FIRST ENTRY
16th of December 2018

Oh it is just so beautiful. I love this stupid world, how it flays me. I love how my mouth can eat the clouds. I love the cum, how it tempers my face, tries to pick up and gather the ashes I am becoming. I did not expect the eggs. Eggs? His sons! Can’t stop crying. I keep trying to lick my eyeballs, which are pouring all this hissing honey, I wanna suck them so nothing gets lost, but my tongue its too short to reach them. So I pulled my tongue hard. But that was also difficult, without the fingers. I feel them, floating on the back of my head, one is stuck in my anus, the pinkie is far away, fucking the craters of the moon, I see him. And my thumb, it’s moving like a snake between the ribs. They were all cut off, my fingers, the moment I started touching him. They flew off my hands like laughing rockets. I really wanted to kiss him but I am not dirty enough, so boring, so controlled. But now! Now everything will be possible! I cannot stand the fucking ground, how it is holding me down even now! So I jump and I punch the air. I spit on the immensely stupid pavement, burn it with my piss. The bricks, I want to grind them down in my teeth. Cum still has not stopped, it has been coming out warm and strong since the flesh has been inside me. I want to help so I just let my dick hang out from my pants and shower the floor. That ensures I will not lose my way either, so, not bad! It’s just so hard and erect but I do not want to touch it yet. Too sharp, I think. I took some skin off from the arms, a lot, so that it could hang loose and so that the cum, now bursting out like vapor out of a pressure cooker, could reach my poor bones. I keep my mouth open, still hoping for all the air to come at me quick, make me gag and kneel down. At a corner three girls appear, just as I was leaving the theater. The number is certain because it bears the clear mystical significance. But as they stand there, as they appear to me, on their bikes, they could be a thousand of them, seven and a half, or none. Even though they are several meters away, their presence expands upon my face like a vertiginous ocean. Seconds later they have already left but their phantasmagorical presence will not leave me. The crawling hologram is a network of lovely pale glands, ever springing. Mucal splendor, enrapturing secretions of bright red fluids. Each eyelash pierces me, snaking the distance, seeking out a pore to dig into. Hornet nests as lips kissing each other, rotating their wheels in obscene prayer. The three, the many, were always there, a lubricious firmament to fall into. They suckle wolf pups and sing bloody lullabies to them. I cry all my honey at their expanding altar. The bells tied to my balls ring incessantly, as if hailing Armageddon. I chew their fragrances from afar, gifted as I am now with fangs that can hold onto hymns and open sores. That is how I hear their chant, suspended in dark cold winds: “Listen to my voice, oh daddy, oh nobodaddy, and with your nymphs breathe on me!” Later, when I was burying myself, I could still hear them, their voices turbulent like dark wine spots in my field vision. I thought of going to the Red Light District, worship God as Bataille would have done. But with each step I took, lightning would hit me right in the face. Wham! I would close my eyes and feel the charge licking me, then would open them again and see how I was back to where I had started. So I ran faster, sometimes getting closer, and then again, the lightning would slap me hard. My head would spin around like a carousel and conjure all the nausea it could. I vomited every time it spun and the little pieces of the flesh flew out. But I never lost a single one. They are too shiny and they also smell like mice. So I picked them with the teeth and I slurped all the gastric liquid from the floor. He will never get out! Never never! And he will never leave me, no no. It was good that I brought the little container with me: I spread the silver paint all over my whole skin, mortar for the pores, to make sure there is no transpiration, nothing should escape. I will teach myself total submission, I will hurl myself to the abyss and all my rot will praise me for it.

* * *

I now write a day later, on the train back to Frankfurt. It is done. He has been consumed and now we are one. Or we will be, soon enough. From what I understand there are certain movements of the sky that set the pace for the new dance my digestive track now has to learn, and this takes time, a certain rhythm must be followed. It is with this in mind that I have started this journal. To try to describe and record, with as much detail as possible, his arrival into me, his overturning of my complete incompleteness into a properly incomplete one.

I still can’t believe what happened yesterday at the ceremony. But I’m relieved I took some notes last night, which I transcribed above. Even happier that I can understand my own furious and accelerated writing, notes taken while I was running, crawling, convulsing. It is definitely a goldmine and I will have to keep picking at it for the next days before I forget the code that unlocks them. In case there was any doubt now it is clear that it is possible to contain part of the thunderbolt in language. It still looks totally cold and dead of course, but when I read the lines above something sets in, a sort of electric discharge that the flesh, still cradled in my stomach, picks up like an antenna and, graciously, I should say, agrees to share the transmission with my brain. I suspect there is more than charity here. Rather, it is clear that the guts are teaching the head their own language, sending their dung-larvae upstream so they may nurture themselves there and hollow out the cranium.

With my entrails acting as both antenna and emitter, the scribblings from last night open up and I can access the instant they are bleeding from and away into the current time. I see myself, covered by the spotlight, his precious pig heart still beating in my hands. And I see them, all their faces. My unwilling collaborators. I see their expressions, some delighted, fully contaminated. Some were, to say the least, a bit skeptical. They could not hide their contempt from the Sight that was given to me. But even now I siphon that ridicule and turn it into the most delicious shivers. In the end, every person in that room saw what they wanted to see. They may have only seen trickery, looked at the slab and found an effigy, a hollow puppet. But it simply does not matter. The spell was successful the instant even just one of them doubted, dared to doubt together with me, together with Georges. The spell is the smallest of cracks, opens up the way for madness and spirits to enter and fester. The doubters, cracked, ensorcelled, doubt what they have seen. They doubt themselves, their perceptions, the emotional state induced by the ritual. And as they doubt, they reach together with me the impossible, enter the realm of revolt, the realm of the cannibal.

I want this train to go faster, have it explode and hurl us into the night. I need to be home now, prepare for what comes next. I keep catching my reflection in the window and I see my face being pulled in four directions at once, by unseen hands. The eyelids become thin lines and the white of the eye spurts out like bursting zits. My mouth is an ever expanding crossroads of mockery and innocent wonder. The message from the ghost movements is clear: my face does not belong to me anymore.

Starting with the next entry I shall keep an organ tally, paying attention to all of them, looking for changes in function, appearance, and feeling. Perhaps that will help me see the effects of his presence much more clear.

I have not been able to eat, the moment I even think of food there is this flush of acids that grip my throat and shuts it down. So I listen, and I wait, and I hunger.

Amsterdam, 2018

---

SECOND ENTRY
3rd of January

Some peace now. Some quiet. It is a fine thing to be back home. To sit down, write, read. Before I continue writing, let us start with the organ tally I had mentioned. Otherwise, knowing myself, I will end up forgetting to do it. This will require some discipline.

Tatters
(or “Divine Tatters” but that might sound presumptuous, I will think about it…)

Status of the organs after The Event

Brain: Present. Fine.
Eyeballs: Present. Fine.
Pineal eye: Unmanifested.
Tongue: Present. Fine.
Ears: Present. Fine.
Throat: Present. Rough, but that’s the cold.
Lungs: Present. Fine.
Heart: Present. Calm.
Liver: Present. Fine.
Kidneys: Present. Fine.
Gallbladder: Present. Fine.
Stomach: Present. Fine. (Gastritis is now gone)
Large intestine: Present. Fine.
Small intestine: Present. Fine.
Sexual organs: Present. Fine, a bit overused, sore.

Loudness and frenzy have been good to me. In the end I shall be mute and headless, there will be laughter too, of course, suppurating into the world, its source unknown. But while I still have a head, I owe to it some peace, some quiet, some proper reflection. After all, it is also through my head’s machinations, its willingness to consider its own madness as an object of thought, that I was granted the wit and piercing observations to reach him. Let this last pause, an uneasy interregnum, be a sort of swan song for my Reason. And as I reason, the most pressing questions emerge: What have I been? What have I done?

