123 lines
7.7 KiB
Plaintext
123 lines
7.7 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... R.I.P.
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by Poppy Z. Brite
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10/31/1997-#341
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__///////\ -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc- /\\\\\\\__
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\\\\\\\/ Everything You Need Since 1986 \///////
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___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___
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|___heal_the_sick___raise_the_dead___cleanse_the_lepers___cast_out_demons___|
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Dear William S. Burroughs,
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We never met while you were alive, but you shaped my way of thinking
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about everything from drugs to jism to prose style to loving my enemies. You
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made me wonder, for all time, what was on the end of my fork. I assumed you
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would live forever, pre-embalmed by the drugs. Tonight you are dead at 83,
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and I figure the least I can do is pen a fantasy about fucking your corpse.
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Pen, yes. This text may eventually appear on a printed page or a
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computer screen, but I am writing the first draft in purple ballpoint, in my
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notebook, because that's the way I did all my writing back when you first got
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your needles into me. 1987, and Michael Spencer and I used to photocopy
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pages from _Naked Lunch_ and hide them inside copies of Billy Graham's and
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Jerry Falwell's autobiographies at the Christian bookstore in Chapel Hill.
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Passages about beautiful boys fucking on a Ferris wheel and shooting their
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jism over the moon.
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Tonight, though, I take the big blue mystery pill that's been hiding in
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my stash for too long. It's an opiate of some sort, and before it began
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dissolving in my stomach it was embossed with the number 6350, which my
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friend David said looked like the year I would wake up if I took it. But I
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just feel all floaty and nice, and soon I am alone with you in the Lawrence,
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Kansas morgue. They've left us to have our moment, the tactful pathologists
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and attendants, because they know that death sometimes needs to be eased
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along with a little pleasure. You might say fucking the dead is one of my
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"kicks." (_You_ might. My generation only uses the work "kick" as a
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transitive verb, e.g., "Don't make me kick your ass, buttmunch.")
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The morgue is small and clean, with that underlying sweet-brown smell I
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remember from the other two I've been fortunate enough to visit. The
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attendants have rolled you out of the cooler and placed your metal gurney
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against the row of sinks -- to provide a backstop for our carnal frolics, I
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guess. You and I are naked, save for one item apiece: you are wearing a
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gray felt hat tilted forward over your eyes; I am wearing a leather hip
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harness with an attached latex cock, black, large, shiny, and (maybe I just
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think so because it's you I'm going to fuck with it) slightly insectile.
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Your body is long, thin, pale, intact (unautopsied, not uncircumcised).
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The faint violet mottling of your fatal heart attack is visible on your
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shoulders and upper chest. Your abdomen is sunken, your ribs rising out of
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its hollow like wings. When I touch you, stroking the graceful arc of those
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ribs, your skin feels loose and soft. Parchment ... silk ... the bazaars of
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Tangiers ...
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I don't feel that you are precisely gone from here, that your body is a
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mere "shell." Nor do I imagine that you are somehow trapped in this meat.
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But death is an endlessly transitory state. I suspect there may be some
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essence left in you. Your cock is flaccid and powdery-tasting, but as I roll
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it around on my tongue, a drop of something bitter leaks out: piss or jism.
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The ultimate orgasm? I don't flatter myself that I'm giving it to you; at
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best, I'm getting Death's sloppy seconds.
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Your hat has slipped off, and I see that your eyes are slitted open.
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They still look as watchful and reptilian as they appear in photos, but now
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they are permanently focused on a point beyond any camera, beyond me and this
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morgue, beyond my big latex cock. I want to kiss you, but am irrationally
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sure that if I do, a centipede will come writhing up from your stomach and
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through your larynx and into your mouth, and it will thrust between my lips
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like a living, chitinous tongue.
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I take you by your jutting hipbones and turn your body over on the
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gurney. You are as light as a box kite. Even your buttocks are hollow, the
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bones as prominent as your shoulderblades. The crack of your ass is hairless
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and immaculate. Your body seems so breakable, I wonder if you were still
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able to bathe yourself. Despite the fact that I am about to sodomize your
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corpse, this thought feels disrespectful.
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As I knead your asscheeks and run my tongue down the sharp nubs of your
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spine, I throb with readiness. You're a beautiful corpse, Bill. Allen
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Ginsberg was a beautiful boy once, but he wasn't really my type after he got
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fat and hairy. You stayed sexy until the end (and past it). I like skinny
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old men.
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I baptize your asshole with my saliva. I kiss it like a mouth, unafraid
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of the centipede at this end. I can't imagine you disapproving of having
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your asshole worshipped. I coat my cock with a handful of industrial-strength
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antibacterial liquid soap and slip it into your unresisting smoothness. You
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are cool inside, shading toward cold.
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In my fantasy, I am the last man to fuck you. My tears fall upon your
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flesh in lieu of jism. You have helped to make a world where this fantasy is
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possible, and maybe even publishable.
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Rest in perversion.
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.-. _ _ .-.
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/ \ .-. ((___)) .-. / \
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/.ooM \ / \ .-. [ x x ] .-. / \ /.ooM \
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-/-------\-------/-----\-----/---\--\ /--/---\-----/-----\-------/-------\-
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/lucky 13\ / \ / `-(' ')-' \ / \ /lucky 13\
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\ / `-' (U) `-' \ /
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`-' the original e-zine `-' _
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Oooo eastside westside / ) __
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/)(\ ( \ WORLDWIDE / ( / \
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\__/ ) / Copyright (c) 1997 cDc communications and the author. \ ) \)(/
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(_/ CULT OF THE DEAD COW is a registered trademark of oooO
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cDc communications, PO Box 53011, Lubbock, TX, 79453, USA. _
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oooO All rights reserved. Edited by Grandmaster Ratte'. __ ( \
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/ ) /)(\ / \ ) \
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\ ( \__/ Save yourself! Go outside! Do something! \)(/ ( /
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\_) xXx BOW to the COW xXx Oooo
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