It smells of lost objects in transit. Lifting the head out of the water, arching the body while floating at the surface, or just before a dive and vocalizing that chemistry of the moral, religious and aesthetic. In the air, every object reinforces the image of its own limits, starting with the very identity of the body, this positivism, the epitome and culmination of modesty, the virtue of capitalist ideology. Horror reveals the opening onto all possibility. I discovered the five participants as one, rolling around with each other at the surface. Passed me in a slow smooth action to reveal the variety of a crushing under quantity. The most glorious colors are derived from despised materials….rolling at the surface or underwater in the generalized dwelling of the less, of reserve, of the mind's advance over the banal body, its quality a matter of infinite resource, 100 square feet of beach. Will there be many who desire to pursue such researches?
Many things are specifically synchronized to impart particular conceptions and sensations - logic in unlogic, a message from the destruction of every voice, on the other side of every point of origin. Just below the surface a child's fantasy of punishment is asleep and it is only waked by a little filth, in pure geometry, planes folded. Joy only slightly immune due to anorexia as the sound of the negative where all identity is the "desire for nothing". In the multiplicity, everything is to be disentangled, nothing deciphered. Then they dive together, despite my faint strugglings one of the hands opened it, with the other, polluted it in order silently to refuse the Law of verbal combat. Poetics consists in suppressing the author's little infamy - also seen in courtship and mating sequences - to call into question the solidity of the subject and the slenderness of our means. Synchronized "negative-active" message flashes from the other side. Writings, none of them original, blend and clash -rationality in irrationality. The corruption of our souls leads us to these abominations. If it is destroyed the ambiguity is resolved but only in a nothingness that abolishes everything.
Tragedy is the affirmation and mirror of the unity of creation and destruction. This mirror does not reproduce the image of a complete subject - nor speaks the discourse of the master. Spiraling down into the depths of depreciative images, sodomy, fantasy and autoeroticism, notice my own hungry holes. How can nothing more logical than to adore degradation originate out of its opposite deviant construction, the Will to Power? To reap delight from a heterology of base materialism allows the possibility of another logic to resonate, another world of discourse - active-negative. Truth in error?... a tire that deflates is good for nothing. There are many things that are specifically inscribed with a form I recognize but am unfamiliar with.
Easily swayed by advertisement and frequent body contact they rub, chase, and are gently seduced by the very thing that signifies damage, black on black, in cotton and rubber. A love of display, erect penis, folded black hanky on the travelator. The sentient in the dead prestige of the individual, forced to take the other in an upside-down position - a saboteur of authority. Pig Bottoms often hang out in elegant double-helix formation. Being outside glory (outside good reputation), is deliberate. Consequently what is needed from now on is to note the orifice from underneath which covetous desire emerges, lends luxuriously to this abuse. A pig bottom laid hands upon all the anterior parts he had just brought down in exemplary defeat and can think of nothing else. The more numerous were its fragmented, amorphous and violently expelled extravagances the better they served the creator of us all.
The positions of the two males are reversed. We gravitate to the negation of that limit of death, neutral, composite, oblique space where our subject slips away. The imagination becomes vexed, denied twice. Particular attention is paid by the males, to each other's power of endurance; just as there are no absolute truths. One male would not fear contaminations, swims touching and nuzzling the other's genital area. Penetrates the opacity of the world as a rare discharge of fluid from the mouth of a remote and disinterested contemplation of the sacred, excessive, wasteful and sacrificial aspects of culture. He's usually a top, but he'll bottom for the right guy. An abyss sees a virtue where he had seen only a fault. If the subject is not truly destroyed everything remains in ambiguity, never does he appear more cheerful and amiable than in such often only fleeting moments.
Questions of origins and beginnings are reciprocal. A double degradation figured as a highly complex interlocking struggle of indefinite "power quanta" preserving and enhancing constantly changing power constellations. Dregs seen with accessories remain unconscious under the influence of guilt, to be beaten by the father wielding phallic energy directed outward rather than toward the self, as in the penetrated male. He thirsts for no longer being separate by prodigally planting his 'seed' in shit, actor and author of double negatives that do not add up to one.
Often enough I have acted not to gain, but purely to undo the degradation and commodification of the human body. I disapprove of nothing. The homage rendered at this temple is familiar with the idea of death and hence unafraid of cruel seduction, tied to a compulsively promiscuous homosexual massacre. There are a thousand occasions when one doesn't want a womans asshole. We have been waiting all of our lives for this disordering cyborg body and technological apparatus producing distinctive yard-long, pink organs. A destructive theology where nature is the principle source of weakness. Have yourself fucked with what nature and villainy have dishonoured. Golden needle and infamous cloaca, a certain thought of death as banal, because in death what is exorbitant is twice denied.
Everything has become text in a multi-dimensional space in which a donkey (the Nietzschean animal) hallmark of the secular sacred in the modernist avantgarde insists on offending procreative sexuality through the act of remaining a victim, the butt of that unthinking indelicacy experienced in contact with schizophrenia, religious fervor, ecstatic possession, sexual obsession, mass hysteria, and private ritual. Must one not be almost inhuman to accept to contradict oneself without flinching? There are no eternal facts! Ruin is the very opposite of anguish. Velvet curtains parted the words, ketsu and manko literally meaning "ass cunt", the greatest pleasure is derived from the tragic degradation of the body which must not be made into a spiritualizing of the soul. A mysterious neo-Satanic delirium born of the abuse of one's power over which one must reduce oneself. The weak, plunged back into the thick of new impurities, joy and sorrow, the ritual investment of semen. That pleasure alone takes us to the point where destruction occurs is understood. This is satisfied through the desire to ignite the sympathetic magic of the highway; the under surface, accompanied by acrobatic displays. To lay down one's life for another doubles the desire to obtain beyond the world of appearances the answer to happiness on a plane equal to death. A pleasure more ardent than the resolution of the enigma. The vessel itself, six times hanged in effigy seeks to find revenge in scorn for the worshipped object ….. love her for her defective mouth. What attracts us in the destroyed object is its power to possess. The faggot, child would not be surprised to wake up as God maintaining genital contact while one is still a boy? To come to brightest bloom among heroic lovers waiting for illumination.