Let’s Shock Someone!

A Nice Little Cookbook For Human Flesh

No, literally. Let’s devise a master plan designed to electrocute the next bum who passes by with 100,000 volts of white lightning! Who cares about him anyway, dressed in those faux-fatigues he bought at the flea market on 13th. I’m sure his network of under-the-bridge demon-dwellers might miss him, and even report his absence, but wouldn’t you like to know the smell of fried flesh? Mmm, like deep fried chicken or chicharrones. We’ll stew his chopped-up little bits in a huge, black cauldron filled with peanut oil pressed from thousands of pounds of deep south peanut plantations still manned by negro slaves. While we’re at it, we can take one and fry them straight-flame since the niacin is pulsing through their blood by now. I can see, smell and taste the boiling, bubbling juices rising through the pores of stratum cornea like sweat, except it’s the tastiest fats and proteins being convected from within. I’m getting hungry!

Cannibalism, it’s enough! I can see a body decapitated, gurgling, swishy-gushy sounds coming from a mouth whose jugular veins and carotid arteries are being hatcheted with a jungle machete. I gotta keep a boot solidly placed on the cheek, hard enough to crush the zygomatic as a way to route the pain from neck to face. Oh, how beautiful it looks spilling out onto the dull, brown earth underneath. I’m sure the body would wriggle more if I hadn’t tied arms and legs together, hog-wild-style! I thought the machete would be sharp enough to get through vertebrae – boy, was I wrong. Good thing I brought the hatchet. A few hacks and clean cut. What do I mean clean cut? Shit, any forensics expert or dumb, beat cop could tell I was bludgeoning the poor soul’s neck to pulp. Guess it’s what I get for not sharpening the utensils before use, know what I’m saying? But I ache for the skull.

I’m not a zombie, and according to zombie experts they can’t get to them anyway, but brains are a delicacy if sauteed properly with the right spices. The secret is to keep the tissue stirred, not allowing any of the gray matter to turn brown. Don’t use butter! I repeat, do not use butter. There’s so much lipid content in the myelin sheath, it’s like taking a cow’s fat ass and burning it to a cow-assed size skillet – drenched I tell you. So as long as you keep the organ off the iron, the interface is spacious enough to prevent attachment. Hell, poor brain has no attachment to anything except my tummy pretty soon. The truth behind the matter – it’s like eating steak-flavored tofu, rich and succulent, but healthy as fucking lembas bread! Truly chief – it’s a Melanesian delicacy! Just don’t tell the damn Korowai cuz they eat the thoughts raw. Baby, I don’t like it raw.

What I can do raw are testes. Like caviar my friend. But not sand negro nuts. Not Abu Ghraib-style either. You can’t stress out a testicle with alligator-clipped pulses of current before it’s eaten. It needs to be seduced, maybe even partially ejaculated, say the plateau stage. That’s when they’re tender, having recruited and accumulated semen galore! Of course, as it goes for fellating sluts, so it goes for fine-dining connoisseurs like myself – make sure the testes have been treated with rich and deliciously healthy foods. It’s amazing how a raw testicle can taste succulent like passion fruit, or fatty and smelly like a fucking Styrofoam-boxed burger. And one more thing – don’t cut through it or it drips and pours like a faucet. Give a little superficial slit into the scrotum, then pop it through the opening and sever the vas deferens. The less deferens the better cuz it’s hard to chew, like unagi – crunch and pull. Pull, man! Use those canines!

You know, I only wanted to shock a fucker. Some homeless man passing by with his piles of shopping cart crap. I wanted to know what the application of torture felt like, you know, to put me on par with the sick fucks who can kill kids and moms, rape the moms cuz they’ve been horny for a year now and the troop’s sole homo ass is wrought with hemorrhoids, blisters and infection – kinda all in the same – yet still be assigned to tease nude towelheads with German shepherds and kinky, androgynous, redneck blondes stripping to Metallica. I mean, we gotta know about the moral waste we’ll be facing when the shit hits the fan and our 21st century civil war begins to mark the sequel. I mean, can you do it, bro? Or is this all a bunch of cock talk? Hmm? I ask myself the same question, or did when I began, and now I have a nice little cookbook for human flesh. It ain’t no joke, is it? ☺

A Vicious Paranoiac Cycle

Who is Mentally Ill? Which One Is Which?

The political and social rhetoric about the January 2011 political murders in Arizona is banal! The comments offered for the murderer’s reasons are mantric – crazy! Mental illness and drug abuse are the default causes for six deaths and a state politician’s near death, but has been the culturally-routine response for media since Columbine and in various other non-youthful circumstances since the 1960’s. To ascertain flat affect in response to the individual’s missed “cry for help,” according to PBS, is a soporific heartstring toward a lingering civilized dilemma – carelessness!

