Slither Thither & Yon

A sticky and profane stream of consciousness piece.

The sickness is coming I can feel it. Chills and fire. Sweat and sweet mania, a rampant flow from all holes ye gods fucking disgusting. What is sexy and wet and slick and all the deep dark underbelly of human contamination. What shame at my crumpled beauty, a hollow and beaten thing, my shame knows no bounds. Rectify. Reshape. Rebuild. Remember. Retain and regret. 

Sometimes I feel myself slipping, and a flower of both yearning and fear blossoms in my gut. Sick gut. Rotgut, bonding together the god and the ape, binding together the halo and the red throbbing cock of the mundane. They say a man can only operate his cock or his brain at once, and because of this my cock and my brain hate each other. I hide in my cock from my rampant brain, the ape hides in the loins from the god in the crown. How to blend them, should they always fight? Am I always to be torn down the middle between numinous and nominal, the glory of the cumming of the bored? 

Fuck. 

Happy man smiles by the door while the sad man hides in the shadow til dawn breaks and searing sun blinds and hides the endless clawing shame of being alive, of disgracing this world, my world as a mad homunculus. I hate the creeping age and pain and slow slide into disrepair and inevitable disrepute. Fuck you, oh false one. Oh child of wily cunning fools who hide from truth as I hide from the sun. I run and run and run til feet bleed and I forget the why, the when, and the wherefore. 

Tax me not, oh gentle savior. Weep no more, ye great white whale of heaping horrors born, I hate ye so as Ahab drifts in wandering mists. 

The lost and the damned, the purged and the pure have no more truck with me, I am lost, and only the morning light will show what still is left of me.