I have been, I am, a cannibal. Of course, through the act of ingesting him, Georges and I are now, together, so much more. But a great deal of the power I have sought derives from the essentiality of such an archetype. As cannibals, history piles up on us, we wear it as freshly flayed skin, time courses through and is broken down inside our intestines. We cannibals are an inedible shadow at the corner of the eye of all masters. We run down the spine of the Doctor and the Intellectual, a phantasmal drop of sweat. Our roots are deep, indeed our whole body becomes nothing but a tuber excavating the rot and filth of this world. What the solar beings have adbjected, cannibals treasure and salivate for. We are but passages. We long for putrefaction to traverse us and we help it flow upstream, reach and nourish the surface. Our irruptions are seen as the defacement of order and harmony. In truth, it is the vitality of our revulsions and revolutions that keeps it all in motion. What would be of their shining towers, their laughable claims to glory, if it wasn’t for us cannibals-roots? Our wallowing in putrefaction, amidst the immeasurable, is an ocean that both upholds and gives shape to their diminutive island. One day we shall finally spill over it. Meanwhile we wait and we effervesce, we secrete the most nutritious deliriums. Too much is said of what is consumed by our sharpened teeth, too little said of what we birth inside us, how digestion is a higher form of copulation. A Coagula so red that it makes the blood of the onlooker pale like a fungal ghost.

What of the madness that we cannibals generated in the minds of the European conquerors as they arrived in the New Continent? Was cannibalism the stumbling block for tropical catechisms, or perhaps its true and unavowed ultimate goal and desire? I imagine the sweaty friars asking themselves precisely that dangerous question as they witnessed or perhaps even suffered the anthropophagic customs of Mesoamerica. In their comatose dreams, a disturbing presence, wild, ineffable, secretive, two-horned and two-shaped. Ivy-covered, bull-faced, warlike, howling, pure. It followed them in waking life too, a tropical doppelganger: no one failed to see the similarities between the pagan sacrificial rites and that of the Eucharist. Was the cannibal, now consuming the deranged musings of the priests, not the pinnacle of otherness but rather the unbearable proof of their connection, a smoked mirror grinning at them? Some claimed that Simia Dei, the diabolical aping of God, was behind the Eucharistic mockery. Others imagined the apostle Saint Thomas roaming America in biblical times, planting the seeds of what this second evangelization would now reap.

Once a whole new continent springs out of nowhere, all bets are off. Theological and ontological vertigo set in. Trembling, driven mad by their own reflection, the priests sought to maintain the gap that had now been diluted by the cannibals gastric acids. For there is not a more intense horror than the one that continuity breeds. Suddenly, that presence which until then you have insisted is a foreign invading agent is now of your own flesh and essence. Contiguity versus continuity, that is the challenge that the eating of men and spirits issues. There would be no need for our hunger if our object of desire was already in us, of us. But once we have swallowed the last bit, who is where and how? We are a disorder of categorization.

The religious men lost in the jungle of recognition and conquest, I imagine them eaten by doubt, defenseless, so far from the Old World and the guiding of the holy fathers, delirious among mosquitoes and insistent fevers. Hypnotized by the words of the weeping prophet Jeremiah resounding inside their weakened heads: “Lo, I will bring a nation upon you from far, a mighty and ancient nation, a nation whose language thou knowest not, and they shall eat up thine harvest, and thy bread, thy sons and thy daughters”. For whom and of who was the prophecy speaking? Was it a warning to the Spaniards about the indigenous population? Or was it the other way round? Who became the devourer and who the devoured? Whose sons and daughters? Was it even a warning at all or the bestowing of a blessing, an encouragement? Go forth and eat up each other, confound your tongues and organs! Look up the first traced map of Mexico City, once it is not supposed to be Tenochtitlan any more. At its very center you find the Acephale, the sacrificial victim. That is the first child that the new nation would birth, we are all its offspring. Children of two empires driven mad by each other, consumed by their insides. The Mexica oppressors extinguished by Tlaxcalteca and Totonaca hands. The rabble and criminals, the shit under Charles V’s boot, engulfing themselves in gold, teocuitlatl, divine excrement; and in doing so, infecting the whole Holy Roman Empire with a golden hunger and diarrhea that would ultimately empty its coffers and entrails.

Once the head has been cut off and the body is bleeding through the future sun-warmed stone tiles of what will be El Zócalo, this new nation has renounced all possible projects of domination. We cannibals are never masters, we are Utopians, eternally opened to all penetrations. We incorporate, that is, our body is joined by the Other, but also, in consuming the other, he is given a new body, is transformed into yet another body. We are the overturners of the greatest injustice that there is in this world: not being the others. That is why we are a vertigo of transformation, an obscene flow and shedding of categories. I knew Georges Bataille was a cannibal when I read his “Story of the eye”. Not because of his divine perversity or his corporeal and scatological fixations, but because of his use of language, how the eye is the sun is the egg is the balls is light is piss is cum. Everything is a parody of another. I say: blind humanity is but a parody of the cannibal. He who abstains is almost a full being, but not quite. Only in cannibalism am I complete because I let my lack consume me, make me whole by eliminating all the barriers that separate me from infinity. My individuality is consumed by the coupling with the devoured, host of multiplicity. We reach heterogenity, hetErosgenity, become heterogenerators. When everything is at the verge of being something else, existence becomes a fearful approximation to the impossible. This contagious confusion summons a disorder so potent, a misfortune so beautiful that it cannot be contained by the rules that organize existence. I doubt the existence of this world to provoke it to a revolt so grand it overturns all order permanently.

So should you too, dear reader, doubt all these lines. Better find me in the night, where Xolotl still barks. Bless his deformed laughter for he reminds us that the time for meditations is over. A lugubrious bridge between 1936 and 2019. Let us get lost in the frictions, the wailings that this cold city has to offer us, let it birth us anew, confounded and bereft of disgusting fortune. But what of the eggs? No written lines for them? No, they are still growing inside. Let them dream of their own worlds and I will wait for them, open.

Frankfurt am Main, 2019

---

THIRD ENTRY
14th of January

Something has found me. Someone. A voice. But not Georges Bataille! It is distinctly female, but she does not resemble the voice of anyone I know. She does not address me or try to communicate with me, in fact seems completely unaware of being heard. It is as if I was tuning in to a broadcasting of her inner monologues. It is not always there, but comes and goes unannounced. There seems to be no pattern to the duration or the time of arrival and departure. It is very distressing, especially when her intrusions are lasting, for she drowns my own thoughts, leaving me no option but to pay attention to what she has to say and wait until she is gone to resume my own activities. If possible, I write it all down. I attach here a chronological selection of what I have heard in the hopes that some clue as to their meaning and their connection to Georges might eventually surface. Afterwards I share some conjectures.

“There they are. Blue corner, blue faces. Some despair. Others are blessed, they have seen the same blue light as me, and still went on, will go on. They live around the apertures, the opportunities, worship fortune. I will see some of them later. In red light, not blue. In yellow light there are all the stones, the wreckage, the gray green sea.. She was so beautiful, even then. Her kids. I think one of them ended up in Munich, from what I’ve heard. And how many of us here in Frankfurt? Here in the street nobody knows where I come from, they can’t place me. There is a small freedom there. With some of the clients, the more fucked up ones, I let them know. It’s a sick game, but it is a game, and there I find twisted freedom too.”