Ambivalence!

Why aren’t we tugging on the bloody strands of the life we still have left? This violent event gives talking heads news for a few days but only reignites the wet fuse with a few short-lived sparks. Spark, sparkle, then out – singed! Even as the partisan arguments revel in “post-racial” USA, Gabrielle Giffords and the nameless shooter are both white – burn! Can you hear my unstable screams?

What conceptualization do we have to trace a path to clarify the ensuing affliction?

1) Arizona. An imaginarily-delineated land area, most of which is desert, and the most press coverage in 2010 because of racially-motivated debate and debacle.

2) Multiple homicide. Not as unusual as serial murder when it occurs as a shooting, but rare at political events.

3) Mental illness. Many think education and homosexuality are the “red herrings” of the 21st century, which is true when they’re used to obstruct the uncertainty and overwhelming issues of psychosis.

In fact, dissociation gently occluded by the phrase “mental illness” is the canary in the coal mine, to use another socially-accepted, cliched, lingual routine. Be aware because minds aren’t diagnostically-determinable through lists or careful observations of willing participants by federally-funded clinical gaggles. It’s the unwilling with fierce stances ‘against’ whom are the people to beholden! They aren’t exactly ill, they just don’t believe in standards, in belonging to collective alienation and cultural expectancy. We know what we’re doing.

Of course, there isn’t advocacy for murder as an action against hierarchical exploitation for personal gain – at least not here and not by anarchaos psychology. The mental “incapacity” of the promulgated murderer represents an individual whose self-defense – the only excuse for killing – is purely ideological. Though, the only highlighted characteristics the public have been informed of involve his desperation observed through social media and classroom encounters. Further personal information is yet to be revealed. The root shoots through the layers – what is unexpected?

Did he have violence in his life? If so, then the cause becomes nurture. He’s no longer considered mentally ill, instead becoming a victim of the familiar, nuclear incident USAn culture is excused of forging a deeper responsibility for. If he grew up privileged, comforted and loved, is it mutated genes? A lack of neurotransmitter? Incommunicable Kreb’s cycles? The neurological wiring must be misfiring, if the glove don’t fit, we must acquit. There it is, race injected into 6 degrees of post-racial, democratic politics and the self-interested few who think they’re looking after the best interests of those of us who are overcoming unmistakable odds. Sure, we’ll fight, but will we kill? Someone has given an answer.

I can relate to Jared Loughner in many ways. I was socially awkward in high school and had friends whom I could rant about philosophy and conspiracy with. But I fell away from them, as he did. I used marijuana, mushrooms and drank heavily for years, wrapping myself into an introspective cocoon, though being social and promiscuous as well. If it wasn’t for women, I might have taken a step toward more violent action. I read and enjoy the same books as he does, even going so far as to enjoy more violent, chaotic and anarchic texts than he has yet been exposed to. I’ve used similar rhetoric when composing about USA and the culture surrounding me, going as far as asking for it’s total annihilation. A daunting task indeed. I’ve also been deterred from deep conversations because most people can’t or don’t want to have a more academic level of discourse. They don’t want a more detrimental level of action. I looked and still do look to the department of defense for a way to order these violent rebukes, the ones which linger each day I get older yet refuse to act on because I’m loved by a woman.

Another person is in love with me as I am them, irrespective of what I believe. She is strong enough to not run away or become consumed and let’s me hide in my lab, creating and toiling at what I tend to think is a life’s work, a masterpiece to undermine the strict laws and social guidelines which have driven – no, forced – no, demanded – each USAn citizen to function as a particular asset in one or a few people’s misguided approaches to our country’s being. I understand the steps taken to get from an intangible ideology of state or system to the very unchangeable beings of the individuals who make up the populace, but with much effort a person can change and a group of 360,000,000 people can make an imaginarily-delineated land mass appear as the true civilization of continued, efficient survival in a tumultuous natural space.

