seventy-five years the death cult
has known, yeah -
the fascists, the nationalists,
the patriarchs and shop-owners
the men who fear the blood of women,
the women who thrill to witness it,
all of them longing for:
a hard cudgel come down to break the still-soft
flesh of the outsided other, a lust-cusp crowning in their act of witness,
the obscene transformed, made into promises only imagined,
the threadbare egos, straining against their truths as flesh,
those egos wet with,
not pleasure
never joy
but a memory of some distant fiction,
expiated, but none released,
relishing the blood and terror,
savoring its siren, a keening, banshee-cold and
orphan hot, they rush up, they crowd, yeah -
they testify, they believe
in:
the cries, the weeping of victims,
all the human sacrifice, now the double insult, everything become pornography,
yes, the victims, too
always of course the victims, it's what they always ever are will be were and can be,
for -
the death cult acolytes, they know,
they want to know, they want you to know,
they suck-sip-fuck-hunger to watch you
knowing it, they wriggle at the horror, at how the rest
of us become
haunted, yeah -
the death cult knows that
they have made a world of violation feel
like touch,
they have given the body in sacrifice
to a mechanical ferocity,
a new god, incorporated,
a replacement in valves and pressures,
in torment and anxiety, its embrace
intimate, immediate, and solitary, it
severs, so
trafficked flesh becomes exiled memory,
always the sorrow of the banished, more true, more like personhood than love, or silence,
or friendship, now -
affinities shattered
while the god eats shards of breath
and memories of the
futures it has stolen
yeah, the death cult knows,
its priests initiated
its congregation proclaiming,
they shout,
they damn well tell it loudly
they know, that this is the war they've never
stopped fighting, making flesh uncanny to itself,
ghosts everywhere, still boned and blooded, corpse-minds rotting as the only reasonable escape, the only out possible,
fleeing inward, unreeling, unreal - yeah -
existence as distransfiguration, disease,
dis-incarnation,
war
war and degradation,
so - yeah, fuck yeah
yeah, you:
listen look remember
how we watched them
doing this to us

i am jack's complete lack of surprise
     opines the
     pseudonym fiend, gone dark.
gone,
gone quiet, allowing,
for the silence of the long
damned night, its fall, the quick,
      the brutal abrupt collapse of the
     agency, the reagents, the advocates
      of the endless light, the always
seeing, looking, staring, glaring
      eye