Paul Curran

THE OPPOSITE

2012-01-27T05:19:00.000-08:00

The lyrics to Bon Jovi's motivational soft-rock classic 'LIVIN ON A PRAYER' give out a conflicting message. I don't understand. 'It doesn't really matter if we make it or not' is followed by 'Take my hand and we'll make it I swear.' I don't see the problem. We are going to kill this kid. But it doesn't matter if we kill him or not. That kind of thinking is not very motivational. We made a pact to kill kids who are into soft rock. And rape them. That's different. Let's smash his back until he sucks his own cock. Can you imagine what that will sound like? When you say it I imagine a cartoon. But when I think about it more it seems real. I'm the opposite.

SHOOT ME HAPPY

2012-01-19T01:27:00.000-08:00

ABSENCE

2012-01-10T01:27:00.000-08:00

Then if you're watching this the obvious has happened and you already know enough details to relieve me of the duty to inform. I wonder how they told you. Not the words they used. The most uninteresting thing about language is its ability to endlessly rearrange a finite number of clichés. The tone. The body language. The padding and the diversions. They are trained in useful things like that. Still it must be difficult. They must take it out somewhere. Or maybe you saw it on the internet before they made it official. I won't be posting this but whoever finds it might gain something from a leak. This morning in the park I saw a robin. It bounced along the bench I was sitting on and perched next to my shoulder. That has never happened to me before. I didn't have any bread or anything to give it. I didn't whistle at it or make any noise. It being there wasn't a sign. Or I didn't read it as a sign. But still it made me cry. I usually only cry about things on TV. The serious scenes in sitcoms leave me weeping. Commercials about products to overcome dandruff or obesity force me foetal on the couch.

I'm writing this down to make sure that after it's happened and I'm filming myself I've got a script to follow although I'm not sure how strictly I'll be able to stick to it or in what state of unison my voice and body parts will be operating. I saw on some website that people become unusually calm when they've made an irreversible decision and even calmer after it's been acted upon. I'm not unusually calm. I am calm though. At the moment I'm calm enough to sit here writing these words. But I'm not sure how these words will come across after it's done. I might be gibbering, crying, swearing, or laughing in the gaps between every syllable. I might be acting so cool and robotic behind the text that it comes off as more totally fucked up than calm. I might be adding unnecessarily gruesome and obscene details. I might be masturbating as I add those unnecessarily gruesome and obscene details. This might be because I'm freaking out, dodging everything around each sentence, and desperately trying to cover up what I've done with insanity or denial because of all that stuff about no way to go back. I might be ecstatic and filled with revelations that I want to share with the world. I might be in shock and just repeating one word from the whatever many hundred here. I might not be able to say or do anything. If that's the case I hope at least to be holding up this text.

Most of all I want you to believe I take full responsibility for the actions of my body parts. I also want to tell you that my choice was based on random convenience. There was nothing you did in your life to bring us together. I might have enjoyed what I did or I might have hated it or I might have felt a million different things that I don't understand. All I know at the moment is that I'm going to do it. And like I said before if you are hearing these words it has been done. Grammar and time are weird. I can't think about how it was for the other side. It could have been quick and easy or slow and painful. I don't want to brag or torment you. I'm either dead too or in a self-induced catatonic state. I've learnt how to do that. I am sorry. Not for what I've done. But for not being able to offer a satisfactory explanation. Those lines are closed.

CULT-READY

2012-01-05T04:56:00.000-08:00

THIS IS NOT A BLOG

2011-12-30T11:37:00.000-08:00

"This blog doesn't suck. It's not even a blog. It's a wall of shit that oscillates between juvenile and pretentious masquerading as experimental transgressive art."

"Let's find Paul Curran and fuck him up. Show him what it's really like to be raped tortured murdered dismembered etc."

"Which Paul Curran do you mean?"

"Don't start that poststructuralist shit."

"Let's climb into his penis with some explosives and wait until he jerks off over some sick shit porn and then detonate the explosives when he's about to come so we get shot out of here once and for all."

"That's the best idea ever. But what if he doesn't have a penis and is more like a polymorphically perverse blob?"

"Don't derail my narrative drive just yet."

"But you know I suffer from travel sickness narcolepsy insomnia apotemnophilia kleptomania schizophrenia and countless other as yet unnamed conditions."

"Take a couple of these."

"Where are we?"

"The belly of the beast."

