.
“Joseph, I cannot understand the Holy Trinity,” she'd say.
“Me neither,” I'd reply.
Every time we were in bed, we started everything with that conversation.
The typical Christian cannot understand how lust and love can be sinonymous. Adam and Eve were to busy fucking to understand the difference. Imagine, a pair of naked savages that knew nothing except, raw love, penis, vagina, and delicious apples and ananás. The damned fruit of knowledge came with a hefty price: too much civilization, too much language, too many values.
Civilization is the unhealthiest of all ailments.
Lauren and me only knew the love of Adam and Eve. Our relation was permeated with the pristine innocence of savages. In bed, we only knew, raw, naive love: doin' a few lines of coke, just to proceed to fuck.
Coke is bad for my heart.
The Brethen of the Free Spirit thought they couldn't sin. They argued they were one with God. This is what happened when Lauren and me were in bed: unholy, invisible demons become guardian angels. We were baptized countless of times by a combination of blood, sweat, and semen.
Lauren was incredibly beautiful. At first glance, she seemed a little too pale, too skinny, and perhaps a bit on the flat side. Nevertheless, a binge of coke and love makes everything go big.
However, there can't ever be happy happy humanity. Alcoholic bliss always comes with a maudlin hangover.
The hangover slapped me in the face the day I realized I was old. Bones started to hurt, viagra became an imperative. No more brawls, no more crazy nights at the bars. Just a stupid death watching old shows and eating way too little fats and sugars.
No more kicks and giggles, just viagra and memory pills.
“Don't worry, I will always love you, no matter what.” She'd say.
I also loved her. But space-time was closing for me: however it was closing too slowly.
Every time the binge of love and coke came to an end, I would feel that horrible creeping emptiness. I would see her firm, strong body, and then I would picture my wrinkled, old self. People don't understand how hurtful is this. People think its all bliss when an old, corporate bigwig screws some whore. Life is beautiful just at a certain age, afterwards everything goes to hell. Simpletons can't understand Hemingway because they are too immersed in the stupid aesthetic of “life for the sake of life”.
Everytime I felt that emptiness, I wanted to die.
I wanted to pull a Hemingway, a Hunter S. Thompson. Or maybe a Cravan—rent a boat, and die somewhere in the Atlantic. I wanted to feel the beauty of rejecting the survival sickness of being old. I wanted to feel how Paul Lafarge and his wife, Laura Marx, felt when they pursued their mutual promise of joyful suicide. Age, that little devil making sausage meat out of our guts—haunts us until cancer, or a heart attack, kicks in.
Sex was just a temporal paradise; nothing more than goddamn alcoholic bliss. After intercourse would end, I would drop a thousand feet and crash again in earthly hell. Lauren would just open the window to fluffy clouds, cherubs, and God, only to shut it down and break my nose in the process.
Now, there is no Lauren anymore. Just a bloody, carbon chunk in my backyard. I ain't big on organic chemistry, but I suppose the grass is having quite a carbon-feast. Love sometimes comes in a neat package of blood.
Before Lauren somersaulted to Heaven, we had quite a wonderful evening.
We came late to my place. We exchanged the typical small talks: too many hypocritical “How was your day?”, “How is your research paper going...”.
Then, as always, we fucked like only Adam and Eve could. As we screwed, I could hear God whispering to my ear. God murmured that he was exstatic because today, Lauren was going to have a beautiful death. One of those deaths that are mourned by all the Edgar Allan Poes of the earth—with all the Ravens, Annabel Lees, and Eurekas.
After the screwing session, we came right here, to the yard. We sat and had a few cups of wine.
She stared at me for a while.
“Joseph, I can't understand the Holy Trinity!” she exclaimed.
“I don't understand it either,” I sighed.
I thought about the question for a few seconds.
“However, I do have a theory. Its probably just pure speculation though, “ I said.
Lauren's face was filled with joy. She finally would get the answer for that stupid question. The fruit of knowledge was going to fall from the tree, only this time, it was going to fall on her head, smashing her skull and killing her.
“Tell me!”
I pondered for a while.