Each time a newsworthy event is reported on, I feel the need to address the lackluster discussion which ensues in my mindspace. I aim to use words depicting the droll – the boring, taunt, empty-headed, amateurish retort of “experts” contacted to comment on dire straits. It’s amusing in a painful way. I listened to reports on public television, a few privately-owned broadcasts and public radio, but it’s heard with unease. No one addresses the real issues, instead magnifying the instance and summating cause as solely, individually, irrevocably his. True, he did pull the trigger many times, but our globalized, nationalized, statist, united lives can’t be only recruited in happy, surreal, everlasting jubilation by normal standards. Our togetherness and interconnectivity in matters mental and violent are intimate and passionate, and coalesce in a very physically-transformative way. If one Giffords can be shot because of her actions as a politician who’s held to blame for Loughner’s oppression, every other supposed human force is fearful of an outbreak. I tread lightly when suggesting a politician can be a force, but it’s their mentally instability we must occupy for concern that all their “good” intentions, systems of control and/or “treatment”, and social acceptance is fantastical and fanatical. When a person is out of reach to those other than undergirded familiars, there’s cause for a heightened awareness of what may be, of what may occur to someone with mass influence but little availability. It’s become a vicious paranoiac cycle of who started it first – or who’s going to start it. Rich or poor? Powerful or weak? Loved or unloved? Ill or healthy? Which one is which?

Pop! Pop! Goes The Joint!

Dream a little dream…

Ruger Shakur

A Trowel In Your Heart!

In an ode to NYC, rap and bullets to the head, I had a violent dream about the beauty of the city at night. It began by me being told I was to expect a visit from Tupac Shakur and his crew. A gun fight was initiated, though I did nothing to cause it. As soon as I heard this, I was scared. In a past dream, I’d been targeted and jumped on the street by a couple of his thugs, caught entirely by surprise.

Once I found out of this upcoming scenario, everything became very clear. A few of my friends were around – Tommy and Brandon – and were in on the battle. We were all hanging on the stoop of an apartment building, somewhere high and deep in the east side of Manhattan. It was dark out but the luminance of peach-colored street lights was creating a tense ambience, one expecting something more from us and the bystanders passing by. Suddenly, all my friends’ guns came out. I didn’t have one, which frightened me even more because of the impending trouble. I did get a hold of Brandon’s Ruger during the course of the next few minutes and began to get comfortable with it. I checked the sights, aiming at running dogs on the basketball court just down the street. The chamber seemed to be a bit loose, swaying side to side on the handle. I tightened a knob under the trigger, but it was still loose – another concern about how I’d handle a duel. It shot well enough as I pulled the trigger to propel a bullet right behind a passing dog, scaring it but not hitting it.

After some time with the Ruger, a van pulled up on the other side of a brown ’72 Caddy we were occluded by. Out jumped a blonde, normal-looking meathead, not a person of interest I’d assume to be hanging with Tupac. He was holding an automatic rifle, no idea what caliber, but before he began shooting I turned to him and shot his arm. He raised the rifle in the air and began shooting straight up and I took two more shots at his head. Both embedded deep. He jumped into the van and the driver drove off, peeling out as they left.

I checked the chamber and found I only had one bullet left. This is when a few more characters entered the dream. The son of a friend of my father’s came strolling down the street. He had bullets for the Ruger and divulged information about how my father had caused the conflict. I was expecting him to say this because it had been my father’s doing when Tupac’s crew came after me the first time. The plan was to cruise out there in one of my dad’s friend’s vans. This friend was Tom Noonan, a la Michael Mann’s Heat, sans the wheelchair. We cruised up East River Drive, the same peach-tinted light shining through the wet, small, round windows of the empty van. We were all on the floor with Noonan driving and no one talking. We headed over the RFK Bridge into Queens.

When we rolled up into a neighborhood, it didn’t feel like a Queens ghetto, though that’s what I expected. Instead it was a neighborhood like San Diego might have – a little lower class, right on the edge of the the nicer neighborhoods with beachfront property. We stopped at a house with a large carport and two cars in the driveway, both blocking easy raid action to the front door. Noonan got out while we remained. My nerves began to tweak as I knew the battle was coming. Was I going to die? Would I get to Tupac? Was I going to shit my pants in the process?

Noonan came back with a bag of chronic, telling us to smoke it to ease the tension. There was no way I was going to do it, but Brandon jumped all over the bag, filling his pipe and easing into what fate lied ahead. I hesitated but finally took a few puffs. Just as I was pulling my gun out, cocking it and prepping my temper, my dad walks out of the house. I could just see him through the narrow gap between Noonan, the pipe he was smoking and the van’s seats. Noonan noticed I was looking, turned around, and my dad gave him the nod. Noonan said, time’s up boys.

I was holding the gun, ready for Noonan to open the van door and for me to bust through the yard, straight into that house to lay Shakur out. But when he opened it and saw me holding it he said, you won’t be needing that Micah, and he pulled out a trowel. Not for me, but for him. My dad was waiting between the two cars with his trowel. He looked at me, and I wanted to get in his face about all of this, but Tommy and Brandon rushed me to the door with their burst behind me.