“Soldiers made this place. American soldiers and their drugs. Mach mir keine Fisimatenten! Comes from French, “visite ma tente”, come visit me at my tent, the soldiers would plead to the girls. Maybe as old as the Napoleonic wars. Then it morphed into a plea from the mothers to their children, not to do any kind of silly stuff. In such tent, they were giving birth to the new city. Among the ashes and the dormant bombs, a nexus. Hermes of the doorways, trickster making this world, commerce with bodies, needles, but also cultures, languages. Playing with bodies, words, identities. Silly stuff. Better a whorehouse than a concentration camp, if those are the only two choices. There is a statue of Hermes close by. Or rather, one of Mercury, the sanitized version, god of commerce and nothing else, the huge banks rising around him to drive the point home, unthreatened by his tricks. Now, that Spielotheke over there…if you name it after Apollo, is that just the same ignorant impulse, or a finely crafted joke on the whole thing? Europeans cleansing Greek culture of all otherness. And us? Our Greco-Roman period? Well, we just skip that part at the history lessons, turn it into this alien influence that needs to be cleansed. It sure doesn’t help that it’s one of the pillars of white supremacists… But back in this golden age they speak of, all one single world. It is only when the colonizers gear themselves to consume that they must posit an Estern other, a backwards Africa. Otherwise it would be like trying to eat yourself. You create an alien body, you are also insisting on the possibility of eventually being invaded, infested. The Persians were much more clever. Shapeshifters. Ready to dilute its essence, its “Persianness” in order to mix it in with the per-existing structures it found. Is being diluted a weakening or a way to become untraceable, unbeatable?”

“That horrible alarm! I hate how cold and dark it gets, who can ever get out of bed like this? Wait, was it the same dream again, with the boat? I felt no fear this time, maybe I was even somehow horny! Yeah, yeah, I am getting up, just shut up! No messages. I should stop looking at the news on the phone before getting up, it’s just depressing. …Sexual abuse of children by Catholic clergy in Germany is “probably only the tip of the iceberg”, the country’s justice minister has said. The German Catholic church presented the results of an investigation into decades of sexual abuse of children on Tuesday afternoon. The report details the cases of 3,677 children…Spain is on the brink of an all-out civil war that threatens to upend months of diplomatic efforts to reconcile two rival armed political factions. An advance led by Santiago Abascal, the warlord from the east of the country, has diplomats scrambling and the UN appealing in vain for a truce…An attack need not destroy all of Iran’s nuclear infrastructure, by breaking key links in the nuclear-fuel cycle, it will set back its program…Bastards, fucking animals. And do they know what they are getting into this time? The airstrikes won’t do, they’ll have to commit to a land war. The Iranian military is serious business. I remember that article where the Americans run a simulation for the Persian Gulf and then this guy who is representing the Iranians doesn’t follow the script and defeats them so so badly. In a village in Mexico they are showering themselves, drowning, in gasoline, with onlookers close and far away laughing, contaminated, what a grim festivity.”

“Its over. We are going to drown. The storm will swallow us. Come! Come here now! Just be done already! I am done. I want to go. We all want to go. We are cowards, we could have just killed ourselves already. We were crazy, thinking we would make it. Just kill us now! I am done with this life. Hurry! Hurry! The machine is coming. I hear the engine, the metal fangs. Hurry, hurry! Run, run to the temple! It’s dark in here. What was that? There are these wet things hanging around. One hits my face. A rat? Many rats. I could vomit. I shouldn’t be disgusted, they are just sleeping, incubating, and the world waits for them. Is that him In the middle of the structure? He has another face, but I know it is him. He kisses me, not like before, but so much better. Warm, furious, wounded, open. Now he is rotting. And I feel so… That horrible alarm! Yes, yes, I am awake now, stop it already, its over!”

I am convinced that her presence is related to the ritual and the devouring of Bataille, but I am lost as to how exactly. Obviously she is also living here in Frankfurt. Should I look for her? How? She seems to be some kind of foreigner, not unlike me. She is also studied, an academic of some sort. I must keep listening. It seems to me a good idea to give her a temporal name, until I find out her real one. I shall call her Dorothea, just like Bataille’s character in “Blue of Noon”. Doesn’t she even visit Frankfurt in the story? Ha! Not only is this naming auspicious, it is also a magical act to turn her into his herald. Eventually, she must reveal herself to me and in doing so, bring about the presence of sweet Georges.

The intruding of Dorothea’s voice is not the only symptom of my transformation either. I remain unable to eat or drink. There had been all these strange movements inside me, not the typical bowel movements, more as if I was sweating, but internally. The day I felt it the strongest I ran to the toilet because I felt I had to shit. It all came out so fast and easy. And It was so red! Bright red. Not blood colored. Not the red of beetroot either. Just red. Red like a fucking sports car. Red like coral. No smell at all. And the consistency, it was more like clay than shit. Then I knew: I am being emptied. My organs slowly leaving me. Perhaps it is that hollowness which allows the others to enter me with their voices and memories and dreams. Whatever the cause, I am ready, joyful and awaiting. Ready to be devoured, inside out!

Tatters

Status of the organs after The Event

Brain: Present. Fine.
Eyeballs: Present. A slight increase in rheum (the sand in the eyes) otherwise fine.
Pineal eye: Unmanifested.
Tongue: Present. I believe fine, crummy and dry but that must be the wine from the last nights.
Ears: Present. Fine.
Throat: Present. Still rough and with a strange aftertaste that I cannot place.
Lungs: Present. Fine.
Heart: Present. Fine.
Liver: Present. Overworked but will be fine.
Kidneys: Present. Fine.
Gallbladder: I assume it is still present but it’s getting hard to tell.
Stomach: Gone.
Large intestine: Gone as well!
Small intestine: Gone, gone, gone!!!!!
Sexual organs: Present. Fine

Frankfurt am Main, 2019

---

FOURTH ENTRY
22th of January

Am I losing my mind? Yellow tinges of trepidation pass me by. It was high noon and the aggressive hungover, the intense heat, the ravenous mosquitoes, the chaquistes, and the work I was supposed to do were conspiring to drown me. I would stare at the green screen and wonder what it could be, what I could be. I wanted to stay there in the jungle, work as an assistant for the foundation, learn the secrets of the tropical woods, start again. More wild and crazy, living a dazzling life. I wanted to embark on a voyage to the Orient or say a definite “no!” to the world and find a remote cloister to confine myself to. I wanted to get rid of all the sickness and all the cruelty, of tearing each other apart. I wanted to lose my glasses, my seriousness, my mind. The river, the rum, the gloom and the hut, they were all spinning at night. Flies and butterflies lost in carrion orgies. Seconds of sharp attention expanding into eras of never ending present. It all had this black and shiny patina, flowing down from the heavens. It was the petrol clouds that excreted that strange river, and as I closed my eyes, it was their burning blossoming of red and orange that would cover all my thoughts. Among the oily clouds the divinatory dwarves, prancing about, pouring the contents of their barrels down to earth. Everything seemed to be pushing me, or perhaps pushing in unison with me, to break open the unseen barriers that I had never seen but nonetheless fervently detested .

Under the blinding sunlight, the question arising once again. Should I answer to this insistence? Should I be in dialogue with these voices, at once expanding from my own being and completely severed and untraceable? This was all before the war, mind you, before the exodus and evacuations, before the great confusion and undoing, and so everything was somehow weightless. I was presumptuous and vain. Seeking prominence and wisdom, recognition, but also the occult seclusion. The contradictions would have been the least of my problems, had I known how to make fire out of such frictions. But the real problem was the lack of loss, the missing sacrifices. I should have answered. Of course, now it all seems both obvious and irrelevant. But the games that gods play are always so: a careless jump into bottomless pits.

