We are living in the exaggerations of our memories of the future. These are HISTORICAL TIMES. I am in seclusion and I stink. I have not flushed my toilet for days. I have no money and cannot afford to eat. My cock I have abandoned. I can live without it. Tomorrow I will shave my eyebrows and though I am opposed to tattoos and disfigurements I have dreamed that I will not look like a man on the day I die. The skin will be mottled, creamy orange patches on a field of brown. You won’t catch me eating in order to maintain an erection. I am inflated with memories. If I can’t transform light directly into blood I’ll gladly give up sex.
No friends, finally, I have no friends. I’ll be a goner when the real strife begins. I imagine myself nameless, skulking through the streets of New York City on the first day of the depression with a full crop of pimples, cultivated with only minor abomination, the pure song of my alienation. Grime — the filthy air burrowing in, proving me a guardian spirit. How else show my awful love? And my thick hair pulled back so my face is the size of a pea, pocked with seizures, small historical landmarks of a puny planet. Mercury. The Moon, the hazards of cosmic trash. Look at me, I lost my atmosphere. I stripped gravity from my wounded center and prayed the sun to make me fly, pull me off the earth. Oh I have no season, I am a fugitive from rhythm, always behind or always ahead and this alone is sin, I dance when the excrement is not yet wiped away. I piss and brush my teeth simultaneously. And I mean I CAN FLY.