When we got inside Tupac was sitting on the couch with four other brothers in a daze, or what appeared to be a daze because everything became slow motion. On the right was a Christmas tree, behind us a TV which must have been keeping their attention, and an unfinished blunt sitting in an ashtray next to Tupac. Immediately, Noonan and my dad went up to Tupac and the brother next to him and start jabbing the trowels into their chests and stomachs. They didn’t fight back but took the few blows and smiled. Brandon and Tommy handled the third brother, using their hands to keep him on the couch and hit him. The fourth brother got up, which surprised me, and came at me. I hit him in the face, knocking him down, then proceeded to kick him in the gut four or five times. I elbowed him in the face, and started to see how much blood we had drawn from the crew. It was covering our hands, clothes, and faces, though the injuries weren’t enough to kill Tupac and his boys.

Then we all stopped.

My dad and Noonan turned to us and said, now you gotta consume it, lick it off of you. Like some sort of ritual they began to lick the blood from their hands. I had more blood on my forearms, so I licked that off. We didn’t get it all, but just enough to show some sort of respect to our supposed enemy. After we finished, Noonan and my dad when up to Tupac, and more like a greeting line at a wedding than a funeral, began shaking hands with Tupac and the rest, giving them love. I followed suit, a little uneasy, but did it.

On the way out, Tupac said, you got us this time sneaky bastards, but the game is on. He said it with a smile and gave my dad a little nod. My dad smile and nodded back and we left.

I was still worried about getting the same treatment but was pleased I didn’t get capped or have to cap anyone. That fear was more intense than the fear of anticipating injury in a dream to come.

USA the Jester!

Joke’s on Oo-Suh!

A-DIC, Anti-Democratic International Counterterrorist

Pejorative Sacrosanctity of the Union

The smear has begun and every major media outlet is in fine form supporting the triage. Anarchists won’t let Julian Assange perish because he and Wikileaks are now credible enemies to the hegemonic ‘State of the World’ and are doing a fine job of it. The concern now is over the term media used which identified Wikileaks as “whistle-blower”, though “espionage” and “high-tech terrorist” or digital terrorist are more moving. Unfortunately, the positive information-letting Assange and company have done is being painted by many groups – USA, major media outlets such as the New York Times and Reuters, television network news, and several foreign states – as negative and against the retched motive of “people working to advance the cause of human rights and democracy around the world,” according to the White House. According to the leaks, the people revealed in the thousands of pages are clearly not working toward human rights or democracy, and in fact represent much the opposite.

As long as Assange can evade guilt for the sexual deviance he’s accused of, there isn’t any other criminality involved in his case and he’s able to milk the global whitelight for all it’s worth. Some analysts in the USA government and more conservative media outlets are firmly labeling the group as anti-USA, looking for public support to again burn the witch. Every year there’s someone new charred. Luckily, at the end of 2010 and beginning of 2011, it might not be Arabic-named citizens. Of course, that’s speculation. For it might just be Serbian-born citizens with perverse amounts of explosive-readiness who top USA’s Anti-Democratic International Counterterrorist Sort, or A-DICs, going into the new year. Either way, some trepidatious pejorative will accompany a non-USA country or non-English language soon enough.

Simply writing about the leaked controversy from the opposite side – in support of Assange’s and Manning’s actions – makes the skin hot and anger rise. For once not everything USA is secretive and calm. There’s a steady failure in security, and the story is tending to take center stage while a vital lower socioeconomic collapse is being publicly avoided. The wealthy will continue to keep the money they’ve never worked hard for instead of the playing field leveling out. The government, which unabashedly supports the capitalistic quo, is seen as a security liability, yet the information revealed is rather useless and not-so-disrespectfully unsurprising. The currents events are compelling, are moments when drastic dissolutions could be taking place – USA seen as the villain and sympathizers for the underdog rise; rich, pompous, mostly Anglo citizens brought to tears when they actually have to pay their fair share (and fair by human standards, not economic theorems). The moment is wasted unless more speak out.