"What's that sound?"

"He's about to come."

"Where's the explosives?"

"I thought you brought them."

"Where are we?"

"I think the narcissistic bastard was sucking his own penis through a glory hole."

"How is that even possible?"

"This blog doesn't suck. It's the greatest thing ever. It's like a portal into another dimension."

"Let's rob a bank and then find Paul Curran and give him all the money."

"That's the best idea ever."

"What's that sound?"

"He's about to come."

"Where's the explosives?"

"I thought we were going to rob a bank."

"That was a trick."

"Where are we?"

"Maybe outside the symbolic order."

"I don't think so."

"Maybe beyond the wheel of existence."

"I thought you had to get reincarnated."

"Maybe you just have to want it enough."

"When we're having sex I forget where I am."

"Me too."

=

SUPER POWERED NOTHINGNESS

2011-12-23T15:02:00.000-08:00

We are thought. City. Dynamically between paradoxes. The pornography of being. Writing should not interpret the outside when copying the writer of things where the depressed or worried system becomes pathology. Passing her the condom. Believing bewitchment from the shade of her hair. After the soldier had the girl in order to achieve those relationships everyone remained conscious of playing with buried things. These public texts took her feet and hands completely. The problem of nonexistence requires the space of pornography. Perhaps I killed her. Perhaps that sickness remembers. I didn't wash my head. I believe in moving to obtain unlimited change. The brain carries unprocessed screens and classifies activity based on stimulus from the external environment. Behaviour fits patterns of circumstance placed next to insanity. Pornography is fixed between internal organisation systems. All process returns to nonexistence. A soldier protecting the road goes around firing in every direction. I met her for coffee on a freight train at midnight,several parts regrettable, love calling to her. I was a writer. There are no words that explain what I have done. The nerve cells I love do not exist in the feedback loop of everyone with vision. Small villages were killed and entire cities completely destroyed by specification of the genre. Perhaps pornography is the prize of language. I held her hand, my hand, in standardisation of this context. I questioned my writing and discovered control processes, selective systems, and raw materials that others recognised without explanation. My life is the plural. We are this model. Good even. Excessively pointless and lucid. I can write things. Pornography simplified in spite of method and dialectic integration. I draw words in outer space. You must come slowly at night and work hard until the end. This is control abstraction. Panic and worry. I tied the edge of the knot, lowered her onto the bed, pulled strongly, tied her feet, dragged my cigarette along her elbow, and made a cross. I like transcendental beings driven on parallels several removes from the mountain of slaughtered bodies. I separated her head from her person, a little, dampened a towel in cold water, dampened her hair, and poured coffee imagepraise between her lips. I spoke in order to ask the writer to transmit the details of the rape. The soldier soaked in gasoline burnt and raped tens of thousands of young people. Their smiles were inflated with the abrupt feeling of freedom. It meant we spoke together to forget that night of somewhere as our voices have forgotten, whispered, excessively slow, and tired. She looked at that surface atrophied again in the shadow. I knew that she was waiting. Her smile had been crossed out. It struggled simultaneously. Did I ask for that shit? Nonexistence is especially used as a state of all nonexistence. Long hard kisses, kisses, kisses. Baby. The baby dying. But that was feeling. She was quiet. The next day they tried to murder the cell membranes gathered with the origins of desire in a hypothetical world. She struck me so strongly. I failed to wash. Murder went to my chest. She trembled. She kissed me. She tied my clothing to her skin. We moved down a blood river, cell membranes, and motorcycles. The girl was beautiful. The brake was pulled. Collision dowse button. The land was shouting specific channels of freedom or fantasy or pornography. The clock during the morning slowedthe method of being executed. The method of execution. Love is complicated. This story and the space of the organism inside this story differ completely. We are all removed from consideration. But nothing differs from space. The person who was tried because of physics, a mental action, the soldier who killed the baby with a bayonet. He lived in a pot of the boiling water. I grasped her wrist and overwhelmed her. I thought she understood. The letter was written. In order for this to happen, there must be space, space, space, space, space, space. Otherwise, the world freezes. The girl with blonde hair. I stumble to one side because of characteristic infections. She wobbled, continued to wobble. I picked up her knees under her jaw. I felt a little displeasure. Why can't some people resist murder or suicide? It attaches to what is not actuality. She stands and looks at a harder ideology. All feeling works through the thought system. But perhaps when I raped her, and looked at her as a woman, broken into pieces through the disappearance of existence, I thought exactly of her.

