And now it’s February 26, a Thursday, and it’s around 8.30am.

zombie point-zero I think of a writer, sitting alone in a room, writing just before dawn...and something suddenly slips out of his head, leaks out of his ear, maybe, a cold trickle down the side of his neck. Or it might leap, like a frog with fur and a monkey’s face, off the top of his shoulders, and land with a sliding splat on the other side of the room and stare up at him with large, nocturnal eyes, grinning, with a sharp-toothed, monkey-gibberish grin.

No, no...that is how the writer might describe it later, how he might personify it, how he might fictionalize it.

What it would really be...it would be a blob, a formless phlegmy mass, greenish-yellow, like a pus or the nameless leakage from an infected wound, but somehow alive.

zombie-infection The writer would be horrified, disgusted, terrified by this thing that had come out of him and he’d want to destroy it, to erase it, but, of course, that would be impossible. As sick and afraid and revolted as he might be, he’d also be fascinated at this self-emission, the way one is fascinated by a nose-picking, or a particularly heavy load of shit, inasmuch as it was formed inside, that it issued from the dark cavities of his own body...

He’d be fascinated and unable to destroy his own creation...

And this viscous wad would walk, crawl, really, sidling, crablike, amoebalike, out of the room, the writer’s room, and into the city. It would slip into the water supply, into the subway system, into the rat population, into the ventilation ducts of office buildings, etc etc etc, each etc a glyph for how on thing leads to another thing, leads to all things, everything is everything...

zombie-apocalypse Organs without a body...the diseased slop, disconnected, sick, gall-bladders, pancreases, lungs, stomachs, miles and miles of intestines, all taken out of context, without the boundaries of flesh, the border of bone, not lifeless, but all life, such unmitigated, unspeakable horror.

To imagine what might be large enough to encompass all these discarded organs, this unassimilable diseased slop, you’d have to imagine god It-self, you’d have to imagine a towering zombie-god, you’d have to imagine life as death, an assemblage of way too many parts, an aggregrate-machine so complex, short-sightedely, and randomly designed as to be rendered completely useless.

You’d have to imagine a monstrous machine that produces nothing.

Zombie.

zombie-industrial Necropolis, now, is filled with the hasty construction of these cancerous machines, spreading, organically and chaotically, across the landscape in a provisional and opportunistic way. And outside of each factory, feeding these immense, nonstop zombie-machines, the people of necropolis line up, patient and dociles, like cows, businessmen, mothers, architectural design students, marketing directors, daycare workers, grammer school teachers with entire classes of 9-year-olds, all that traffic lined up outside the tunnels, stalled on the bridges, coming into the airports...all of them walking orderly into the open and irresistible mouth of the zombie.

Hurts so much...I’m so thirsty...hurts...why don’t they give me something to drink...god, Im so cold...what’s that sound, that sound, why won’t anyone come, why won’t anyone, where is everyone...momma...

# # #

He hears the men come into the jail. They’re drunk, rowdy, cursing. The police chief says, "You know the rules, gentlemen. You got til dawn. You don’t kill him, you hear? Don’t mark up his face too much. Girl’s got a big day tomorrow."

The laughter was harsh and crude and filled with hatred.

Why do they have to be so angry? Billy wondered. Why do they have to hate me? He sits trembling against the cold stone wall on the narrow cot in his cell. The men, jeering and cursing, are coming down the short hallway, opening the clanging door with drunken awkwardness. He can recognize their voices: Mr. Harrow from the drug store; Mr. Jenkins, the school wrestling coach. Mr. Tyler, the fertilizer farmer. Mr. Dawkins, his dad’s friend...they were all men that Billy had known all his life, had seen in town, at school, at home.

He closed his eyes, trembling, holding his knees against his chest. He had accepted his fate; there was no use fighting, couldn’t they see that? Why did it have to be like this? They had already burst into the cell and someone yanked him off the cot and threw him to the stone floor. He could feel their hostility, the naked lust for violence radiating from their bodies as they looked down at him.

The white spaghetti-strap dress he wore had tangled around his long smooth legs and he fell helplessly with a soft gasp. Someone yanked him back to his knees by his ponytail and smacked him hard across the cheek.

Someone growled derisively to the man who’d struck him.

--Remember, don’t fuck up kewpie doll’s face.

Billy tasted blood in his mouth.

--I’d kill you right now if wose weren’t in store for you, you little faggot.

A chorus of drunken laughter followed. Billy felt Mr. Dawkins, he was sure it was Mr. Dawkins, pull his head close. The old man’s hot sour breath burned against Billy’s lips and the drunken man leered,

--You don’t want that Pepsodent smile busted up girly then I better feel nothing but tongue. Open up queer...

