IT [Experimental Prose / Writing Exercise]
A short writing exercise in steam of consciousness, written whilst listening to this
It bleeds from every corner, every rune permutates through this ether into the back of crooked eye sockets, bled black rot, insipid virus. It crawls in the flesh, cradles the anxiety. It’s everywhere, creeping shadow, death, rot, Media. Newsreader on TV, blowjob eyes, international conflicts, multiple orgasms, winking porno actresses, reptilian anthrax.
It doesn’t blink when you sleep, what need has it for sleep? It’s the crawling nether of some long forgotten chaos dream, some parasitic violent fever dream of some obscene Noir King on a throne of blades, burning bright and black for twenty eons. Perhaps it is death, perhaps it is void, emptiness, everyone has a different ‘it’, every one assigns ‘it’ a different mask.
It could find you on a cold night in New York, or lounging back in Hawaii . It doesn’t discriminate based on age, gender, sexual preference or creed. It lives deep inside the Pandora’s Box of the mind – the obscene boils of the sewer Queen squealing with delight, the nether Cybernetic fuck mind, the orgies of the queer Pope, consumed and black lining of stinking anus shit.
It boars deep into it’s victim and find host, sublime anti-Christ of the imagination that few men make peace with, or even confront on any level, so they turn from this Toad Lord, on it’s throne of pestilence. It gives each man and women a mask to hide the anonymous alien of surface, spit pouring forth from mouth to free demons that dwell in man’s jet black corners, mood surface light. Death, 25th century Hedonistic death drive towards abomination.
It’s inspired millions to madness, driven thousands to just ‘follow orders’, created mounds of bodies in dust covered wastelands. Some man have called it Lucifer, it has so many names in the tongues of all, it is the broken soul of the creature known as man, searching for stability in the void of infinite space in 360 degrees of crushing void.
It sneaks up on me, I feel it breathe on my neck, feel it’s burning gaze break through membranes into the back of my brain, possess my dead soul and inspire words of blasphemy, inspire a craven image or two, driven to visions of absolute power and obscene hallucinatory megalomania. Demon Burgle laughing on throne of basking bone. Cerberus and cackling hen.
It can be anything, it can be anywhere, any place, everyplace. It does not matter to it, the it-ness is in everything, detached dead eye of Nebulous – a chapel of Bone engraved in human memory, a plague of the death of reason, the opening to the nexus of unbridled violence, the spasm of the vortex, spilling forth into the organic cage of reality. A thousand rolling eyes of surveillance in an endless twisting internal maze.
It’s here now. Can’t you feel it? There in the corner, grinning widely, an invisible grin that hides the malice of centuries, the grin that goaded Christ to accept his fate on the cross, and tempted Eve with the Apple of seeing, it cackles at your failure, exalts when you fall, sniggers when you crash, delights in your suffering. Beast, Man, Woman, Fall.
It is inside you, face it or wait for it’s inevitable crush, there is no middle ground on this one. Until you stare into the depths of yourself, you will remain blind wondering in the Desert, Blinking for a memory of Sun.
It is whatever you assign it to be.
Fear. Death. Sex. Art. Choice.