I EXERCISE NO AGENCY (STATISTICAL TABULATION OF DIAGNOSTIC FEATURES)

2011-12-20T05:22:00.000-08:00

"Your cock is fine then?"
- - - - He nodded and stroked her hair.
- - - - She turned the camera upside down.
- - - - He wiped the blood from her face and the camera. He turned around.

He looked at her.
- - - - She grinned.
- - - - He rubbed his eyes. He was panting.
- - - - She yawned. She glanced at him. She rubbed her breasts.
- - - - He held up both his hands.
- - - - She nodded and said, "Four days."

He took the gun out of her cunt. He watched her mouth yawning.
- - - - She asked for her phone. She walked over to the door.
- - - - He rubbed his eyes.
- - - - "You don't smoke," she said.
- - - - He was carrying a plastic bag.
- - - - "I'm serious."
- - - - "Thank you."
- - - - She shrugged.

"What's happened to you?"
- - - - He gave her the camera.
- - - - She opened the curtains. She coughed.
- - - - He took out his passport.
- - - - She massaged her throat.

He walked back to the table.
- - - - She picked up the camera.
- - - - He complained about the weather. "I need some water," he said.
- - - - She opened her mouth.
- - - - He asked for a nurse.
- - - - She found a nurse.

NEGLECT

2011-12-09T01:16:00.000-08:00

I start this post using three dice. This post is the antithesis of this post. We are this post. This post is transsexual. This post is an external wound dividing chronic brain psychosis. I have not read this post. This post denies the life of this post. It repeats itself in this post. I need this post. An extreme psychotic brain post is generally abnormal. I start this post again.

This motel room becomes clean. I need this motel room. This post is semen on the walls of this motel room. This box of paper is this post. The voices in this box of paper deny each other. I am the reader of this post. This post divides thought like a blood show.

This post is a song. This paradoxical post is a falsehood completely. I do not write this post. This post is incomplete. Other parts of my body write this post. This post will kill me one day. The language in this post is morphine in a white motel room. This post is this post.

I read the first edition of this post. In bed I write this post. My thoughts are disconnected from this post. This post is divided.

When a limb is written into the wrong body, the body should do something unwritten. I tell this limb it is not from this post. This limb becomes an exclusively dejected episode. I remember writing with this limb in high school and university. This limb is not unique. This limb is impossible. My father reads and corrects this post. This limb kills his body. I give this limb to my psychiatrist. My psychiatrist gives this limb to his psychiatrist. I begin this post again. New technology will make this post better.

I obtain this motel room. This motel room is inevitable. I shut my entire body inside this post. I do not support this post. There is no post remaining to read.

This post grows connected to things overcome.

The writer is the reader of this post. I have not read this post. If being this post must be an explanation for this post then that is all there is to say about this post.

This post has sexual intercourse with dead bodies.

A certain brain post happens whichever the form. This post is deeply inveterate maladaptive. I cannot read the same post twice. I cannot read the same post once. This post is an abstract concept. I write this post. This post is a simple hallucination. This post is a game. I have sexual intercourse with this post. This post is posted. This post takes my limbs and brain completely. We return to this motel room. Room of motel.

THE BEDROOM SHUTTERS SMELL LIKE PHARMACY

2011-10-21T15:13:00.000-07:00

A fence in the woods leads to a house. The roof is painted in a collection of my former fiction. There is a group of characters getting together in a tropical circle. I raise a toast to escaping gravity and sentence rearrangement. A tuck arrives with dead bodies washed up on the beach.

I move to the washroom in a state of speechlessness and find a cold water device and a paper cup. A couple are screwing foolish on a cardboard box and others are gloving milky lotion through fingers and hair. The washroom mirror is forgotten, removed, replaced by concrete lump combinations. A bulb explodes and a brick goes through a window.

I insert many things into many bodies, fat cavities, granite spaces, and then I write out the meaningless insights that these exercises produce. A girl cuts her wrists. Her throat makes a mosquito sound. She bows her head. A fireworks exhibition goes off. Something happens to my foot.

A TV is playing a documentary about the Russian space bureau. I close my eyes and concentrate on tactical senses of self-deprecation. I believe writing fiction crushes TV intelligence and knowledge into cicada noise and everything you think is concealment of some ridiculous behaviour like gluing fungus on the road in order to obtain balance.

