Whatever Happens, F-, Forget the Blood

To suppress this growing craving for blood, I consider the many distractions that would generally go unnoticed, for it is better to receive such things than to let the mind go jogging until one's hands are soaked in red, it is civil certainly, to sit and write and listen to casual crooning, like the voice of that dead Italian, his name was P-, to sit and listen to the monotonous recitations, the voice of the walking dead, his name was D-, to sit and listen to that manic-depressive woman's marvellous contralto turn into flat doped barfo, the voice of the sleeping dead, her name was N-, for what better way to calm the rage to kill than to heed the weary voices of the dead, to ask for a preparation of swine's blood, my comfort food, because it reminds of years long gone when years were young and innocent and free, when it was no big deal that dogs and tomatoes made excellent stews with red bell peppers, potatoes and liverspread, what better way to curb, to refuse the invitation into statistics of domestic violence, to delay the flight of a rare new curse upon the wind, upon the New World, and here suddenly, really, now, I pause and wonder if T- is still alive, if he still ate KFC and spied on the Chinese, pretending to be some mediocre video artist like that white boy R-, at least J- was more honest, never pretended to be anything other than an ex-Marine full of delusions of Rambo in Cuba, now sitting on benches at military exercises in Darwin, too old and too fat to be running around with guns, just pulling the weight of Mighty Amerika flattering, bullying the presidents of his country's patsies, oh god, why won't they give me something better to do than just suck the cocks of old British sleepers and take photos of American polezniye duraki pricks, why won't they let me keep a Patriot in my cunt or lay with the mu hid  when I was so very nearly there, when even the elusive gypsies believed me, but now I can only crave for blood and dull myself with needlework and music, poetry and cookery, oh just general housewifery whoever he may have been, ah but dear general, I am a pretty good shot, you know, I'm a pretty good - oh! for what? let me take my dope and pluck the hairs from my armpits, smear my face with cream and oil my buttocks, hear the flute of C- in my beauty sleep and awake to the usual distractions of the day, forgetting the blood, delaying the onset of multiple sclerosis, curiously observing the dances between antihistamines and hypericin, and just live for the day, just thank them for letting me retire with a little pension at thirty-five, with someone to playfuck with, someone to help me write that theory they've all been waiting for, that hyperformalism of antirationality, the hidden language of autoimmunity, protocancer and metautism, a guide to asperger blowjobs, and so on and so forth.