Everyone has a say and it comes from a passionate, short-sighted, illogical place. Even USA’s government is quick to admonish Assange and Wikileaks, as is their host Amazon. Before a rational, careful introspection can be made about the use of said information concerning “Teflon” Merkel, “Hot Blonde” Gadhafi, “Epileptic” Jong Il, “Schizo” Karzai, or “Mischievous” Chavez, USA fires back with blind support and hollow moral rhetoric. Instead, it can make fun of itself and turn the situation into satire. Give Ep-Jong il-eptic a call and suggest him as a caricature for a federally-funded film. The MPAA needs some foreign support in case it’s DoS’ed again. Or inform SKarzai-prhenia he’s the new poster child for a new NIH radical, anti-pharmaceutical, opiate-derived remedy for mental illness. Maybe even give Senor Mis-Chav-ious a ring and tell him he’s now been given a Tiffany’s pre-diamond, carbon encrusted red velvet crown to match the revolutionary red he sports as the champion of anti-Western sentiment and Bolivarian revival. Give them their peace of mind through a less violent and contemptuous diplomatic strategy. You’d think a black man would have the humor in him. Unfortunately, his speaker and staff are oozing assholes lacking the muscle to spew back into their own face. Visual metaphors – gotta love USAn sacrosanctity!

It isn’t a joke – the global, diplomatic revelations of cognomens by USA. It’s very serious to consider that much of the vital information is composed so casually, and released in an ever more comfortable manner. There’s premise behind the paranoid panic of describing exactly what Assange is and how to deal with what looks an awful lot like freedom of information and the base ideals for which all democracies are intended to be designed by. Spinsters and unimportant media personalities will incogently duel the disjointed, traditional perspective, turning USA into the political enantiodromia of which we can be sure it has to be. Take the ‘lower socioeconomic failure‘ mentioned above and we see an administration which captured a presidency using an antimonous rhetoric now reversed to the benefit of continued illogical, personal wealth. Again, the joke is on the pejorative “poor”.

Is Assange a lower class savior or a selfish exploiter of government-owned information? Does it change what has happened if he is labeled either? Will this leak develop a standard for the potential “cyber war” so many of us aren’t concerned with? The poor could care less if the rich decimate every last byte representing every last symbolic paper bill signifying every manual effort made by those still having to wash their hands of toil at the end each day, only to go home and make their own food, wash their own clothing, fix their own leaking roofs, till their own cropland, and mend their broken hearts because they’ve been triaged as darker-skinned A-DICs. I ain’t A-DIC! But the joke’s on USA!

Checkmate! King of Chaturanga!

Assange the Anarchist, Anarchy the Achiever

Be enthralled by Julian Assange. Whether it be because USA’s State Department or P.J. Crowley consider him anarchist, or because he’s done something cybernetic-hacker-provocateurs have imagined for years in books and films alike, it doesn’t change the fact he’s nothing more than a tech geek undermining the self-imposed, most powerful force on earth. It’s a proud day to be considered one of his group.

There’s a thrill abound when one and a few persons can obtain and leak classified, secret state information which isn’t so classified or secret. Most USAns and world citizens must be idiotic and dense if they don’t already understand the goals and diplomatic angles their countries traverse to stay dominantly ahead. I.D. foreign leaders, express uncertainties about not-so-terrible possible terrorists, spread lifestyle rumors about dignitaries – all in a day’s work. These actions aren’t surprising and haven’t been for years.

What’s surprising are the extreme measures USAn government and media will go to slant and label, slander and libel, or singularly smear the hierarchical-disabling Australian, while forcibly detaining the Gagaesque agent who proved just how easy it is to gain invaluable political rhetoric. There wasn’t a world-dominating blueprint included in the leaks, merely the same nonsense we usually tend to hear after it’s proved ineffective in the international game of kings.

“Espionage” and “unknown whereabouts” are the most exciting terms associated with Assange’s game. His name is known but he’s tagged with a red A around his neck, yet he can’t be found, is working with a lawyer, was interviewed by “Time”, and gave a shout out to USA Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. Pretty powerful move coming from the digital chess master. Will it amount to anything other than an international threat and manhunt? If Sweden and France are looking for him, it must be serious, right?

The leaks don’t make USA look weak or vulnerable to the world. They merely concretize the cultural western value of scandalmongering as vital. Those with candid careers shouldn’t expect secrecy their forte. But this event is worthless. The only ascertainable triumph is Assange’s consideration as anarchist and his past in relation to Santinketan. Otherwise, the fact remains he’s in need of power satiation and a checkmate, and is somewhat misogynist.

Initially, many jumped on this bandwagon’s horse, but after finding out about Assange’s rape accusations, his previous hacking schemes, and his general recklessness, they fell off. Putting a face to the name has jeopardized the purity of his actions, and while he’s able to galavant worldwide without being caught, the source of his ability to do so remains suspect. In many ways, he fits the same profile as those he’s worked so hard to out. The regime he’s created underground has now unearthed itself, and at the cost of damaging the nature of non-rule existence, they’re a new party in the battle to control the strategy of global information systems.

