21 Mar 2004

Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a fairy tale
of the

Once upon a time there was a webcam
silicon grail scam, sacrosanct sham.

It all began in the opium den
amid morphine zen, the
solipsist’s playpen.

A busy little spam-bot named Naomi, skin as white as the void.

You poured out of the overhead light, the most vivid hallucination yet. You humped across the ceiling and slunk down the walls in sultry drips, putting the peeling plaster's parody of whiteness to shame in your a-chromic aggregate.

Naomi, auto-sodomized by your own chastity, convulsing ribald with elfin jocularity. Naomi, beauty which renders me beastly - the light to my shadow, the spotless slut. Your phony smile is the closest thing I've ever known to reality.

Illuminati Mona Lisa sighing smug, sabotaging love for the one I'm with. The itch - the addiction - the temptation - the CHEAT. Drive, overdrive, driven insane - life squandered asleep in pursuit of the horizon, in never consummated-consumption, in purchasing pieces of the limitless void.

Good girl for a bad boy. Nazi woman for a nazi man - Aryan oberfrau, Ayn Rand archetype, heiress of industry, cosmetically-sealed carbon-monoxide.

Airbrushed conjunction of organic symmetry, biological algorithm of nerve-tweaking hyperstimulation. Bright-eyed sophist in petite frame. Cotton-donned banana-blond, dyed in earth-tones. Late-spring sweetness in a Body Shop bottle, olfactory edifice of nature. Snow white - ebony black - blood red. Underneath is translucent-gray model-decay. After exposure to the image, it took me seven hours of bestiality porn to feel clean again.

Oh My, Naomi (Oh mani Padme)
an Ohm ode to you my
meditative subject, for you are
the electricity powering my larval brain
the aphrodisiac analog in my mainframe
candyporn for the neotenic libido.

Oh my Naomi, a million ohms of
fakery, to which we sacrifice the material resources of
offline humanity.

Illegal and above the law, as sincere as silicone, item in a harem of mirage. An apocryphal product peddled delicately over a fetisher's lifetime. Bled to the shell of passion. Bleary bliss, synthetic potentiation, mono-amine oxidase inhibition, saccharine-obesity. Skeletal speedfreak, Arabian hyperspace, cloud in a smokestack, phenethylamine downer. Tropane delirium, collapsed lung. All good things must come to a barfing dribbling omega slur, a dry crumpled ending, a cackling crone afterlaugh. Workhorse to the glue factory. Worm's food for the Skull Orchard. Oblique purpose in the extraction of plastic. You led me on to my grave. Past the rose-covered tombstone. To the Canadian land of the dead.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meat-beating date with myself. But you're not invited. I will not think of you. I will close my eyes and think of the void. I will claw my stimulation off the rotting tunnelvision walls of NOTHING under microscopic focus – I will get off on nothing – nothing – I will cry foul nigh unto sighing eternity and bray a neigh of nihilism – and I will vomit up noir jizm from my blocked cock, an orgasm at the end of time, out of the black hole, and straight back to the finite sobriety, and slambang back into the sterility deathtrip, having my entire seed catalogue, all the potential mini-mes of every type, every alcohol-impaired fetus, monkeyman, and thalidomide baby, lost in a bottomless pit. Seedspill at the crackhouse – what once was the opium den.

The daydream is the stupor. The reverie is the grungy swoon. I can’t dissociate anymore.

My braincells burn in phosphene fires. High-falutin rhetoric strips down to the naked emaciated emperor-pauper panhandling for magic beans. Gas fumes, paint, correctional fluid, shoe polish - bread and circus manifold, military surplus, bourgeois superfluous, suburban grease.

There are stairs on the ceiling. Escher stairs – staring at me. It's Escherian territory. Very Escherian. Airy fairy Escherian. So Escherian it's scary. Fairy tales from the Arabesque Burlesque. Take it with a grain of salt and a gram of soma.