My sentences hesitate outside structural prose bodies setting each point in time as a form of intimacy. A group of boys covered in blood on the grass, the cement, a private road, jacking off over burnt-out cars.

The bedroom shutters smell like pharmacy. I decide to drop neutrality and remoteness and become sensitive to lived feelings and responses. A boy crawls alongside the bed, barely simulating the influence of method. I grasp the boy's hair and angle gunshot meat tears and redness all over the place. A detached narrative voice passes between us, through urine and plastic sheets, overflowing and grinding.

JACKET 2

2011-10-19T02:01:00.000-07:00

I never knew you liked sequels.

I still miss you.

I'd rather fuck your corpse.

This sounds like the same plot.

For real. And metaphorically.

Have you ever had sex in a supermarket?

For real. And metaphorically.

This sounds like the same plot.

I never knew you liked sequels.

You can have my jacket.

For real. And metaphorically.

Have you ever had sex in a supermarket?

Which one?

Remember that kid we met on the internet and dumped in the desert?

Which one?

As long as you don't come on my jacket.

Which one?

I never knew you liked sequels.

My cock is still raw from fucking the new holes you dug out.

As long as you don't come on my jacket.

This sounds like the same plot.

Which one?

I'm going to fake my own death and collect the insurance.

This sounds like the same plot.

But sometimes I still miss her. Sometimes I still wish I'd thought about everything more back then. Sometimes all I want is to go back and for things to turn out better. Sometimes I still want to see her again, but I know that if I did there would be nothing good about it.

For real. And metaphorically.

You can have my jacket.

This sounds like the same plot.

I never knew you liked sequels.

As long as you don't come on my jacket.

You can have my jacket.

Which one?

I don't even feel bad about it.

Remember that kid we met on the internet and dumped in the desert?

I don't even feel bad about it.

Which one?

Remember that kid we met on the internet and dumped in the desert?

I'm going to fake my own death and collect the insurance.

This sounds like the same plot.

Have you ever had sex in a supermarket?

For real. And metaphorically.

I'd rather fuck your corpse.

I'm going to fake my own death and collect the insurance.

I still miss you.

I'd rather fuck your corpse.

Have you ever had sex in a supermarket?

As long as you don't come on my jacket.

This sounds like the same plot.

I'm going to fake my own death and collect the insurance.

For real. And metaphorically.

Do you still miss me?

I guess I'll never know.

Have you ever had sex in a supermarket?

For real. And metaphorically.

This sounds like the same plot.

For real. And metaphorically.

You can have my jacket.

I mean literally.

LINES

2011-10-13T14:54:00.000-07:00

My hands feel like they're getting larger and larger again at the bus station I'm following a girl with messy hair and thinking this can only go one way. It's dark of course, the middle of the night, not that time or light matter, so I shouldn't have mentioned them, and forget that I did if you think it will help, although you probably can't, so maybe they do. A phone rings and someone says yep, hello, erm. I'm bumping into people because my eyes are focused on what to say next. I'm not following anyone. I never have. I'm jerking off in an internet cafe and soap bubbles that smell like a girl from school are pouring from my hands. She was diabetic and her boyfriend died in a car crash. She got a day off for the funeral and returned to school with this untouchable aura that only jerking off over could breach. I'm actually outside that internet cafe now. It's closed down. I know cigarettes are a lazy metaphor, but I think this one's done.

WESTERN INDUSTRIAL ESTATE

2011-10-04T15:19:00.000-07:00

(Inspired by Dennis Cooper's 'French Hole')

If neurosis is hypochondriacal, then you are not this damaged thing, gushing letter psychology, and detective methodology, but the cream you apply that is cool and makes the bite marks disappear.

You tell me to wait on the balcony. I follow inside the house. We play shadow puppets on the walls. Can't sleep for fucking. Count a hundred shooting stars describing as many regrets. Watch the rain coming in from the ocean, first drops punching holes in the sand, then hammering the bay. Trees so green in the morning as if the colour has been touched up. A bulldozer knocking them down. This set being recycled.

A country on the waves in the distance like a leaf in a swimming pool. A large metal object in a clearing. The metal twisted and broken. A wheel sticking out of the ground. A propeller wedged between two rocks. Glass and blood and everything else. I get in a taxi. The driver knows my name. He occupies an alcoholic brain high on language. His radio reports murder. Bodies buried in the sand. The existence that differs from truth.

