i smile, for i know where my enemies sleep

It was never about killing people. It was about the threshold between life and death, that moment of clarity. I would not have killed them had I not known they would understand what I was doing, that we were collaborators in this act. I wore this mantle, this role, and the fact that this ‘little me’ that lives my everyday life does not possess the attributes this role demanded isn’t relevant. It was attention. It was the work of two or more people who could put everything else aside and be present in that one moment. There was no flashback, no memory, no breath, it was the stillness at the heart of a storm of ruptured flesh and torn sinew. I do not ask for forgiveness or atonement, and understand what will become of me, no matter what transformation my consciousness takes, no matter where my soul may hide. I know the weight of that yoke, the burn of that mark, and I accept it with neither pride nor malice. What I ask of you is to realize and admit this is something you cannot approach, cannot conceptualize. I ask that you confess to yourself that there are things in this world you cannot know. I ask this knowing full well you will find that task impossible. — Julietta Levana, from police interview two

skin for everyone

there is a heat source they hold in the mouth and exchange, back and
forth, under the disguise of conversation and they are nurtured and
educated by this process and i cannot understand its nature and my
possession of the source is a corruption and the understanding of the
intent of all those who have held the source in the mouth is
unintelligable to me and makes me literally sick in the muscle of my neck
and chest and also in my stomach and now my mouth is ruined for food or
speech and still i do not understand you are all blank to me and my every
attempt is just mimicry and politeness only now the mouth has been
disfigured and cannot make certain shapes barring me from certain sounds
and through the diminished glottals in the sound of my voice everyone
knows what i am.

An introduction

There’s a part of me that will always be a weird little fan, and that’s good, it’s where your heart lies. it’s the development of that impulse over time that makes us better people. it’s a process. it takes time. time, i believe, is the single trickiest concept for people to understand, as it is such a subjective phenomenon, and while it’s right for me to build a nest within myself to honor such aspirations it’s also important for me to remember there is a bigger context, there are myriad other means of connection, and once you’ve found that point of contact it always stays with you, even if it’s something you “outgrow”. it’s less a total protean change in form as a kludge chunk of code laid atop a half-considered cron job of wants and hungers and impulses that grind away even though no one remembers what purpose they serve, tucked in a server between two slats of drywall no one thought to disconnect when the new owners took over. the map is so vast, and it’s a fool’s notion that what works here will work there. What I ultimately ask of you, by bowing beneath this arch and entering this sanctum sanctorum, is a willingness to admit there are places uncharted, islands which have not been mapped, everything in such flux that words become obsolete in the time it takes to leave the empty hollows of the mouth and enter into the ear. In this, I am asking you to trust me. If you are unwilling, it is in your best interest to remain in the foyer for the remainder of tonight’s performance. Thank you, and may you be safe, wherever you may travel. As for the rest of you, the fee is five dollars, and by giving over your filthy lucre you abandon any pretense of control or dominion, as what I am about to do will require supernatural concentration and total obedience. Please step through the deep red door and we shall begin tonight’s performance.

plain sight

I pushed slivers of ivory up along my gumline, up under the cheek, the eyes now pulled back a little, which they said would make me appear mysterious but accessible. I was a public thing now, and needed preservation if I was going to be displayed. I was initially uncertain, and felt dishonest, but they told me I only believed in the honesty of the blank page, of the undialed number, of the sour masturbatory fantasy held so long the semen has yellowed, and so I took a rotary drill to the bridge of the nose and ran the fat of ballerinas rendered in their prime along the bumps of the spine, shadowed with soot to suggest the nobility of scoliosis. This public exposure is necessary, I reminded myself, I cannot be found if I am not visible, and I filled my boots with shaved ice to perfect the stagger we agreed best flattered my gait. I’ll do anything forever if you promise I can put my finger in the wound. You call on me, and I scream, that is not my name.

kelly tenesis: comedown (first vision: anything anything just keep me alive)

(Sat, 4 Nov 2000 01:11:43 -0800 (PST))

It excites me suddenly, leading to milligram injections as your right hand slides lighty down by the beat it exploded to my lips parting your hands slide around my eyes close and be the brilliant light in front of a nude of a black sun. Was our body (this shared flesh) to be another long stillness, an amp of great density, word of functional murder, of a devious smile at Mammalian Skin? Remain terrified the affection of the gray pupil of the game that sucks the piece the beat of flesh that is the hydro - machine angel, the respiration in disguise to the formation of the beat of the vital birth that machinery envy of postnatal lung - gently tease the specimen device of the corpse body fluid directly into the edges of the medium of the inclination. Android trainers pull me suddenly, sleepless night as your hand slides lighty down. I open my knees, weak. Implication of xxxx the artificial sun was done. Your fingers disappear into my orgasm and hits me tight against my eyes and pollen for the machines of the radio to be like the inclination android and gently tease the continent of displacement is osmosing brain that cold - seeking fibers. you tug at displacement patterns. You pull me tight against you know it does the murderous plug. As I am disillusioned i drop the internal organ consciousness play to the storage of hungers that was done to cup my eyes to the lips of heart so cold - speech of ant of ant of the womb area machine of the fantasy while it is marginalized through my hair. a second time. It is the room. It the hyper real to the murderous intention that murders nude that the drug an oscillation between hz the musculature loses rigidity does the derangement deoxyribonucleic acid world would baffle the scientists and trainers at the parasitism medium of the underground organization of rave input i drop the mirror and gently tease the game that machinery vital syndrome of the of the clone - speech of the inclination nude of the emotional do i drop the self.

