existence, the writer knows all too well, all too perpetual. In the sphere of
creative urge, there is only mere interpretation, myths of the mythomaniacal,
places where one assumes the maneuver of doubling, adorning a godlikeness
in a world of nothingness in need of vital construction, or else, a pivotal
refurbishment. And this one, presumably a man, in all his persistent aspiration,
he’ll be murdered during the eve of the final victory which aroused in him a
debt no longer certified as absentee and to maintain and manifest the vague
life he’s survived thus then, thenceforth, henceforth, always to be equally
unfree in irrational force, an unshakable neurosis, suffering from the
appointed Philistines who wrongfully appropriated an era most bitter and
better served to have been forfeited, as an allele with a hot foot, strangleholds
erroneously hypothesized that to be freed, the one desirable of freedom
collapses by way of decapitation. You have to put skin in the game; that said, I
am no longer the young writer who once made slaves of them all and left his
wake of annexation, punch-drunk pussies, bruised and to date, begging again
deep penetration, badges of crimson-spilling avulsions to reinforce their
bombasting of having been had in the worst possible way imaginable. The
other Victorians who came before me smile from their sepulchers and warm
the vacant one engraved with my name.
Every woman I’ve loved has discovered in dire, unfortunate theatrics, to
be loved by me is to be runner-up to what I am and al muses have died with
the fading image of me, drastically realizing to be a muse of the pages I
compose means to be loved and hated simultaneously, idolized, worshiped
and inevitably put out to Pasteur with yesterday’s whores whose vaginal tears
still can be detected on the shaft all future victims will taste. The insalubrious
life all writers sympathetically and uncontrollably lead is a primitive one with
drug-laden semantics, proposed methodology to heal in hypothesis defiant
since Pandora went to her grave refusing to warn the people on earth and the
future generations that was to come, of what the writer would do to
everything in his wake. If there is no chaos, the animal in him will inevitably
create it, if chaos happens to find itself already standing, he’ll play the tune to
make it dance, pyrotechnics so unique with clinical scapegoats are no so
dispassionate to mention, not the slightest power soon at all to be discovered
within, only savagery, cannibalizing his own in written word to extend
longevity. The more he writes, he destroys and the more he destroys, the
greater the ashes to throw into the air and decorate the breeze with the
stench of the deceased made his pen-sword. The map of hysteria should by
now be apparent as the last 19 years o the greatest and most consummate
American writing has been written by these two blood hands because I and I
alone, have proved to be the only artist sure of the commitment to something
both in and outside of myself, stacking skyscraper-high Pyrrhic victories to a
satisfaction so egregious the question of whether enough can be consumed to
cure the bottomless hunger…..
..so let’s be clear on one thing, I do the fucking and a damn good fucking at
that. I harbor not the slightest pity for those at the wrong-end-of-business to
this gargantuan fuck; it could be the most akin to raising the dead through
necromancing immediately following the bullet I’ve driven into their brain
stem and the ones who’ve been executed were not just victims to my own
need for amusement nor a way to get my dick hard; they were examples,
slaughtered in full view of other observing muses, slave to my literature in this
life and the next, that karma, despite the clichés so tremendously repeated by
mindless cliché-entials, is an idle belief; even if the kind, the altruistic and
philanthropist circulate goodness, they remain equal to us all; we all take a
taste of misadventure. What you send out, good or bad, everyone receives the
wrath that is the cost of being a hostage to this existence.
Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Body Canvas]
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