Assange worked within the system. He may bring it crashing down, but only 250,000 files of it. He’s done what he can and it’s up to the rest of us to contribute what we know to an even deeper sense of alienated decay. It’s not what we know and how we do it that matters, it’s how we remain unknown and do what we’ve never done before. To stay and play in the same match as those blatantly unaware of their effect on spectacles more sweeping than themselves is irresponsible. Another pawn will be sacrificed while the king and queen sit comfortably in e1 and d1.

Tread deeper, but do so without using reference and fact after linear fact falsely representing the truth we all tend to believe. Julian Assange is a small piece on a much larger board. Unfortunately, there isn’t one or even a few individuals controlling the qualitative psychological renderings of discrimination culturally, economically or intellectually. Such hatred and solicitation exists within even the most pacifistic individual. Why be peace-loving if by doing so means to reject conflict, war and violence and create a state of friction? Even unconditional refusal to participate in violence as many have done throughout history supports an oppositional goal.

The notion discrimination and group is the cause of injustice and inequality is lacking in realism. When two individuals of relation or not join in interaction, there’s immediate analysis – even with one who has the response of apathy and avoidance. The conceptual realm of human intellect which we use to devise ration or logic in and out of naturalism is the root cause for our perception of unequal conditions. Simply having, or believing the ability to do as human, arranges every other cognitive function along a hierarchical scale without our awareness of will doing so. With such an impersonal, internal miscommunication, the distinction between me or I and the self firmly plants itself into our brain’s development and process, and divides the wooded frame into black and white reversals.

What does the notion of individualism have to do with the social well-being of USA labeling Assange as anarchist or spy or anti-authoritarian crusader? The comparison forms a distinction between groups, but not a formal disagreement between individuals who do or don’t support another’s worldview. This debacle the media and public so closely pay attention to doesn’t in the least affect who we are or what we did the moment, moments or days following the information leak. Even those most closely related to the information disclosed have few direct effects to surmount. The outcome is only words filling a small, hollowed-out space in name game power. A little flashbulb attention is all these people ask for each day.

The basis for the recognized inadequacies of those making intellectually-critical attacks comes from a lifelong acculturation to success. The upbringings of persons of “color” were surrounded with a newfound sense of achievement, and a motivational attribute to generational accomplishments non-white citizens of USA could foresee for their children and grandchildren. We weren’t taught outgroup homogeneity but instead to reflect the spotlight with effect onto others. In the process of searching for sources of social recognition, we indulged in individualism and ignored ingroup love. The flashbulb was ours in mind, but as we’re less attuned to modern tactics of social alienation and more to chaturanga individual warfare, the desire for attention is gone. Not present in mind, not present in action.

The implicit nature of core semantic value highlights the definition of success, achievement and motivation without dissemination. Anarchy retains an inert core and exemplifies exert value with elementary semantics. Assange typifies the opposite, but again, this is not about camaraderie with him according USA-stated associations. This is a detraction of Assange’s purpose and a reprisal of anarchy’s divergent action against all of their demagoguery. Aiming for leaderlessness and autonomy means using the least of their tekne – core and value in simplicity.

Chess is a modern game where every movement is accounted for and composed. Chaturanga is archaic, uncertain and unwavering in its ability to perplex those with the most advanced and inconsequential survival tools. Within a western frame of game, the detraction and detractor both fail to preserve their status. Without a frame, there’s no language to restrain how a checkmate is achieved.

Desire True Hate

The Shorn Mountain Woman With Face Metal

I desire like no other right now.

The short term memory of Jess invades me. Pushes me to a brink of wanting to head back out again. I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful she was, and I do it while my true love is in the next room. She was tall and blond, with shorn, boy-cut hair and a lip stud. She wore a shirt not unlike the flannel I was wearing, yet her personality was far from the mountainous warmth such a shirt would provide. That’s all my imagination allows to entail, yet I still feel the quick attraction and need for more. I’m driven toward her image, the physical nature which would not nearly match her mental gorgeousness -  an untouchable fluidity of personal acceptance and a selfless sense of humor.

There have been other moments when such a sense of infatuation sedated me, with the first encounter ending in laughter at me. When a college freshman, I wrote a simple message about my attraction to a girl named Michelé. She was a thick and muscular Hawaiian volleyball player with cocoa skin and larger facial features, such as a little bigger nose. I was very fond of her appearance and observed her carefree personality on occasion. It drew me in because I was over-prepared for all matters, especially those of heart. When I handed the note to her in the computer lab, she read it, passed it to the few others she was with, and they all got a laugh. I was hurt, but at least she knew.

