58 lines
3.1 KiB
Plaintext
58 lines
3.1 KiB
Plaintext
Archive-name: Violent/fearloat.txt
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Archive-author:
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Archive-title: Fear and loathing in my pants..
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It was a day much like any other.. Fuck, it was a day of slow,
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seething boredom. The obtuse quality of sameness; it gyrates
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crazily in one's soul like a schizophrenic dancer. The
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somnambulistic anthem of humanity's quotidian downfall. The relief,
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it comes as pain, and excruciating pleasure so quick as to be
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infinitesimal. The fear that the pleasure will never end transforms
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pain into something greater, something that reaches out and slaps
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the sameness in the face with a big wet cock.
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Yes, the sex. The organ grinding wail of a million bleeding monkeys.
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The clutching of rag doll approximation of love, and the sound of
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tearing cloth.
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When she walked in on my day, the city burned with napalm sex. The
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pleasure was already over by the time I saw her eyes. It had flown
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onto a telephone wire and strangled on the sound of a thousand empty
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voices, proclaiming their existence with inane fucking promises.
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Eyes are mirrors, not windows. Eyes are meant to be torn asunder,
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squamous with blood and pain, and thrown to the floor while the
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naked brain is revealed to the light of day.
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She could have used some makeup. Her face was an impressionist's
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rendering of Hiroshima, rife with decaying culture. Enigmatic
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would be a nice word to use, but the word was purely and lividly,
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"uncouth."
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Nothing moved or worked right on her, she was a fugue among waltzes,
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and her apathy was written in letters of sweat and acne on her face.
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The sex that day, was in the air, thick with exudations of human
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fear, reeking with the feces of souls lost in an age of rape. The
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jubilant wail of triumph never came that day, it never would.
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There was a transaction. It was apparent, naked, cold, unmystery
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that fought with the need for life, however momentary, and life won.
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We went to a hot room a cockroach's run across, and bargained
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clumsily with our lust for the better part of an hour.
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Throughout the night she was rhythm's antithesis. She clutched and
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wailed and bumped like moaning barges of garbage on some stinking
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river. She needed pain tonight to pay for her life. With what
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would the payment be made? More of life, and death. Life
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everlasting was dripping from her sex, pungent with entropy's
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metaphysical funk. Though I was naked and bleeding, she assaulted
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me again and again, her nails ripping skin from my head, my brain
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twisting inside, hoping for death and freedom. Her breasts pummeled
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me with womanhood's giving evil. Every moment was anger captured in
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flesh; mammalian rituals of dissolution.
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When at last the moment of penultimate pain came, I forgot her. I
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forgot her eyes on the floor, staring at me. I forgot the clamor of
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my brain talking, constantly driving me into my inner world of filth
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and blasphemy, my inner temple of biblical figures caked in
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excrement and dried blood.
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I forgot her name.. And she was gone. The sameness closed about me
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with a thunderous stillness, like a shadow of the angel of death.
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And nothing, nothing was different.
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I slept.
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--
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