In order to show certain convictions, and share my life's manuscript, defined free of technical terms, where literature requires an author, and that sorrowful separation from reader to appetite gives perfect form from which to hang convictions and responsibility, I step out of the taxi and hold onto a tree as I climb over rocks and down a winding path to a ridge that takes me closer to the top then suddenly becomes a valley taking me back down into a house that seems impossible to get through.

I can't cook you. I don't have a light. And I don't know how to start without one. I forge a menu in a restaurant on the other side of town and order two steaks with identical traumas. This subject is ancient. It has something to do with various metal objects and chronic memory poems. Impossible to contain in a diary. There is just the rush where things are fast and then wiped out, the insensible sense, not at all here.

TICKET INSPECTOR

2011-09-23T06:43:00.000-07:00

Would you want to know when you'll die?

I realise that this has little relevance but I like comics so leave me alone.

What is the last thing you do before you go to sleep?

In a nutshell that is exactly what I want.

Do you recycle?

Sorry, I've gotten a bit distracted.

If you could choose your last meal, what would it be?

I used to flip coins to make decisions occasionally, but then I realized I would ignore some flips, which showed my subconscious had already made a decision. So now I just try to figure out what my mind has already decided.

Would you rather be homeless for a year or be in jail for a year?

I like turtles.

Do you prefer to shop online or in a store?

I think breastmilk could be put to better use.

Do you believe in love at first sight?

A dead girl getting fucked with maggots and shit everywhere.

If you could live anywhere on earth, where would you live?

I was just sent driving directions to some medical clinic in Reno Nevada.

What is the first thing you do in the morning?

Sometimes I fall down.

BLANK

2011-09-07T05:53:00.000-07:00

My stomach burns and my genitals swim in money and explosives off the couch somewhere across the room. The obstacles dragged through the meat corrections inside my head are out of control. Time writes things in the sky. Prepares things to be written. Identifies things left behind. Speeds to the funeral. Designates amputation space. I attach my genitals to the organ chain, this cruel restriction method applied with certain writing program specifications, and for a few seconds longer the thing that I was lives upside down extracting simultaneous broken bones and organs, incomprehensible desires and respective mental separation signs, before paranoia settles the remarkable normality of fiction.

*

DISCARD THE OUTER SHELL

2011-09-01T01:49:00.000-07:00

There's no water in the toilet or the sink. It's an unconnected display home. My face is a roadmap of crumbling lines. My body is stationary but my blood continues to pump out like it did on the highway.

A fierce wall of light moves over a hill and explodes the darkness. Bright as a UFO coming to take me to another planet.

The Jeep slows down. Window opening.

A) Are you coming with me?

B) I don't recall booking a ticket.

A) Where are you going?

B) Don't touch me.

A) What does that mean?

B) You ask a lot of questions, don't you?

A) What are you doing?

B) I'll do anything you want.

A) You don't know what I want.

B) It's never enough.

A) It will have to do.

I arrange his clothes in the shape of a body and slump on the bed.

Scratch marks in plaster board where someone's been digging into the wall. A hole fingered to the next room and repaired with wet tissue paper. My hand as if it's moving under the pillow. Stops when I look. Feels enormous. Then tiny. Like the fingers are needles.

An intricate pattern of cracks near the ceiling. I hope I'm hallucinating when faces peer through the fake bricks, like the living dead, reaching through cavities and pulling themselves out, white powdery flakes covering bodies, matted hair, trying to tell me something I can't make out because the picture isn't dubbed or the subtitles have slipped off the screen or I'm not really paying attention because I'm someone else now writing something else now and everything else has changed.

BLAH, BLAH, BLAH (09/09/09)

2011-08-16T13:12:00.000-07:00

- Reposted for Antonio

*

*

*

I had my first orgasm after watching Apocalypse Now, got up and went to the toilet, knowing just what to do, a few strokes and my cock exploded and I staggered to my bedroom, passing out.

When my leg got blown off by a chlorine bomb that I made in a Coke bottle, I joined a creative therapy class and sculpted erect cocks out of clay and made videos of myself fucking and sucking the cocks.

I covered my cock in bubblegum and rubbed it between the legs of woman in shopping malls, jerked off over schoolgirls in internet cafes that smelt of soap, and bought my girlfriend a new computer as an engagement present for Valentine's Day.