I started to remember all the instances that caused me the most intense joy. I started to remember drunken rampages in the bar, coke induced hazes in bed, staring at the stars, straight at the eyes of God, and asserting my love for him. I rewinded back to those times when I knew nothing but pure, savage love towards God: the kind of animalistic impulse only seen in the most primitive human beings, that faith that is devoid of stupid commandments or any sort of intellectual activity---just a raw love for that Unknown, for that Great External Object, that thing breathing in your neck, ready to break your skin to have your blood. I intensely remembered when I was a child and I knew no job, no responsabilities, no values—no civilization: only pure subjective play, distilled fun, pure Adam, pure Eve, the days when I didn't feel such an utter disgust for the world, when I didn't feel consuming everything in a giant, nuclear, mushroom cloud, when I didn't feel like a fucking narodnik writing stupid revolutionary catechisms. Happiness kicked in only those little instances when I wasn't thinking, when I wasn't talking, when I was acting as a complete man—one with God, with myself, and with this wretched earth. I pondered about the gift I was preparing for her: a gift of eternal, intense life. A gift not haunted by the stupid dichonomy between construction and destruction. No viagra, lack of sugars, hurting bones, survival sickness, or little devils making sausage meat out of her guts—just the hole in the sky, the shortcut towards heaven.
Let the little fascist inside me desire the aesthetic of death! Let the José Milán in my heart cry “Viva la Muerte!”
¡Que viva la Muerte!
After organizing my thoughts, and carefully processing the question. I finally answered:
“....youth.”
I swiftly lifted the rock besides me and slammed it against her temple.
---------------
Knight of Faith
She is dead.
The rock in my hand drips with blood. A swift slam against her head, and bam, her lights went out. No mystical magic except beautiful newtonian mechanics.
Now my beautiful Lauren is laying on the grass—dead. Her eyes are rolled back--looking at paradise. No more nightmares in earth, just little mischievous cherubs and God. The string of blood coming out of her head signed her one-way ticket to heaven.
People will never understand this true act of love.
People wouldn't have understood Abraham's willingness to kill his son Issac. Only God is able to understand the knight of faith. Only God is able to understand that the only thing that guides this knight is Love.
I am a knight of faith. The blood dripping from this rock is the testament of my love.
People would always stare at me and Lauren. There is little more scandalous than a sixty four year old theology professor dating a twenty-something graduate student. I could hear the raging sound of universal morality imploding as people, with their god-given mental faculties, would picture an old man fucking a young, nubile body.
“Joseph, I cannot understand the Holy Trinity,” she'd say.
“Me neither,” I'd reply.
Every time we were in bed, we started everything with that conversation.
The typical Christian cannot understand how lust and love can be sinonymous. Adam and Eve were to busy fucking to understand the difference. Imagine, a pair of naked savages that knew nothing except, raw love, penis, vagina, and delicious apples and ananás. The damned fruit of knowledge came with a hefty price: too much civilization, too much language, too many values.
Civilization is the unhealthiest of all ailments.
Lauren and me only knew the love of Adam and Eve. Our relation was permeated with the pristine innocence of savages. In bed, we only knew, raw, naive love: doin' a few lines of coke, just to proceed to fuck.
Coke is bad for my heart.
The Brethen of the Free Spirit thought they couldn't sin. They argued they were one with God. This is what happened when Lauren and me were in bed: unholy, invisible demons become guardian angels. We were baptized countless of times by a combination of blood, sweat, and semen.
Lauren was incredibly beautiful. At first glance, she seemed a little too pale, too skinny, and perhaps a bit on the flat side. Nevertheless, a binge of coke and love makes everything go big.
However, there can't ever be happy happy humanity. Alcoholic bliss always comes with a maudlin hangover.
The hangover slapped me in the face the day I realized I was old. Bones started to hurt, viagra became an imperative. No more brawls, no more crazy nights at the bars. Just a stupid death watching old shows and eating way too little fats and sugars.
No more kicks and giggles, just viagra and memory pills.
“Don't worry, I will always love you, no matter what.” She'd say.
