Corybant

Wake from two hours of sleep again unfeeling this agony. The doomed single-mindedness of fight mode and too many pills. The woman remembers you, stirring slightly to collapse into your bosom. It had been like this for months now, at least, where you found yourself acting out these emotional fantasies by night to spite the sun, now mocking your sleep deprivation.

She would cue you with a gradual sea change in her disposition. Where she’d once been ecstatic and adulatory, submissive, sexy in this perfunctory, declarative way, a nerve pain would seize her and the light would flicker out of her eyes. Like candlewax melting. All bets off, volcanic at both ends, tranquilizers in the bedside drawer.

The dissociative fugues started in May. That’s when I derealized, it seeming the only way to resist the violent inertia, by negating reality through renewal. We carried the permanent memories, a constellation of permutations queasy in its clarity. With how easy it’s been to go dark and in the absence of a shared future, social mobility vanished. Everybody strung out on dystopia. I’d mythologize you better but you all have one name.

I have one cope. I’ve been sober from alcohol since the first of summer. I need to reduce others to feel whole. I always wait til things are just perfect. This one chicken, she said some things that just weren’t right nor true about this other chicken I knew, and I know she was just being catty but I couldn’t stand the envy. I don’t like blood so I crack death strokes usually if I need to blow off steam, don’t want them laboring under the delusion they might make it, makes them feisty fighting for their lives. Sometimes I hold them captive in the freezer and check on them every four hours or so. And of course, when they get salty I show them a long fuse. You can take things away from a person piecemeal. You can isolate them and make them fear for the next time they’re gonna wake up, what they’ll wake up to. Watch as parts of their personality dim. Act shitty, make a scene, tell you to stay home and be frightened, stop you from seeing your loved ones, guilt you and shame you into docile obedience.

So eerie how the weather changed. It’s been cool and dreary now all year. The sun camouflaged in cirrus, the humidity and low pressure causing headaches. This has happened before. We take drugs for depression that make us depressed patients. They formalize and clarify our depression, ennoble and edify our plight.

There was never time enough for agency. I had a job counting quarters that wound up at the bottom of fountains. We slept in shifts keeping us threadbare and raw. The constant anxiety as scarcity encroached on every aspect of our lives. As despair took the streets, the vibe kicked in. I’ve killed a lot of darlings to get here, names erased. The art world’s not gonna fuck itself. I’m having a hard time eating. They’re dropping another variant. Profound how you cured my blindness. I’m having a hard time sleeping.

People can recall all the times they blew it. The moment when defeat was snatched from the jaws of victory. When things tilted, went south, it’s common that something went wrong. So when someone does everything correctly, perfectly even, and it backfires, you may wanna take notice. Jesus was 33 and crucified in April. You can note the signs. The patterns.

A vitalist, a situationist trusting in myself and thrusting myself inward and outward, destined for wilder shores honey. A self-sorter striking at diabolism. Click farmers and doomsday profiteers suck the vomitous spoils of a self-regurgitating defeatism. We came alive suffering whiplash from the internalized dialectic of biopolitics, ember twisting, tearing through post-history’s fever pitch fabric, the scene roaring into existence, ramping up its material allures, its vibrant fleshtones, and we always wanted to be celebrities, dysfunctional and profligate with nerves, recklessly dysgenic. There is nothing to sustain but a state of nature, the eschatological programming banging out an oceanic nausea, drumming up affiliations, rending schisms and realignments.

Schizo-shy antiquities. Debilitating diseases of the nerves. Long-vanquished recombinant plagues. Rare undiagnosable suffering.

All these feelings phantoms of me. In lockstep fluidity, evangelical factions slither as one. I move with tribes astride me, knives out to dress you down, libertine. Unceremoniously we’re stripping the scaffolds and letting the beast slouch untrammeled.

Whatever status conferred you, albeit effortlessly, we’re never talking as friends. No, we’re permanent strangers, whatever intimacy we’ve enjoyed. You could know me deeply, memorize my vitals, and I’ll be dead to you in weeks. The revolving door is spinning. I found one who loved to watch Disney movies, womanchild, and I watched her skull pancake as she fell running. The look of terror in their eyes before they flee is something you could go a life without seeing but can’t unsee. It’s more primal than sex. No one is uptight when they’re about to be killed. Even gasping for breath, windpipe crushed, it feels like they’re trying to relax and accept, most of them, the ones who accept, not the ones who struggle and let their determination drain and then hemorrhage.