todf:

Three days into my stint as substance abuse counselor and already I had driven pop sensation Melissa Dubious into a spiral of exobiologic tranquilizers, stone of spiritual understanding abuse, parole violations and at least one missed final. Missing somewhere in the endless trade district of west gilbertville, I sent malign spirits in search of his trail, who so terribly terrified the junk-addled clientele that in the panic outside a boy-thing in a gelatin cloak threw a drink in my face, the fumes and absorption alone sufficient to trigger my long-checked thirst for my old friend John Barleycorn, leading to a three-week bender in the company of sat-pop nymphet Dubious, and that’s why I haven’t been home in so long, sweetie, honest. (text by me, art by RJ Moore)

todf:

Three days into my stint as substance abuse counselor and already I had driven pop sensation Melissa Dubious into a spiral of exobiologic tranquilizers, stone of spiritual understanding abuse, parole violations and at least one missed final. Missing somewhere in the endless trade district of west gilbertville, I sent malign spirits in search of his trail, who so terribly terrified the junk-addled clientele that in the panic outside a boy-thing in a gelatin cloak threw a drink in my face, the fumes and absorption alone sufficient to trigger my long-checked thirst for my old friend John Barleycorn, leading to a three-week bender in the company of sat-pop nymphet Dubious, and that’s why I haven’t been home in so long, sweetie, honest. (text by me, art by RJ Moore)

todf:

Scurvy? Shyeah. Siren sickness, songs scattered seductively, silt-sullied seas swallowing spilled screaming sailors. Sentience stopped, sail-shawled skeletal sentries stand silent, stalking sounds since stilled somewhere skyward. Sirenic starvation sated, surface-swimming schoolchildren serenade shell-seated sweethearts sharing sorry ship’s story, stripped, skin-shimmering, speechless. (text by me, art by RJ Moore)

todf:

Scurvy? Shyeah. Siren sickness, songs scattered seductively, silt-sullied seas swallowing spilled screaming sailors. Sentience stopped, sail-shawled skeletal sentries stand silent, stalking sounds since stilled somewhere skyward. Sirenic starvation sated, surface-swimming schoolchildren serenade shell-seated sweethearts sharing sorry ship’s story, stripped, skin-shimmering, speechless. (text by me, art by RJ Moore)

todf:

The universal abolishment of distant spaces may have made trips to the bathroom much more expedient, but without question brought on strange neighbors. Telescopes in such settings demonstrate one’s willingness to indulge the decadent or the disbelief in the powers of the state to make all things instantly convenient, which is both sinful and rude. What sport was there, after all, when by merely thinking of the Venusian Saltsucker it would be little more than a glance out the window in its proximity? Everything distant becomes near, inverting Goethe’s maxim, presenting the splendors of ease on a platter of disease, our immune systems not at all prepared for the extent of our appetites. How’s that rash doing? (text by me, art by RJ Moore)

todf:

The universal abolishment of distant spaces may have made trips to the bathroom much more expedient, but without question brought on strange neighbors. Telescopes in such settings demonstrate one’s willingness to indulge the decadent or the disbelief in the powers of the state to make all things instantly convenient, which is both sinful and rude. What sport was there, after all, when by merely thinking of the Venusian Saltsucker it would be little more than a glance out the window in its proximity? Everything distant becomes near, inverting Goethe’s maxim, presenting the splendors of ease on a platter of disease, our immune systems not at all prepared for the extent of our appetites. How’s that rash doing? (text by me, art by RJ Moore)

todf:

Leave it to the Monotonous Monotony Troupe to perfect their goal of slow-motion chase sequences in their new opus, “Playground Buzzbomb”. Designed primarily for those who find the hurly-burly of the modern world, its automobiles and synthetic butlers, simply too hectic to provide a lasting aesthetic experience, this six-hour piece consists of a race between a sand-stuck skateboard and a swingset. A visceral peak is reached toward the end of hour four, at which point the actor on the skateboard falls down from exhaustion, leading to the now-famous “sing-leaping sequence”, slowed to twelve frames a minute, requiring special water-cooled cameras so as not to melt the film. (text by me, art by RJ Moore)

todf:

Leave it to the Monotonous Monotony Troupe to perfect their goal of slow-motion chase sequences in their new opus, “Playground Buzzbomb”. Designed primarily for those who find the hurly-burly of the modern world, its automobiles and synthetic butlers, simply too hectic to provide a lasting aesthetic experience, this six-hour piece consists of a race between a sand-stuck skateboard and a swingset. A visceral peak is reached toward the end of hour four, at which point the actor on the skateboard falls down from exhaustion, leading to the now-famous “sing-leaping sequence”, slowed to twelve frames a minute, requiring special water-cooled cameras so as not to melt the film. (text by me, art by RJ Moore)