When my wife was in hospital, having her leg amputated due to complications in pregnancy, I followed a nurse to her apartment, crawled through her toilet window and blah, blah, blah.

(Originally in DC'S)

HAIRLINE FRACTURE

2011-07-29T08:08:00.000-07:00

He was one of those guys who straight guys say they'd get with if they had to. Theoretically. In the cold room. He was always checking his reflection. But it wasn't vain admiration. He seemed worried that at any moment the looks might disappear, as if they belonged to someone else and he was seeing them for the first time, a stranger to the role assigned to him. There were two possibilities and both involved bullets. I moved across the grass like a somnambulist whose dreams told him he'd snare his object of desire no matter how far away it got. A prostitute caressed a parking meter and slinked to the ground with the pole between her leopard skin hot pants. I kissed her mouth and gobbled some of her pills. A bouncer adjusted his earpiece, certain that it must be faulty and he was hearing things. He elbowed the door and let in two girls. I staked out the toilets, hammering the cubicles, until someone told me to fuck off.

-- Are you still there?
-- I think so.
-- Are you sure?
-- Probably.
-- I don't think so.
-- I think so.
-- Look. I need your help. I'm desperate here. Have you got a car?
-- Of course.

When I lowered my arm the receiver expanded, becoming lighter, floating to the back door. I felt like I was watching myself, separate from my actions, spilt down the middle, and other people were watching me from suburban lounge rooms and pawnshop windows, fumbling this hunk of plastic onto its cradle. I pulled the phone off the wall and fed it to the dishwasher. He reached across me and adjusted the steering wheel. Noise from the speakers, which were mounted in holes cut out of the ledge above the back seat, wafted fumes from the gas pipe in the trunk. The silence between us was broken during sex and later became words as we lay on the floor and watched fire glowing through the curtains. Two paramedics wheeled a white lump onto a stretcher and into an ambulance. Beating a dessertspoon on the tiles, and rocking against the cold room door, I imagined sitting on a vast grill above an inferno, the throbbing light edging the unwashed dishes nearer to collapse. The storeroom was under the stairs. The door was padlocked. I went back upstairs to get a different set of keys. Inside it smelled of musk and old shoes and damp carpet. An assortment of backpacks and suitcases was stacked up along a curved brick wall. There were crayon swastikas and stick drawings of people fucking and being decapitated. I dragged out this beat-up brown rectangle with no name tags or destination stickers. It wasn't locked and I opened it without excitement.

BLOOD CLOT GUTTER (LEARNING TO LIE)

2011-07-19T05:10:00.000-07:00

Someone should be filming this.

I know.

TREATMENT

2011-07-11T01:40:00.000-07:00

I saw you on TV

A still light burning

Movements in time

Axis on axis unending

Hair clumps hacked away
Formaldehyde --------------------------------- other smells

Unrelated sequence integration

Choices made without thought

I know this love defines us

----

JOKE SHOP

2011-07-06T01:27:00.000-07:00

- I'm after extremely rare, illegal, and probably imaginary collectible cards featuring girls from Rape-O-Rama.*

- What makes you think you deserve the privilege of disappearance?

- They told me you would say that.

- There are only 7 kinds of people in this world and 3 of them are cops.

- My daughter, my sister, my mother.

- You've come to the right place.

Lie down and take a few deep breaths in order to deepen your state of relaxation

Use visualization to see your astral body leave the physical one

After using visualization, your body will fall asleep while your mind is still awake

Once you succeed in sleep paralysis, you will be able to see through your eyelids to the room around you

Now you can sit up and look back at your physical body

*Rape-O-Rama was a mythical Japanese reality TV game show. Virgin girls were supposedly obtained from poverty-stricken areas of South East Asia. A girl was dressed in school uniform and chained up in a nightclub. A man was chosen from the crowd to face the reigning champion in unarmed combat. The first man to kill the other man or come inside the girl's cunt was the winner and became champion. The girl was gradually amputated while the men fought. The popularity of the show soon led to Japanese and Western girls being recruited. Some girls became celebrities. Their cunts were said to be so alluring that no man would allow another to enter. Most critics called the show a nasty piece of fake exploitative trash. Some called it a satirical representation of the patriarchal dominance of human history. Interpol killed the show's host while filming an unrelated TV show/drug siege on a Caribbean island.