You can find this only in the faintly perceptible personality changes. Never been a worse time in human history to be alone. Most of us have guardian angels you can see on DMT. Demons among us don’t wince at their light. They flay the angels alive. To be capable of murder, taking the breath and life out of a person, you have to feel dead. Or like a methed out God. Homicide is vital scrawl. These things are consumed by the urge to raze and destroy, these creatures feel like heroes burning beautiful things. Look in the mirror. My autofictional paracosm.

When I’m not working tirelessly to exclude women from art spaces, I sometimes murder. It’s a slippery slope, come this far without forcing anyone to confront that they’re wrong, you want my attention, my address, you better say my name, learn my twitter @ so I can send you to hell one at a time with disdain, shaking off rust, ruthless to my core, keep knowing your place, grateful stay humble in the shade our wingspan affords you, loath to kick these little puppers nipping at our heels into the evil of the city where you went and lost your mind and personality, deranged before the Four Horsemen hit the ground running. Everyone remembers a rat, when you threw me under the bus you flirted with the reaper signed your death warrant. Ecocidal gorehound snuff fiend. Pillars of salt sitting in front of TVs and writhing, lapsing in and out of consciousness. I wait and want to die. And you want to spend time with me, you long pine for me. But don’t let me keep you. There’s nothing you can do to me, for me. You have nothing to say, but I don’t need to tell you that. Someone else will. Someone edgier, someone to ruin the life I gave you. Keep your street scene, I am lord of the nets. I can’t sleep I can’t trust the trauma of best friends betrayal. Breaking into the fashion world this October. Just recall the trauma’s instructive. Without God, never a dull day. Nothing lasts and everything will be taken from you.

Another girl wouldn’t let me raw her, so I said fine, her head game was unreal, and she opened up her gash and ass for me and said I could slip it in if I wanted. I could come anywhere but inside her. I yipped something like yeah? I can come anywhere huh? Then I shoved my cock in her ass and came in about two minutes from the friction. She told me it was her first time and she liked it, then she gave me some more overzealous head in the shower and I caressed her cheek and pulled on her hair. Then I yanked it, gave it a firm tug, I could feel she was uncomfortable but she wasn’t fighting it. She was liking it, the way I demeaned and dominated her. I skullfucked her until she gagged and puked all over my dick and started laughing. Then I grabbed her face and my expression cracked just slightly, like I was about to laugh, before it faded into a smile and I pushed her face into the enamel caked with puke. She screamed and started to struggle before I held her face down in the water that had pooled just yay high on account of a minor drain clog. She was having difficulty breathing when I climbed on top of her, wrestled her prone before slipping it in harder this time and fucking her in the puke. Then my dick slipped out covered in shit, and I yanked her toward it. She tried to bite me, was getting fatalistic at this point, do or die, and I cradled her inflexibly under the faucet as she screamed. Then I ran the hot water. As her flesh burned she cried out in agony, blood mixed and pooled with the water, and I wasn’t sure if I’d maimed her or brain damaged her but she was barely conscious if that, maybe reflexes baked in, when I caved in her skull sockets with just my thumbs and started digging around in there before it felt good enough to fuck. And I pulled her up so she was sitting with her head all a catastrophe as I crouched slightly and stuck it in. I could feel the bone marrow and none of the brain matter while elastic had the consistency of lubrication but I came almost instantly anyway just from the image.

The younger they were, the more cooperative generally, the more innocent the angelic hurt. Sometimes I’d roofie them and watch them twitch and roll around. Carnal asphyxiation is so hot. I like to fuck them when I can’t tell whether they’re breathing, then they’ll suddenly twitch or jerk or spasm for a second and I’m climaxing and usually ready to go again. A refrain, a hook, and I step into the role of a terrorist and I’m free again.

back to top

Manuel Marrero

@ExpatLitJ