I was on my way to the brasserie on rue Pigalle. At the street I was walking on, there was some construction work being done. A structure being erected, so long I could not see nor understand where its end was. It seemed to me as if the scale was completely off. One could not conciliate the immensity of the work to the simple size and peace of the colonial street that ultimately reached the Coyoacan square. The spindly wooden beams and rafters would start off broader at their base and then become thinner in an accelerated and disorienting manner as they increased in height. Their exaggerated numbers left me uneasy, as if their perturbed rhythm and accumulations could induce inside me the same unstable state. It might have been this coaxed confusion which led me to walk into the insides of the structure, without ever really having meant to do it. I thought that the construction was deserted, as if it had been abandoned in defeat just moments before I had arrived. As I walked, I noticed that in order for the beams to stand, holes had been dug on the ground. At many of these incisions, there now gathered small pools of unidentified liquid, as if springing from underneath. Sometimes this liquid would seem dense and whitish, like milk, other times it had a dark red tinge to it. Going even deeper, with darkness beginning to set in, the impression that this was a deserted place was once and for all disproved. At first the figures were far removed, small and fast shadows crisscrossing the distant columns. So focused was I on the distant horizon where these silhouettes moved, that I forgot my immediate surroundings. Then, from behind, in all force and in terrible numbers, a torrent of lowly beings. Sweaty palms, dusty and hairy backs, humid and rash, pushing me forwards like a current. Faces crooked, weary, mocking and insinuating. Licking their lips, savoring my disgust, scratching their testis, getting hard as they rubbed themselves against me. Open nostrils going up and down my neck. We moved fast towards the center of their unexplainable architecture. There, in the middle of this typhoon, a great oaken barrel brimming to the top with…a substance.

Drunk, trashing in my bed. Full of lust and desire and loss and time. Back then my claim to madness was small and fragile, you would have missed it if you looked away for just an instant, a tiny spark among a cosmos of blandness. I took it for loneliness, and of course there was some of that too, but the silicon paths it was aspiring to trace, they were divine, confounded. Now, inside the architectural delirium my madness was majestic, overflowing from the wooden cask. The gruesome laborers were weaving thick ropes and submerging them into the barrel. They came out thick with tar. With their callused hands they tied one end of the rope to the still twitching tails of dying, gigantic rats. Once finished with their disturbing arrangements they hung them all over the unfinished hall. It was never clear to me if they had labored at an incredible speed or if I had blacked out, perhaps even multiple times, as they worked. Whatever the case, it seemed to me like the dead animals were now hanging from every available space, suffocating me. I felt their wet fur against my face, tasted sewer waste as I tried to breathe. A couple of these baseborn men had stayed very close to me, now stoking wildly against my legs, climaxing, at which point I felt the warmth of their night emissions on me. Others were now rewarding themselves with a makeshift banquet. They took raw and unprovenanced flesh, wrapped it in foliage, decked it with grape clusters, feasted.

The juices flowing from their unkempt beards, the greasy and scorched hands. Their skin tinted not with black but with a myriad of conflicting bright colors. The closer I looked the more they were, they spread out, unraveled, and so did thought, the world, a series of parodies. The scorched hands are the ruins are the heavens are the father is the piss is the river is the gloom is the rum is the hut. You throw the dice and they fall on all their faces at once. It is through the revisiting of our respective initiations, lost to the night, one cruel and dry, the other young and humid, very soft, that we truly begin to become one. Then we are scared and grateful. We trace our lineage: From you, my father, all the yellow rivers flow. Abandoned and blind. Syphilitic and paralytic. Trashing in the bed, inebriated and desperate. My mother, dead, now loved in all her flesh. My Laure, raised to the heights of Death, sharing together the foreboding bread, loved as a devastating apparition, now dead in my bed. Soiled by the yellow stream, your pieces spread throughout the river lands for me to seek them. She is there too, Dorothea, materialized. She arrives with a storm. Her ship is made of snakes. She rises from the ocean, her court of corpses floating around her. She approaches and with her, a warping of the world, a warping of my body. Inside her cave she turns me into an effigy of someone else. We kiss and embrace, we swear to find each other, to devour each other. All our deaths, big and small, here, at the conjunction of currents, all gathered. One link from the chain broken, and, at the same time, a forging of a mortuary link enslaving us to that same instant, in different times.

Tatters

Status of the organs after The Event

Brain: Present. Fine.
Eyeballs: Present. My ability to both open or/and close them has been impaired.
Pineal eye: Unmanifested.
Tongue: Present. Fine.
Ears: Present. Fine.
Throat: Present. The unidentified taste has become stronger, nauseating.
Lungs: Gone.
Heart: Present. Fine.
Liver: Present. Fine.
Kidneys: Gone.
Gall bladder: Gone.
Stomach: Gone.
Large intestine: Gone.
Small intestine: Gone.
Sexual organs: Present. Fine.

Reims, 1927

---

FIFTH ENTRY
31th of January

Oh what a herald indeed has Dorothea been . She has carved unknown passages inside my tympanic ducts and in doing so, she has taught me how to listen properly. I am now a crossroad for all the spectral vibrations that shape the world into its current, ridiculous, shape. I hear the rumblings of the guts, the whispers of the ants. And I hear Georges of course! He comes and goes. Sometimes he is here for a second, sometimes he takes over for days. When he comes, I remain present. Since time has been jumbled, with unexpected accelerations and winding downs, trying to situate his initial arrival chronologically is entirely futile. There was the dream with the impossible structure, the hanging rats, the wretched men, if that was a dream, and before that the ceremony. Thunderbolts struck the tree for the first time. For the only time. I was engulfed in fire and flames, then flooded by rushing water, speeding sharp winds, an avalanche. My body died and purified in an instant and then my bones grew out all flesh and organs anew. Then everything was back to normal. The congregation in a circle, still silent as I had instructed them. We left our separate ways. Over the next days and months, among my internal thoughts and conversations, there would be this strange punctuation to them, notes sung by a voice completely alien to me. Eventually, it managed to put those syllables spread over time into words and then sentences. At the Grand Véfour Café he was there with me, clearly agitated and trying to arrange time, the events, my own situation, according to his own reference points. If the arrival of this young man’s voice has been slow and gradual, the arrival of Dorothea, Dirty, was sudden and much more potent. She told me of what was to come, the required sacrifice, the sacred play, what we must do, once we are together. Death is our congregation for the three of us. At Laure’s tomb they both weep with me, for me, for us.

I am, undoubtedly, going crazy. It is as if the protective barrier that keeps me separate from the world was slowly being eating away. I hear a voice, sometimes two. Men, both of them. In fact, I hear many more voices, it is just that those two are more permanent and their source is completely unclear. Whenever someone passes by, I will feel myself inside of them, both invader and invaded, overcome. Their thoughts hang in the air, flaccid and disgustingly elastic, my ears slurp them up with both greed and regret. As they walk away, distance and partial sanity are restored. So it is with the transient voices at least, the ones that can be escaped by simple physical means. Not so with the two men. They seem to have a much more potent broadcasting range. They seem mad too. Engrossed with sacrificial rituals, dark magic, cannibalism, you name it. Ego-tripping, Sex obsessed. Somehow merging with each other, but also, clashing with each other. Every so often, they notice me, they hear me too, they call to me. Is it me they are calling for? They address me by a wrong name, Dorothea, yet they seem to know me nonetheless. What could they possibly want from me? Following the logic of this delirium, I might as well presume that my own breeding madness calls to theirs and so they come inside me.