I also loved her. But space-time was closing for me: however it was closing too slowly.
Every time the binge of love and coke came to an end, I would feel that horrible creeping emptiness. I would see her firm, strong body, and then I would picture my wrinkled, old self. People don't understand how hurtful is this. People think its all bliss when an old, corporate bigwig screws some whore. Life is beautiful just at a certain age, afterwards everything goes to hell. Simpletons can't understand Hemingway because they are too immersed in the stupid aesthetic of “life for the sake of life”.
Everytime I felt that emptiness, I wanted to die.
I wanted to pull a Hemingway, a Hunter S. Thompson. Or maybe a Cravan—rent a boat, and die somewhere in the Atlantic. I wanted to feel the beauty of rejecting the survival sickness of being old. I wanted to feel how Paul Lafarge and his wife, Laura Marx, felt when they pursued their mutual promise of joyful suicide. Age, that little devil making sausage meat out of our guts—haunts us until cancer, or a heart attack, kicks in.
Sex was just a temporal paradise; nothing more than goddamn alcoholic bliss. After intercourse would end, I would drop a thousand feet and crash again in earthly hell. Lauren would just open the window to fluffy clouds, cherubs, and God, only to shut it down and break my nose in the process.
Now, there is no Lauren anymore. Just a bloody, carbon chunk in my backyard. I ain't big on organic chemistry, but I suppose the grass is having quite a carbon-feast. Love sometimes comes in a neat package of blood.
Before Lauren somersaulted to Heaven, we had quite a wonderful evening.
We came late to my place. We exchanged the typical small talks: too many hypocritical “How was your day?”, “How is your research paper going...”.
Then, as always, we fucked like only Adam and Eve could. As we screwed, I could hear God whispering to my ear. God murmured that he was exstatic because today, Lauren was going to have a beautiful death. One of those deaths that are mourned by all the Edgar Allan Poes of the earth—with all the Ravens, Annabel Lees, and Eurekas.
After the screwing session, we came right here, to the yard. We sat and had a few cups of wine.
She stared at me for a while.
“Joseph, I can't understand the Holy Trinity!” she exclaimed.
“I don't understand it either,” I sighed.
I thought about the question for a few seconds.
“However, I do have a theory. Its probably just pure speculation though, “ I said.
Lauren's face was filled with joy. She finally would get the answer for that stupid question. The fruit of knowledge was going to fall from the tree, only this time, it was going to fall on her head, smashing her skull and killing her.
“Tell me!”
I pondered for a while.
I started to remember all the instances that caused me the most intense joy. I started to remember drunken rampages in the bar, coke induced hazes in bed, staring at the stars, straight at the eyes of God, and asserting my love for him. I rewinded back to those times when I knew nothing but pure, savage love towards God: the kind of animalistic impulse only seen in the most primitive human beings, that faith that is devoid of stupid commandments or any sort of intellectual activity---just a raw love for that Unknown, for that Great External Object, that thing breathing in your neck, ready to break your skin to have your blood. I intensely remembered when I was a child and I knew no job, no responsabilities, no values—no civilization: only pure subjective play, distilled fun, pure Adam, pure Eve, the days when I didn't feel such an utter disgust for the world, when I didn't feel consuming everything in a giant, nuclear, mushroom cloud, when I didn't feel like a fucking narodnik writing stupid revolutionary catechisms. Happiness kicked in only those little instances when I wasn't thinking, when I wasn't talking, when I was acting as a complete man—one with God, with myself, and with this wretched earth. I pondered about the gift I was preparing for her: a gift of eternal, intense life. A gift not haunted by the stupid dichonomy between construction and destruction. No viagra, lack of sugars, hurting bones, survival sickness, or little devils making sausage meat out of her guts—just the hole in the sky, the shortcut towards heaven.
Let the little fascist inside me desire the aesthetic of death! Let the José Milán in my heart cry “Viva la Muerte!”
¡Que viva la Muerte!
After organizing my thoughts, and carefully processing the question. I finally answered:
“....youth.”
I swiftly lifted the rock besides me and slammed it against her temple.