Just remember; what you feel will only kill you.
I want a snake to crawl inside my belly, eat up my insides and direct the course of my flesh through the rest of this play. Lucidity and lethargy.
Lethal injections of reality.
Will the ocean ever stop to think, all the blood,
all the wood… will the sky ever start to break;
shower down the splinters and our death?
Black smoke curling around the clouds like tinsel. A lake of fire, a bed of roses. Denying a god my fear. Woken up with a mouth full of ashes, throat scarred,
burned shut… suffocation. Indecision. Indifference. Incessant indulgence.
Sophism, sacred suggested sacrilege taken internal; candid asides again.
Repulsion, rejected infernal guise. Broken fists fill the sky, revolutions rarely rise.
Sonnets melt on the tongue and they all fan the flames… every single one.
People will start to talk, (substance) I doubt. People will start to think, (incredulous laugh) never. Just a sliver, just a glance. Old fallen dreams; an insect on its back. Just you and only me; only faked, just deceived. So lost, two little things in a world of big machines. So just remember: I want to die alone. Do not come to see me on my deathbed (oh what ego, assuming anyone will want to come see me). Do not let anyone else speak for me. Do not trust their definition of my words. If you want to know me then watch my films, read what I have written. Look at my art because that is the only place I ever told the truth. I put everything real into my hands, and passed them into those mediums. All I ever really believed in is spilled across a canvas, scribbled on a page, or burned onto film. That was all that mattered. Expression, passion, and realization, no matter how muddled, was the purest feeling of life I ever had. The most of anything I ever had. The only innocence I ever needed. The summation of all things all at once.
Because really, outside of art, only my death excites me. It arouses all the things inside myself that this world has tried to kill. A point that bleeds straight through the page and comes out the other side. Spills from my head and steals all meaning from every mark that has preceded it. I have no other interest in this existence so gaudily acted out in front of me. Art, death and the inevitable ‘men’ who try and come in between; the ones who rob and deform my thoughts with their imaginary guilt. You see, the moment I get what I want it immediately ceases to be what I want. Therefore these men are quite necessary. A double edged sword I’m fully addicted to falling upon. Even if I could turn it all off I would just rush to turn it back on. I don’t want heaven, I just want more hell. It (they) are the only fuel still capable of running this bitter machine.
I WILL THROW MY PEN AT THEIR THROATS!
The white apes want to throw away my emotion. Interpret my scream as a revolution.
Remember how it ends.
Now begin again.