I am not surprised, that I should be losing my mind, after all I have been through. I just never expected it to happen in such a singular and contrived way. I have tried to approach my whole life here in Germany as play, as a silly thing, the life of a fool. It has been a challenging game, with so many twists, multiple demanding roles to play. This now, with the voices, a new and somehow even deeper descent, it is just my newest script. In the street I have been sometimes invisible, sometimes a whore, sometimes one of them, sometimes a dirty Muslim parasite, a black vermin. I try to tell myself there is something meaningful about it. After all, it was a free choice, I get a decent pay and it is all legal. Yet it is also outright absurd, a divine joke, that I should be here, a renowned scholar, turned refugee, then sex worker. Now..now what? Dorothea? See? It is funny and silly, how I lost everything, my friends, my family, how I crawled out of a bombed building, fucked men for food, starved and almost died in a boat. I survived it all so that I could come here and lose my head. I have seen the bottom of this pit and it did nothing to me, I am still here, laughing and laughing and laughing.

The world is laughing with me, going crazy too, to keep me company. On my way to work, it was impossible to walk the streets. They were blocked with trenches, paved with cardboard and all sorts of trash, heaps of it. People walk over it, crawl, as if nothing was happening. There have been water and energy shortages, probably food supplies will follow. That is the pattern I know. The news speak of military coups in the middle of Europe, botched or successful revolutions in Asia. There is the War. There are so many of them, or alternatively there is a single one, I do not know anymore. The pope might hang, I hear? Good for him! I am grateful, I truly am, to see the storm coming up this way, catching up with me. Let this world too be burned. I call for ruin, not out of cruelty, but out of kindness. I have made my home in loss, I have learned so much from living in the trash stratum, feeding from it, breeding it. Those that are cast low, I will nurture, welcome them as brothers and sisters, build our congregation out of shared disaster.

Tatters
Status of the organs after The Event

Brain: Present. Fine.
Eyeballs: Present. In addition to previous impairment, they have increased their size almost threefold.
Pineal eye: Unmanifested.
Tongue: Present. Fine.
Ears: Gone.
Throat: Gone, substituted by an unending reserve of gasoline.
Lungs: Gone.
Heart: Present. Fine.
Liver: Gone.
Kidneys: Gone.
Gall bladder: Gone.
Stomach: Gone.
Large intestine: Gone.
Small intestine: Gone.
Sexual organs: Present. Fine.

Frankfurt am Main, 1939

---

SIXTH ENTRY
8th of February

I awoke to the howling of a strange metallic being. There was something majestic about the way its sound seemed to impregnate even the most dignified of forms. The carved red stone, carefully adorned, noble in its endurance, was nonetheless coupled with the unbecoming machinic squeals. I could not breathe anymore, between all my uncontrollable laughter. In my throat there was, I had finally placed it, the distinct taste of gasoline. Before she fully revealed herself to us, Dorothea had retreated, secluded in occult silence. Still her influence, her gifts, were felt everywhere. It all flowed from her, from the machinic howling to the merging of times and spaces. The stones are unwelcoming and uneven. O the straight sleek path, like sliding into skin, she had taken it away, forever. Everything must now crawl, face to the ground, begone inane skies! Walls equally unstable, obedient to her commands, become a digestive pilling up, a serpent’s jaw grinning, immense glass sheets being crushed between steel beams. The street stinks of piss. The street smells of freshly made tortillas.

The abundance is still staggering to me, joyful excess! The means and techniques to embezzle and override the senses, they truly have reached their apex. Accumulation has been so exacerbated, exponential, that even the most lowly of wastage is done through cheap luxurious rituals. I have seen colors descended from unseen dimensions, as if my brain had suddenly discovered a more precise and comprehensive language to render the sensations around me. It all started at the blue corner, where everything around here seems to find its beginnings. Around the congregation we exchanged looks, news, drinks, smokes, dope and food. Everyone is blue, azure eyes and iced gestures. Warm turquoise desires and expectations, ultramarine miseries. Our artificial lapis lazuli sun takes good care of us, rains down our pale fortunes. Many languages are spoken around its cerulean flames. My French and his Spanish as well as her Arabic come in handy, so does my Russian. Someone comments on rumors they have heard: a large caravan, or perhaps a gang, it’s not clear, roams the small forest areas at the outskirts of Frankfurt. A woman is their leader, wild and crazed. Could that be Dorothea? We must investigate. Later. For now, let us turn to our lovely excess…

Roaming, so many options, then, written in yellow letters against a blue background: “Apollo Spielotheke”. A gambling place, dedicated not to Dionysus but to his solar sibling! To be met with such a sign left me with no option but be chosen by it. The provocation had already made me hard with lust and the dizziness of knowing I would come out of it in total ruin. Appropriately, the joint was flanked to both left and right by whorehouses. I thought better and decided to go to one of the whorehouses first and then to the spielotheke. I asked two girls to whip me and spit on my face. He was there, as a witness. It was precisely at these situations that his presence instilled in me both profound satisfaction and curiosity. Yes, he did derive some pleasure from what I was submitting both ourselves to, but mostly, there was fear. A fear cold and miserly. Not horror, just a fear slender and mean, a wounded jackal. It was precisely this unworthiness and maladjustment which made me treasure my own potency for debasement like never before. To me, the search for disaster had always been the only possible path, to have our repressed fervors and energies raise to the measure of our dismemberment. But to him, the situation completely paralyzed him between his disgust and his desire. I felt blessed by my madness, I saw in an instant, between whippings, that I had worked long and hard to own my delirium. I licked the spit from my face and asked for more, laughing with tears in my eyes. The rate at which he spent my money was astounding even then. I did not stop him. At first, I did not stop him because I thought it impossible. Then I realized I was lying to myself, I knew that I was not stopping him because I did not want him to stop. He took pleasure in experiencing my fear, it made his abandonment all the more uncontrollable. For my part, I was in awe at his surrender to doom. There is no difference to him whether he is at the brothel or lost in thought. He always gives himself up to whatever comes his way. I take a step back, let Georges have the control, and I listen to his inner monologue: The girls are saints, they are dead bodies, they are god, who is dead, blind, rotting and lovely. He is a dying creature, his entrails torn out by a dark and horned beast. You get the point. What I see when I look at the women is nights of hiding, cold and hunger, distant lost lands, ruins of homes, teeth of steel slashing their faces. I see them looking at him, at us, they see a dying engine, they vibrate and shudder to the machine squeals we emit.

Drunk, sore and penniless, we went back to our friends at the blue corner. We collected some favors, made some promises, and, with some effort, collected enough to afford the fares at the second brothel. On our side was his calmness and charm and, to my own surprise, my own unraveling desire to get us back into excess. Now at the threshold, a hallway of mirrors, red neon light, and two sculptures. One is a white stone, more likely white plastic, imitation of a classical Greek woman statue. Next to her, a golden lion in repose. Suddenly, a furious beating of the drums and the wailing of trumpets. Then she speaks, Dorothea. She tells us it’s over. She tells us to be done with our vapid games and come and meet her, two days from now, at the last celebration for the twice born. There we shall know true misfortune and sacrifice, answer to the ravaging call of death. Euoi! Euoi! Euoi!

Tatters
Status of the organs after The Event

Brain: Present. Fine.
Eyeballs: Present. About to melt.
Pineal eye: Unmanifested.
Tongue: Present. Fine.
Ears: Gone.
Throat: Gone.
Lungs: Gone.
Heart: Present. Burning, engorged with ashes.
Liver: Gone.
Kidneys: Gone.
Gall bladder: Gone.
Stomach: Gone.
Large intestine: Gone.
Small intestine: Gone.
Sexual organs: Present. Brimming with honeyed wine, welcoming.