NOOSE

2011-06-30T05:56:00.000-07:00

She's so fucking skinny the noose doesn't even kill her. I find her brain-damaged and barely conscious a few days later. She says are you going to write about this? I clean the (insert description of drug paraphernalia) from my desk. She says maybe I want to eat something now. I open a tin of dog food and mix it with the shit that has run down her legs and smear it on my cunt. I say degrading you is like (insert ironic simile). My phone rings but I don't answer it because that's what characters usually do in the middle of a sex scene. It implies mystery and adds tension and that apparently makes the reader curious. Or something. Or something else. I don't know what I'm talking about. I don't know what she's talking about. She might not be talking at all. She might be in a coma. I might have stabbed her to death and stuck my arm inside her to make it look like she's talking. I've only ever tried books after seeing the movie. Some start out different but they all end up the fucking same. I learned to write by replacing pop song lyrics with obscenities. One night in a club I was dancing for a guy who said he was asphyxiating on the atmosphere of existence. He had a really small cock. He could barely get it up. I said that thing won't even make me gag. He said he wanted to fuck me with (insert appropriate article followed by name of comically large blunt instrument). I said it's probably a panic attack. He said it's a calculated invasion. The conversation continued into a predictable critique of late-capitalism. Anyway, back to the present. What am I doing? Printing S&M leaflets to stick in phone boxes around the city. Too obvious. Maybe looking for random strangers. Or just kind of breathing. Outside my window (insert description of something happening that jars on some conflicting level with what's happened so far).

JACKET

2011-06-23T05:43:00.000-07:00

I never knew you liked conventional modes of representation.

I still miss you.

I'd rather fuck your corpse.

That sounds like a predictible plot.

For real. And metaphorically.

Have you ever had sex in a movie theater?

For real. And metaphorically.

That sounds like a predictible plot.

I never knew you liked conventional modes of representation.

You can have my jacket.

For real. And metaphorically.

Have you ever had sex in a movie theater?

Which one?

Remember that kid we met on the internet and dumped in the desert?

Which one?

As long as you don't come on my jacket.

Which one?

I never knew you liked conventional modes of representation.

My cock is still raw from fucking the new holes you dug out.

As long as you don't come on my jacket.

That sounds like a predictible plot.

Which one?

I'm going to fake my own death and collect the insurance.

That sounds like a predictible plot.

But sometimes I still miss him. Sometimes I still wish I'd thought about everything more back then. Sometimes all I want is to go back and for things to turn out better. Sometimes I still want to see him again, but I know that if I did there would be nothing good about it.

For real. And metaphorically.

You can have my jacket.

That sounds like a predictible plot.

I never knew you liked conventional modes of representation.

As long as you don't come on my jacket.

You can have my jacket.

Which one?

I don't even feel bad about it.

Remember that kid we met on the internet and dumped in the desert?

I don't even feel bad about it.

Which one?

Remember that kid we met on the internet and dumped in the desert?

I'm going to fake my own death and collect the insurance.

That sounds like a predictible plot.

Have you ever had sex in a movie theater?

For real. And metaphorically.

I'd rather fuck your corpse.

I'm going to fake my own death and collect the insurance.

I still miss you.

I'd rather fuck your corpse.

Have you ever had sex in a movie theater?

As long as you don't come on my jacket.

That sounds like a predictible plot.

I'm going to fake my own death and collect the insurance.

For real. And metaphorically.

I still miss you.

I guess I'll never know.

Have you ever had sex in a movie theater?

For real. And metaphorically.

That sounds like a predictible plot.

For real. And metaphorically.

You can have my jacket.

I don't mean literally.

INSECT

2011-06-16T06:16:00.002-07:00

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Found on the riverbank this melted photograph of meat wrapped in plastic and tied up with string in a soggy cardboard box. A cattle truck. A disused chimney. The memory of lines on a rooftop dissecting your suntanned torso. Angles to wank over. Searching through drawers. Under your bed. Wardrobe. Diary. Blank pages not torn out. Insect pieces. Imagination. Pinned down. Gone. Burnt up like cinema film on the sand. Dusk light seeping through trees at the end of your four-day funeral birthday party. (If you have additional items in your order, you will receive an e-mail when those items have shipped). Concrete bunker walls covered in stick-figure graffiti cocks spurting come. Numbers to call. I fuck for change. Peer east through coin-operated binoculars. A gap designed for machine guns. Endless beaches. Live televisions floating on waves. Sewerage pipes spewing out shit and blood and paper etc. Empty flagpoles made of wood or bones defining some obscure space.