I also composed a message to Leann, a student in my German literature seminar but never followed through. Then there was this girl I saw in Williamsburg at Greenpoint Tavern, where a two-buck-fifty styrofoam 32 oz. Bud would give anyone the liquid balls to ask her out with a number and flattery taped to a rose in front of her boyfriend. She called back and said “Taken, but thanks for the compliment.”

But who cares about potential lust and desire when I hate.

I hate what I’m not doing and the need for balance. We’ve been subsumed by the eastern falsity of life balance. Even within individuality, such a search and activity doesn’t exist, and this isn’t coming from the skeptic. It’s who we are, who I am, throughout spectral mindspace and too appeasing to the faux-multitude of personalities. The truth is then left to the contrite procrastinator who instead waits for it to come to them. I’m not them though I’ve been placed in the role by love.

I want to kill and hurt, embrace and heal, but the severest of actions is limited to words tonight. I won’t jeopardize the movements of others I care so deeply for, yet I want to cry for my reality. I yearn for a tear of feeling, from anyone or any person, though I have a role to fill and am calm in such a state.

It is at this point in words I go to sounds in an attempt to conjure up true loss and nostalgia. The truth be told, I’m pleased with a generalized null of hatred. I can move it around from person to person, never allowing it to affect that which can’t hate me back at the same level. Only humans deserve to be afflicted with pain and anguish, torn into because of the true hypocrisy and cynicism toiled in, day in and night out. We’re the only beasts that transpire to hate mentally and physically, patterned to act upon the deepest recesses of dissatisfaction and primal, rational brutality.

The emotional movement allows me to keep it locked away for use when it’s needed, not luxurious. I take no privilege in the supreme confidence of transforming hate to violence without remorse. I cater to its inert suffocation, never allowing another to even briefly glimpse the capability. In the meantime, I act and appear as one of the horde, consuming within the loop, exteriorizing interiorly. It’s a simple pleasure to feel and imagine the dark’s best, and a complex struggle to retain a mutually-respected adherence to the cultural morality surrounding me.

It really isn’t a safe place to desire hate or truth, which is why being obnoxious in lust can sometimes be the only replacement for a purpose lacking in fervor. It could be anyone, so it didn’t have to be the shorn mountain women with the face metal.

She Red Bloody Messy

Her Lovers

The blade dripping with thick, oozing layers of red, maroon and pink wasn’t enough. She either needed a longer blade or a deeper, brighter shade of blood. Maybe there weren’t enough organs exposed. Opening up her lover’s gut to reveal the intestines was so cliche and messy. If she hadn’t worked in labs for so many years, a fecal failure would infect the beautiful blood. Of course she wasn’t going to consume it, but it had to spread smoothly, so each wisp of flame looked liked heart-spilled passion soaking into the black canvas. Unless they used luminol on her paintings, no one would detect the deadly fire hanging on her walls and the walls of the galleries contracting her for showings was previously oxygenated life-support fluid.

She wasn’t always like this. Her life and career was happy for a time. She had many novel years of experiences which were appealing, and one could say, satisfying. Being with a man and then a woman who indulged her lustful and raging sexual deviances was all she asked for. This lifestyle, accompanied by a fairly good bench job at a highly-touted medical facility kept her resources abundant enough for travel, play and extravagance.

But it all became so tedious.

She didn’t grow up learning that materials made you happy, or that your personal failures could be hidden behind slightly unacceptable social habits. No, it became too much to handle and she couldn’t contain the quotidian burn any longer. Her daily reality, her every breath, remained unsatisfied. Inside, there were moments when it warmed her, keeping her comfortably at home, but the sizzle had finally reached her heart. The skull no longer contained her chilling depths and the null and numb sensations even voided physical intimacy with the sun.

Her lover was such an easy target. Comfortably close to her, yet not open with others, no one would know he was gone. She didn’t live by a murderous, ethical code and wasn’t fully convinced of evil or depravity scales, behavioral analysis, psychobiological causation or criminalistics. Her actions were simply explained. As much as she needed to breath or eat, shit or sleep, love or hate, believe or dream, she needed to kill. There wasn’t a reasonable philosophy, natural excuse or metaphysical force, it was only her, and she was clever and well-versed enough to remain innocent.

