This is a needlessly lengthy title that says nothing about me, my life, my deep-seated desires or my depraved intentions, but it looks clever on paper, even if it does end up completely breaking the carefully designed template of my site — though, frankly, I am past caring if it does
So words sit under my skin, making me itch and scratch, making me shake and puke like some kind of recovering addict. A junkie who now prefers one substance to another. Sweats and shits and sickness and soreness.
The words, they want to stay there because it’s warm. I want them to stay there because they break my flesh and make it flake, make me wish for death when they rise to the surface of my skin and ask me where they’re destined to be placed, destined to be wasted, cast aside to be forgotten, thrown away to be incinerated, to be buried, to be be be oh I don’t know make up your own fucking terminology you host of sick and slavering ghouls I’ve lost the will and the train and the and the the the the the the the the the.
“This language is a chorus of sickening fucks.”
“This language is a massed chant of putrid cunts.”
“This language carries the stench of depravity.”
“This language has concrete at its core.”
“This language makes me rip the hearts from dogs.”
“This language would have me tear the fur from cats.”
“This language needs my taste in its throat.”
“This language wants me to taste its saliva.”
“This language demands satisfaction.”
“This language demands a breath.”
“This language relishes hatred.”
“This language is diseased.”
“This language is dying.”
“This language is dead.”
“So? We get a new language.”
“We need a new tongue first.”
“Then we need a new voice.”
“Then we need to kill.”
“And renew.”
“And renew.”
“And renew.”
“And renew.”
I want to tear the lungs out of your chest. I want to rip the soul out of your guts. But my hand is bloody. Will you still let me?