S u p e r h e r o      d r e a m S

 



A giant hard-on greets me. Daylight forces itself thru my eyes as reserve teardrops lubricate. Boderline consensual rape. Richter throws his loops from On The Nature of Daylight. It's all good after all. Devoid of energy I drag my dead feet with my tool acting like my trunk, my mast. My Jerry Springer showing the way.            
           
I almost like my own reflection in the mirror. My face resembles a crucible, a metaphorical city. Replete with contradictions. The idea of staying awake repulses me. I open the cabinet and find the box of Diazepam. Pop. Pop. They get stuck on my throat. My brain seems stuck on the word rape. I almost see a foetus growing in black and white. Damn drug.            
           
I rest my head on the wash basin. The rusted metal smell reminds me of things that I have no grasp on. In SnorriCam motion I head back to my bed and stage a free-fall. Thud. The impact gives me a jelly jolt.            
           
I am back where I was.            
     
   
                 
Wet dreams of slaughering pedophiles and watching tiny fountains of crimson gurgle and squirt from those clean cuts with a sense of perfection that is everything but vain. In that moment I believe that those cuts would convey the message like the angst of screamo music-that there are sheep and there are wolf and there are shepherds.            
           
   
There will be blood.            
           
   
And so much of it that a few hundreds of the limbless corpses would have to be pulled apart from ground by force. Probably by men who would have daymares for the rest of their days, in which they would hear the skin shredding-the whites of the innards showing a mild lusture. Still proof that those roaches who had ceased to be human in their moments of bestiality-rendered lifeless-those carcasses of worms were still the creation of some higher power. Fibonacci spirals and jackshit. Impeccable craftmanship indeed.            
           
   
And such beauty in those nightmares of the men who would be at the mercy of shrinks. Men who would cry and kneel and pray for they would live the horror, the insurmountable agony of being given the task of clearing the busy streets. Of those mounds of flesh sticking to the ground in a small lake of blood-dried, crusted with a strong metallic smell of death.            
           
   
That would be the infamous slaughter which would be passed down in underground internet forums and every single image of the event would stir every part of the physical body of anyone who would know of it. No one would be able to ignore it. It would be an anthropological experiment in the pleasure-pain threshold.      
   
       
A few hundred thousand will perish. They would gnaw the tarmac, bite the cement blocks. They would be dragged so hard against the gravel that their bones would be shredded-their flesh punctured with the small splinters. They would shudder with shock-induced fever; their bodies drenched in cold sweat-fluids gushing from every orifice. They would be pissing a mix of epinephrine-blood-slow death. And urine of course.            
           
   
Lesser humans would be treated the way they should be.            
           
   
And Dante would be the newer craze in the city. Wes Craven and White Zombie would be in business. Playstation DVDs would get reissues. Avenged Sevenfold and Slipknot would burst the ear drums. Slayer tees would be the new Jesus.            
   
Weekends is the best time to get depressed, rather gently with slow vocals in which there are fifty layers of the same female voice recorded at different pitch and frequency, added together to make you feel surreal and alien for they are in Latin and some Scottish dialect. And not to forget the slow melting ice cubes in the thick glass which might have come with the bottle itself. Thoughts seem to be like wild roosters at times.            
           
   
Is my friend still my friend? Or does she take me to be a wacko.          
   
   
Am I that obvious a spineless pseudo-intellectual-a sex-depraved-bush-whacking arm-chair activist? Purpose? Karma? Wanna-be?                    
   
The S on my chest is melting acrylic seeping into my skin. A mix of blue and yellow and red. I am curling into a ball. And I have a smile as I cry from the inside. The blood travels away sending spikes of pain.            
           
It begins to feel good. Real good.            
           
           
           
           
           
           
p.s- To Jack and Hugh. For their own ideas about I.:)