Just take him, for example. Publicly-ridiculed and avoided, wanton for friendship, with interests to repel even the geekiest, serial-killer-loving, WoW-playing, industrial-aggro-listening riot grrrl or nerdcore banger. He stuck out like a pimple, ready to pop if any dared apply pressure. A social outcast on the verge of thinking what he enjoyed was avant garde. Lure him in with a little personal affection for his superficially dark interests and slice – all hers.

She easily picked up pointers on the most effective methods of anatomical disposal and investigative avoidance from the web, television, films, books, case studies, trial-and-error dissections funded by the NIH, criminology courses and common sense. She donned the decimation techniques of the greats – hydrofluoric acid, wood chipper, hungry pigs, drowned pieces, bleach, consumption, incineration. Oh, that was the easy part. Her technique at visual evasion while doing it was harder to come by. Having a location and plan for transport was her systemic symptom. Should she use a sedative, or knock out and tie down? Should she select a human body she could manhandle, or womanhandle, for that matter? Should it be in a remote location, where all the appeasement and seduction could be done at one time? All the vocational instruments of predatory seduction fit into her Joeyal Chinese rucksack. It was her task to keep it simple and accessible, quick and surprising.

Her lover was surprised to say the least. As soon as he awoke and found himself tied to a myrtle tree with twisted strand upon twisted strand of nylon rope, his eyes darted from shadow-to-shadow as she stared from behind the tree directly facing him. It was dark, but the tapetum lucidum, spectral range-enhanced recording she was making provided the artistic vision she would use as inspiration for next week’s session of flaming-tossing canvas-smearings. She needed to see the fear, the emotion of helplessness she felt when she wasn’t able to feed her own body’s desire and insatiable thirst for the last gasp. Not her last gasp, but his, of course.

She had gotten so good at the quick kill she didn’t need light. On this occasion she might leave the body, let the wolves tear him down to digestible size. Why would he even consider coming out here with her? She told him she found a “righteous instance only the Eastern Kingdoms could encompass,” an old fallout shelter in a forest just outside the city. He devoured it. Their walk was short, he was out of his element, and a quick bludgeoning put him out long enough for a quick, clove, hitch-lariat loop she’d been practicing – hard to knot, easy to release. No lights, no people, no one to hear his tangled yelps if she’d given him the chance to scream for a savior.

But there was always a chance, and she kept this in mind.

Part of the flame driving her prescribed to particular physical laws and it kept her rooted. No traditional psycho- or socio-pathic self-indulgence and egotism. The first few blood lets of her career were fantastical ventures of emotion and orgasm, overwhelming any logic or reason protecting her from capture. If she had been out in the woods, her fluids would have been found during those kills. Luckily, she planned and kept it all in-house, yet rolled in the blood, massaged her lovers’ stratum basale on her face and vagina, and lost one of the eyes for a week. It had rolled underneath a pile of blood-soaked sponges she used for canvas-dabbing. It was messy, cliche included.

Tonight, her lover’s disposal was an easy choice – keep the identifiable anatomy and bones, and leave as much soft tissue to the beasts of the night. She might find use for the bones, but the head, finger and toe prints, tattoo – because he happened to have ink of a Worgen, ironic isn’t it? – hair and nails needed to go with her. Sure, they’d have a DNA match within a matter of weeks, if anything was left by the pack, but the odds weren’t in his favor. He would be fully consumed and she would acidly deteriorate the other chunks and segments. The best, last and rest of whatever was left would be taken care of by incineration. Being an artist and lab tech with access to some major hardware always had its protective perks.

She turned on an LED lantern to see the struggle rather than hide in the obvious serial depth, and could see his eyes full of anger. It wasn’t the fear she recorded and had expected on approach. Maybe her lover had some latent qualities she dismissed early on, though she couldn’t image that to be true. If he were given any brief opportunity to touch her, she felt it might be the last, most violent touch she would ever experience. No such contact would be given, plus, she was all too concerned with the fatal event, with how to extinguish the fire pulsating through her aorta and burning deep in her heart. It was always at this point when mind and body would quarrel. How should she do it? Rationalize his end, or indulge the brutality and languish in his utter demise? Nothing dirty. Maybe she should use the puukko she picked up in Finland. Or the sharpfinger she inherited from her father. She also had on hand a fantastic straight-grind blade handmade for her in Guangdong. It would be a smooth entry, with a jagged outro if she managed to slip it in to the handle, which was unguarded and protected by some feisty spinal serrations. Yes, that would be the instrument of death and cause some splatter and spray to lead the pack – which had been howling about for minutes not too far off – to her lover. She could be quick with her vivisection, so a little she red bloody messy felt righteous enough to be left this fine, howl of a night.

Watchful Visions

Our perceptions outlast their cameras of security…