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RUPTURE

2011-06-07T12:40:00.000-07:00

We slid backwards down hallways.

No words. No melody.

The walls stained with semen and vaginal discharges breeding new kinds of creatures.

A phone rang. We both stared at it.

I snatched at his sleeve. He thrust the silver barrel of a Walther .22 against my chest. His hand oozed muck. The gun must have been up in his pelvis with his genitals.

The mustiness of boiled cabbage and shedding skin whirled through a portable fan set up beside an empty deckchair.

We came out swigging wine and blinking into headlights.

"Why did you bring me here?"

I expected blood to leak from my hair, imagined it all over white tiles, staining grout, running into cracks under walls.

The rain kept us indoors.

He had me pinned to a rail on an overpass about to dump me onto the traffic curving up from the city into a tunnel half buried in yellow clouds of smoke drifting east from the hinterland.

We took off our sunglasses and crunched them into a heap.

"Is this a real city?"

"I know you been here. Somebody been here. They no good to no one."

Tourists snickered at guidebooks and washed-out neon advertising strip clubs and porno.

I got down and sucked his penis. He came in my mouth without getting hard.

Suicides, overdoses, car jobs, misadventures.

"What happened to my jacket?"

I raised a bottle to a streetlight.

We ended up on the wrong side of the world at the wrong side of the millennium.

I pumped soap from a dispenser into my mouth and vomited in a bucket.

"I have to find some people before they find me."

"Have you learnt to read yet?"

A gunk patch spread, contracted, hung there in a single glistening drop.

I untangled a knife from a kitchen draw.

The mangled trash pile over there dead, chopped up, naked.

A nurse appears at the hospital's sliding glass doors.

"Only eat what you killed."

Some figures on stage sway their heads over black boxes and laptop computers with tangled leads below strobe lights. Other figures lean on the bar and the scattered tables.

Three mouthfuls.

"Don't drink that water."

I prodded the voice box for a while but knew I wouldn't find a pulse.

We smelt like kenneled dogs waiting for the incinerator.

AMPUTATE BY NUMBERS

2011-06-01T13:13:00.000-07:00

Testing, testing 1 2 3 . . .

What the fuck?

Is this thing on?

A WAY

2011-04-20T08:01:00.000-07:00

(With Bill Hsu - Originally in LIES/ISLE 05:::SILENCE)

THE HISTORY OF CINEMA

2011-04-13T01:23:00.000-07:00

What you been up to since last appearing on this stupid blog?

Drifting through a transient zone of non-existence.

Really?

No. I'm joking. The usual. Raping and killing kids. Grooming unborn babies into believing death by my hand is their calling in life. Dropping subliminal messages on antenatal chatrooms.

Don't you get bored raping and killing kids all the time?

I used to. But now I see it as a redemptive metaphor for my own lost youth.

You're a poet.

A renaissance man.

A fucking idiot.

Have you ever been in love?

Why is this blog so stupid?

Because it features stupid characters like us who sound the same and keep talking fake ironic shit.

Some posts are okay.

My favorite is This Blog Sucks.

Have you ever been in love?

This is getting a little repetitive and self-referential. It's not funny or sophisticated.

Have you ever tried sucking your own cock?

I had a face job and some ribs removed.

Me too.

I used to come five or six times after killing. Now I have to save it up and meditate. Sometimes I fuck with a blunt object. Like when monkeys use a stick to find ants.

I know what you mean. I'm going to cut off my limbs and replace them with artificial ones so I don't feel anything.

If you were me you'd get really stoned and just vanish.

JERKING OFF IN THE DEVIL'S FACE

2011-04-06T13:13:00.000-07:00

the beginning of five years of occupation the torture of heretics ask the French government for political asylum charges of treason adultery and incest She screamed when I bit through her nipple condemned to death by a specially-selected jury I sat in a Pizza Hut in Leicester Square shaking previously rejected discovery of the fifth law of planetary motion prototype orbital weapons platform

fenced off from student anti-war protesters what later would become downtown I told the waitress I murdered a prostitute a total of 31 people killed including 22 schoolchildren spend more than five days in space the last time a major earthquake happened She told me to help myself to the buffet the world's fifth highest mountain five assassination attempts in one day

(Originally in DC's)