Frankfurt am Main, 2019

---

SEVENTH ENTRY
15th of March

They say the god is three and the same. In the heavens giving birth to her. In the ground, teaching us madness. In the black cave, kidnapping and raping her daughter who gives birth to a smaller and chthonic version of himself.

They say he came from the East, from Asia, or from the South, Ethiopia. He arrives on a chariot pulled by panthers. He is always arriving, from the edges, outsider, epiphany. To worship him is to indulge in unrestrained consumption. And he protects us, those living the wild life. His infection, his gifts, are always expanding, brewing. He brings complete uncertainty, disorientation. He is always arriving from the edges, but where is the center and where are said edges? Does he arrive from India or does he travel there? Alexander the Great’s conquest of India, recast as myth by Nonnus of Panopolis in his “Dyonisiaca”, in which the subterranean god imposes his cult and wine drinking onto the Brahmans. History dressed with myth, war too. But does this not function the other way ‘round as well? Was not Alexander drunk with ambition? Did he not raise his proud dick to heavens, pump it up with the blood of his enemies? Lucian of Samosata tells of Dionysus’ visit to Syria on his journey to Ethiopia. He raises a temple there, raises a giant phallus in the center of it too. Now gigantic phallus rain down on Syria, my land, spurt fire and ashes. Now their pirate ships sail up the Persian Gulf in search for glory. Later this ravenous war machine shall also be cast as myth, their chariot drivers as righteous heroes. For those of us who have been taught the Orphic mysteries, we know that Hades and Dionysus are one and the same. Death and madness. It was at the theater in Palmyra, that is, one of Dionysus temples, that the Islamic State executed our colleague Khaleed Assad and many more. A cruel staging for the cameras, their real entry to the world arena. Dionysus the dismembered, his fragments spread all over the globe.

I too was scattered. I too, arrived from the East on a boat. Wish he would have granted me the power to turn the mast and oars into snakes, fill the vessel with poison ivy and the sound of flutes, as he once did. But I am grateful, for his gifts have been many nonetheless. Now that Frankfurt, that the whole world is turning to shit, I am joy! I share his blessings with those who are weak, hungry, lost. And they are legion. It is the War that births them. Wars, there are so many of them now, in France, Iran, Mexico, the Vatican, or alternatively there is a single one. They are streams of blood pouring into an ocean. From those waves, the war children come to me, for they hear my call, my promise of shelter and deliverance. Wherever I go, a caravan of refugees, drunkards, homeless, junkies, orphans, soft boys, lovely women and old kind crones follow me. As I predicted, after the energy and water shortages, food supplies were exhausted too. Supermarkets are empty, but my breasts are full of honey and milk, a Dionysian gift so I may feed my herd. I have also taught them the omophagic rites, and so we go into the forest to hunt for wayward dogs and cats, the rare cow. We kill our preys and pull them apart, eat them raw. At night we gather, drunk and merry to make love in the old Peterskirchof cemetery. My congregation, I love them all. How could I not? I feel what they feel, I hear all their voices. We now remember what we all had forgotten, that our skins, cruelly keeping us apart, are but hallucinations. And so, we come together among the graves, sink into the ground.

One of those nights, inside His cavernous realm, Dionysus grants me one last vision and sets to me my final task. He lets me know that there is still much more for me to give away, to purge and excrete. He pierces the veil and I finally understand both the provenance and purpose of those two male voices constantly pestering me. We shall follow his divine path, we must come together in order to tear at each other, to enact the final sparagamos that spreads our wisdom, our eggs, all over the dying world. We locate the two lost boys, the French and the Mexican one, and summon them to my Mysteries.

Finding the forest is easy, now that the city has been thoroughly destroyed. It is better to say the forest finds us, growing constantly, drunkenly wild. From the branches hang leopard skins and the sky is obscured by a great quantity of cotton strings traversing it from and towards multiple directions. On the ground gold coins and pine cones. It is all swimming in vermilion pigment. We glimpse a great crowd, gathered around numerous mattresses and pillows, all scented and inviting. There she is, Dorothea, Dirty, naked, surrounded by her court of fools and wild men. Her face is covered by a veil made of fig leaves. She stands silent and gestures. Two of her followers bring forth the bull horns, brimming with honeyed wine. We drink profusely, again and again, to become as inebriated as possible, as fast as possible. Now, almost falling from intoxication, she removes her veil.

I look back at the composite man, part Sebastian, part Georges Bataille. I dive into their eyes, and I am, for the second time in my life, properly undone. His pupils are of pure blue, they come spilling out in disastrous waves, his ocean obliterates all. Barely staying afloat, my heart almost stops from the shock of freezing cold. The boat, the boat again! Did I ever leave that cursed raft? Our little boat, a mortal joke, an oasis of horror surrounded by a desert of boredom. And there he is too, once again, floating. We had thrown him overboard a week ago, once he died. He should have sunk. We should have never seen him again. Yet there he was. He was horribly bloated, full of gas. That explained the floating. As much as the sea salt did its best to hide the smell, the stench of putrefaction reigned supreme. The fish had been at him, part of his nose was gone, so was one ear and both eyes. If it hadn’t been for the tattoos on his chest, we would have never known it really was him. This revelation, that he was there again, in front of us, brought in the real horror, the madness that took over us all. If he was there, if we had stumbled upon him once more, a week after throwing him out into the wild sea, where were we now? Had we been going in circles all this time? We were going to die and drown. We all cried and embraced each other, somehow, even if none of us had any strength left to lift an arm, starved as we were. We became a frenzy of arms and legs punching and kicking the water, trying to move the little boat away from the body. It did not really matter where we went, as long as it was away from him and his hollowed-out stare. The moment he was out of sight, we all collapsed once more into total exhaustion. I do not know how we made it to land. I really don’t: the rest of the journey is a blur to me. I spent most of it unconscious, only properly awake for some minutes at a time and then back to black. It all fuses together in my memory, empty skies, cruel sun, then a giant wave breaks and spins me around, until it spits me into the beach. But the dreams, his visits, they remain clear, tangible. The time of his visits was long and calm, a gentle instant without end. In the dreams, he also came floating back to me, not from the waters this time, but from the clouds, high above the gray green sea. He was just as dead, just as bloated and putrid, just as mangled by the fish. But in the dream, I loved him, and I found him beautiful, marvelous. Death had turned his skin into a chromatic delirium, an aurora of decay. From potent purple hues a flowering of yellow or a blast of cadmium red would emerge. This dark flesh-galaxy loved me too, it was in my honor that it arranged all these displays of color and wonder. As we embraced, he sensed my hunger. He tore out his own meat and skin with his hands and presented them to me, as an offering. I ate from his palm, I blessed him. It was his nightly visits that sustained me the rest of the journey, and nothing more.

Now he is here once again, lying next to me. I have missed him terribly, nothing has ever tasted as good as he did, everything else has been gray and insipid in comparison. He is life. He is mine. And yet, he belongs to the starving world. I must share him, for everyone should have a taste of glory. But first, I must punish and cleanse them, take them to the cave, show them my wounds, have them worship them too. She has taken us to bed, Sebastián and me, she has led us gently to lie down, and we have followed. As we lay on our back, the silken sheets hurt us greatly, as if all our nerves had lost their fatty coating. Others join us, young and old, men and women, androgynes and hermaphrodites, some beasts too. They are ready to profane, to swallow and excrete, to birth us anew among filth, pain, ecstasy. I let my children feed first, set the table for me. We rejoice for the arrival of the inebriated kingdom. We recoil in terror. We must not let them take us to the cellar once more. We must go down, be undone. Either way there is no resisting them, with our limp and almost severed limbs. The vulture comes to pierce the toad again. They sink their beaks in us and feast. We close our eyes and all we see is blinding red. Their peckers and fingers enter us from all orifices. They cum inside us, rub their gorged labia, suck us off eagerly and repeatedly. My father. He is there, watching blindly. He has released the pack of rats, he is blowing out the candle. He is ashes and cum, he is piercing pain. Catastrophe beckons him. Across the milky-white surface of his dead eyes we are laid bare and torn apart.

Their adrenaline rushes, their frozen sweating, their wounded erections, are all mine. Two of my followers rape Georges lovingly and without pity. He takes it willingly, frightened beyond measure. Resistance calls for more blood and the eating of scabs. Their wild entanglement appears to me, for a second, as perfect, soft, fleshy marble, then shifts to a vulgar and labyrinthine circuit of flowing shit. Their lips eating and licking shit. Hungry for flesh, horny for shit. A young man, still engrossed with his penetration of Georges, achieves new levels of cruelty and enthusiasm with each thrust. I order him to my side, and so he must interrupt his enjoyment intermediately and tear himself away from the musky insides he was ploughing. I force his face into my pussy and instruct him to lick. His tongue twists inside me and the whole cosmos starts to spiral out of all permanent shapes and sensations. I wet myself among pustules and gastric implosions, rub my breasts against their torn intestines. Swarms of flies cover us and suck on our retina like erect tits.

From the bottom of the pit we look at her once more, dive into her eyes, and we are for the first time in our two lives, properly undone. In bed next to the boys and girls we love, we forget that we do not know why we are ourselves instead of the bodies we touch. In bed, below our father’s gaze. Guilty. Guilty of childish evils. We have lied, cheated, broken vows, broken toys, broken girls in the middle of the night. We have raped the villagers, raped our friends and daughters, razed cities and farm lands, covered them in salt so nothing will ever grow back. We have bombed and burnt, trafficked and enslaved. Cut their hands, tongues and faces, thrown acid at them. We have made excuses, we have been defiant, oblivious, double-faced. We have turned all cruelty into poetry, all smallness into myths. We are the house of rats, where boys run around playing cowboys and Indians, putting pins under their own nails, jerking off to the girls’ intact anuses. We are the boys who are taken to the cellar and never come back. Father, I see the blind sun now, how it rules us all. Father, I am sorry I was pure. I am sorry for being good, for not asking for more. Father, must you touch me like this? Father, must you let me steal the fire, soil the house of the living, the house of my children? Father, must we wither and become cold, never talk of real warmth and surrender? We are only children, crueler in our desire for the impossible than the world would ever dare to be. Instead, the world steals our inhumanity, ties us to common evils, daily nothings. But inside our numb organs there is a bile most wondrous, a murder most divine. If we were to turn ourselves inside out, overflowing, we would turn the world upside down too, turn the world, quite ineluctably, upside down. But where to start? Take our zoos, packed with beasts. Pale dissections of what once was wild, free. Yet there, in a corner, stunned girls stare at the lubricious anus of the ape, a beautiful boil of red flesh. From the rump discharges of energy rise to the top of their small round heads. They look at him with…

Horror. I have looked into the eyes of the composite man once more, seen his inner rot. Razor engine, furnace of freezing flame. The men stationed at our village, their courteous smiles and the dungeon they kept for their games. The thunder and trembling in total darkness, underground. The sleepy babes who wake no more. It never left me, across the ocean and the bribes, the hunger and my drained nerves. He is a monstrous erection without escape, without rule. From all his mouths and craters, the buried rotten shit of millennia comes spurting out at once. I cannot stop myself, stop myself from falling, from this humiliation and my overflowing kindness, it is his tyrannical disgust that makes me burn. I am trembling, I am wet as the ocean. I am running away, grinding my teeth until they splinter. I am fingering my tatters. I paint my mouth black with tar and gobble up all the excrement lustfully, choking in pleasure. He is beautiful. He is my red and purple black floating corpse, my fetid cosmos and sustainer. He is insignificant. He is the gray eminence administering ruin to the nations out of boredom. He is horrifying awe. He is the little boy who would rule this world with cruel miracles, have you worship him as he spits in your face and have his whole court laugh at you. I love him and I exclaim it so. I throw myself at him, into oblivion. She makes the leap, she says yes to the wretchedness of the air, yes to all indignities, from the most juvenile contempt to the most sophisticated, organized intimidation. She says yes to fading away into obscurity, yes to shining for an imperceptible instant at the center of the world. She says yes to being discarded, she says yes to becoming farmable land, place of worship, site of a massacre. She says yes to the death that pullulates over our lips. She says yes to us, says yes to our every blister, callus and flatulence, yes to each stolen illumination, constrained tears, egocentric depressions, manic foldings and recolings, each ugly chuckle. She says yes to hunting us in the dark forest, she says yes to being pierced by our lacking arrows. She says yes to our pig’s heart, wandering eyes, hairy moles, broken ribs. She says yes to our Father’s wounds, to our blindness and lack of imagination. She says yes, a yes most loud and roaring, shining trumpet of revelation. She says yes and cracks the world. She says yes and we laugh and laugh and laugh.

Euoi! Euoi! Euoi! Oh, it is just so beautiful. Hundred thousand tigers are spread across the ceiling. Rise after their slumber. Loud-roaring, revelling, chanting, they arrive. Euoi! Euoi! Euoi! Here come the frenzied ones, waving their pine cone-tipped sticks. Mad and drunk. There are three of them. The number is certain, mystical. On their bikes, there are thousands of them, seven and a half, none. Heads thrown backwards constantly so as to break their spines, shake them like rattles. Hornet nests as lips kissing each other. Apocalyptic sound. Shell-fringed skirts, snakes peeking out of their labia. Ecliptic spiders. Euoi! Euoi! Euoi! The cave child, the red child, is born. Let’s tear him into pieces! The two embracing bodies, let them never fall apart again. Thyrsus with their flagging tainia, raised and used like lances, safety pins for the shattered lovers. Thyrsus piercing their hearts, milk flows. Thyrsus across her womb, wine bubbles. Thyrsus to remove all organs. Feed the decapitated heads to the snakes and the bulls and the leopards. Euoi! Euoi! Euoi! Out come the eggs, ready to crack, full of fools. Euoi! Euoi! Euoi! The thunderbolt pilots all things! The pineal eye is opened!

Tatters
Status of the organs after The Event

Brain: Gone.
Eyeballs: Gone.
Pineal eye: Open, burning.
Tongue: Gone.
Ears: Gone.
Throat: Gone.
Lungs: Gone.
Heart: Gone.
Liver: Gone.
Kidneys: Gone.
Gall bladder: Gone.
Stomach: Gone.
Large intestine: Gone.
Small intestine: Gone.
Sexual organs: Gone.

Manbij, 2011

---

EIGHT ENTRY

Everything has changed. A man devours another and in doing so lets himself be consumed by the excess that a spiraling thought-presence manifests. His body just a husk, organs liquefied, becomes a host to a thousand and one eggs. A woman is constantly dismembered and put back together again, each time more open to the world and its insistence. Two sides of madness develop parallel yet entangled, drive each other to improved equivocations. The man and the woman never leave the bed where they have coupled. In their embrace, a center of undoing, the impossible is summoned. It comes through the cracks that laughter brings, at the limits of desire and repulsion, in the precipice of communication between terrible lacks. Pierced bodies, Thyrsus as energy nexuses. The bony roof of the head is shattered by the gestating embryo, from black flame rises the visionary rotten sun. Thunderous blossoming of all human faces, their energetic discharges so ravaging they reach the beginning of the cosmos, potentiate formlessness to twist the rest of eternity into its non-image. This incantation is dictated to all consciousness still embodied, the very few remaining. We are burning and we see everything.

Nothing has changed. There is purity and order, there are systems, zones of silence and of speech. The sacrificial engines are still spinning and hungry. They consume and assimilate, one speck of gold and heaps of excreted lives. A man leaves a brothel, throat tasting of gasoline. Red stone houses, thrift shops, bakeries. A village drowns underneath an avalanche of mud. Towering skyscrapers, crowded apartment buildings, underground bunkers. In a border town one woman is raped and murdered. Then another. An another. And another. Old men share cigarettes, children run around. Acid rain. In a dark room, green shine on his face, a young soldier pushes the joystick’s trigger to lock on his target. On the top of a mountain a herd of sheep is startled by loud mechanic roaring as the shepherd’s house and family are blown out into the heavens. Homes are foreclosed, bank accounts emptied. Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees. Torches held up, chants of glory and purity, baby fat around their dull eyes. Black miasma coupling with salt water. Covered with cardboard and old jackets patched with duct tape, sleeping and dreaming of the next life, an old man is showered in gasoline and bursts into flame. Families joyfully filling plastic jugs, raucous laughter to greet the gifts the geyser showers them with, then a spark, then a flame, ashes.

Everything has changed. All trajectories potentiated by accumulation are now reversed: those who were cast down, excluded, sucked out, come back. Our egg children. Yet they do not come to devour, to consume, but to be swallowed again. They force themselves into the mechanisms of assimilation, become and abundance that cannot be discriminated and broken down. Victory through debasement, infinite expansion of the wounds. We are there with them, we the three who have no borders, who are one. The searing and divine blindness that the pineal eye has granted, we offer it in service of our children. We ease their birth, point them to the most fragile obsolesces so they may sacrifice themselves to them, trick them into swallowing our victim-offspring and thus turn the machines into hosts for our bacchanal parasites. With mankind unbound from time, the eggs are spread to hatch across distant lands and times. One is opened near Cempoala, another at the eastern shore where the young drunken god once crossed to conquer the Helenian kingdom. One egg is a blemish on the leathery surface of a map. Another is hidden and unspoken, with its maw a shadow that the future casts, beckoning time to march forwards and be devoured.

Witness the return of the broken, the recurring and unbeatable misfortune that shapes itself into a weapon: Across the no man’s land the fell boys, the children of Somme, rise once more, resurfacing from the wet soil like green buds in Spring. Uncaring to how the world has moved on, they return at the exact location of their fall, and so it is that some gestate at the center of bricked walls or grow fast below tractors, tipping them over once their whole bodies have reemerged. Their ripening is a reenactment of their original deaths, forced once more upon them as carmine blooming. At the six bridges over the river Main, phantasmagorical Hebrew processions come to reclaim the toll of five thousand rat tails that was once placed upon them. The ghosts offer their apologies and see to it that the tails are returned to their original owners. Now complete once again, the murine beasts quickly scuttle and cavort, their bottomless greed tugging at the heart of things, and the houses and barns comply, pregnant with corn and fruit.

Forever in the beginning He-Whom-is-Covered-in-Sores, Nanahuatzin, has been jumping into the pyre willingly, as all the other, prideful gods refrain. Every time the fire turns his pustules into the ever-giving nuclear lament of what is now the Sun. His suffering, his wretchedness overflowing across empty space and reaching the fifth world like warm waves. All creation, all movement stemming from self-inflicted destruction. It is the deformed one who sustains both the lowly and the pure. When they arrived at the border of the lake, hungry, dispossessed, the Mexica were like lepers, like Nanahuatzin, to the eyes of the lords commanding those lands. They were forced to wallow, to eat larvae and vermin. Now their glorious solar empire rules from Cihuatlan to Tochpan, from Oxtlipa to Coyolapan. Its fearless warriors bring captives to the temples, tear their beating hearts to feed the voracious Sun. Nanahuatzin jumps again, except this time, he is not alone. From his egg-pustules an army of Chichimeca and Totonaca steps forth. They are at the gates and they want their stolen flayed gods back. They throw themselves at the flint-heliophage machinery, feed it with their blood to the point of explosive indigestion. They slip their limbs into the obsidian cogs until they spin no more. The Indians holding up the columns of the lettered city renounce the Atlantean task, watch as the baroque ceilings rain down and sink into the mud. Among the oily clouds the divinatory dwarves pour the contents of their barrels down to earth. All burns, all is tarred, smoke-filled polished mirror.

The ink that had scribbled creation’s laws, it is burning too, bubbling: Cells begin to approach the continuation of the genetic code as one would automatic writing. Wonderful and until now impossible mutations abound. Children born with their eye sockets fused to their ears and feet; palm trees black like tar which quickly catch fire and vanish; fungal, feathered parasites that turn brick and mortar into digestible pulp for their own sustenance. Buildings now extend themselves into impossible dimensions, with all disregards to gravity or consistency, many times their true size remains obscured as the borders between them and the vegetation around them are almost gone. Windows that open like bleeding wounds, clusters of pigeon wings as their tormented eyelashes.

Finally, has violence been freed from sterile utility. It is not an engine nor a tool anymore. It is the most extravagant carnival, the orgiastic revolution which never ends, which has no other goal but revolt, profanation, excess: The marbled halls of Saint Peter resound with the joyful music of flutes and bells. Many priests have been hanged; many still await execution. For now, they are allowed to live one last day and join the celebration. A new supreme pontiff has been chosen by the rabble that stormed the Vatican walls. She is but a little child, toying with her scepter, the head of her predecessor mounted on a pike. All her whims, all her cruel infantile jokes, are soon scripted into a new gospel. In Manbij, Syria, the once vanquished diluvial waters bubble up to the surface, black with oil and ground bones. The American empire has thrown all its mighty spears and thunders at the Persians. The war lasts for decades. Coffers are emptied, entrails too. The exhausted engine leaks on all sides, its gastric nuclear acids rotting its molars and bones. The cannibal dynamo at Moloch’s breast implodes, overworked. The soldiers get lost, go mad, come back to Jacksonville and Minneapolis, San Jose and New York, speaking in tongues, mutated by radiation. They convert themselves to the worship of Ahura Mazda, the wise lord and ponder the Zoroastrian hymns. Intestine war breaks at home. A Dionysian incursion, a delirious Alexander at its head, reversed, not to bring down but to install a new Persian reign over the Atlantic. Washington, the new tomb of Cyrus, once again defiled, with gusto.

Do you see what it is, to summon the impossible inside an instant, to be useless and soft like molten skin? In our failure, in our arousal without consummation, hovering between fantasy and fact, we can finally vanquish it all: It’s over. The head is gone, lopped off, never was. At its death mouth, we the eggs, we the germs and the maggot, pullulate. We are all the vermin in history. Brutes who do not understand the Law. We are the malady that brings the servile search for truth to an end. We, inorganic swarm of rodent incest. Our blind hour climbs downwards to the pit where the heavens drown. We come from among the waves of the gray sea, the drowned, the escaped, the slumbering tigers of the East, retreading the journey of Dionysian wisdom. We come from underneath, the downtrodden, the hungry and the mad. We come from in between the cracks of your walls, we come from the hollowed-out spaces of blasphemy and transgression. Birthed under the sign of the unwanted, unavowed and unknown. Dressed with the shadows that your towers cast, we know the crooked ways of your entrails far better than you ever could. Our bodies, scarred by your orders and cruel systems, have seen the glitches that create an opening. Your instruments of vivisection, languages to mutilate, they all fail you now. You have birthed us in horror. Now we are at your door and only horror will not fail you.

Continuity ∞