And Billy tasted hot salty flesh almost immediately, the sour meat in his mouth nearly gagging him as his head was held fast between two strong hands and he had no choice but to suck, to suck or to suffocate. Within moments, it seemed, the jism blasted against the back of his throat, and Billy gulped it down, gulped as fast as he could.

A moment later, he felt a cock forced into his rectum and then another stuffed into his bruised mouth. He was beaten with fists and straps and sticks, dragged out of the cell and into the yard where he was strung up with leather thongs to a post in the dust. He was beaten some more there, and raped repeatedly. Many of the men came back for more. It was as if they inspired each other to greater acts of arousal and cruelty. Even the old men, unable to penetrate him, rubbed their wrinkled genitals in their arthritic hands and leaked their impotent cum on his bruised body. A crowd had gathered by then, and Billy, his once beautiful white dress in tatters, knelt limp and bleeding in the halogen lights of a circle of parked SUV’s, as the men abused him over and over and over.

--Don’t break any bones, bitch has got a long walk down the aisle tomorrow, someone shouted over the drunken mob.

More laughter. Shouts. Someone sing-song answers:

--She’s getting married in the morning...

A fresh howl of laughter...

They had suspended him from a kind of overhead beam at one point, his bare feet nearly clear off the ground, as he struggled to keep his balance on painted tiptoes, his arms feeling as if they’d been nearly pulled from their sockets.

They took turns.

Someone had Billy’s narrows hips in their iron grip and gave it to him up his bleeding ass with such violence that the rape, even after so many others, penetrated Billy’s dimming consciousness. It wasn’t until his rapist came into his rectum that Billy realized it was Grant, the thick-headed jock who used to bully him in high-school.

At one point, Mr. Taylor, the mechanic, came forward with a leer and a circlet of twisted barbed-wire in his outstretched hands.

--Wouldn’t wanna forget your tiara, would ya Barbie doll?

How they laughed, how the crowd of them howled with laughter when the barbed-wire tiara was pressed onto Billy’s head.

--How’s that princess? Mr. Taylor drawled.

--Why she’s pretty as a picture in a fairy tale, someone else shouted.

# # #

Sometime later, Billy regained consciousness. He was back in the cell, lying curled up on the cold floor. His dress, once so beautiful, was nearly in tatters, like confetti. Around his throbbing head, the tiara of barbed wire seemed to be stapled into his skull. Every part of his body felt bruised and lacerated and no place more than his poor, torn asshole. He could feel the cum of other men like a wad of something alien inside him...and he could taste their seed in his mouth, a taste so bitter and dirty he knew it would never wash away.

But worse of all, the sun was up. Billy could tell the sun was up, even in the basement of the police station where his cell was located. He could see it the way the light spilled from the heavy door at the end of the hall that had just swung open. The deputies were coming for him. He could hear the sharp footsteps of their polished shoes on the polished floors. He could hear their loud, aggressive, excited voices. They were coming, coming to walk him down the aisle.

Billy closed his eyes.

The worse was yet to come...

Gate 7: where does the bus go to that leaves from there?

Oh wait, I know, I’m on it.

The willing victim who, at the penultimate moment, expresses doubt and trembling panic at the impending orgasm of overwhelming violence; the catastrophic sacrifice underway and the dawning realization that it is already too late to stop or to change one’s mind about participating...that moment of abandonment to terror and humiliation on the face of the one who up to this point has been only a "volunteer," the expression which says oh my god I cannot go back-- that is the rape-within-consent that characterizes the "perfect" victim and, therefore, most highly-prized desire-object of all.

"The absence of otherness secretes another, intangible otherness: the absolute otherness of the virus." –Jean Baudrillard

That face that haunts me in the mirror...who is he? I must kill him: that’s me.

Suicide machine: a bottle of xanax, 120 pills, 1mg each, a flask of whiskey, a black Hyundai Eleantra with all the windows rolled down, a secluded mountain overlook on a subzero winter night.

The rape of everyone, that is what comes to mind when looking at a hillside covered as far as the eye can see with white tombstones.

"Whatever pain acheives, it achieves in part through its unshareability, and it ensures this unshareability through its resistance to language...Prolonged pain does not simply resist language but actively destroys it, bringing about an immediate reversion to a state anterior to language, to the sounds and cries a human being makes before language is learned." –Elaine Scarry

Art is an animal-cry with no answer, a war-cry with no compromise, a sick-bed moan of isolation and pain, or an assassin’s shout as he squeezes the trigger to assassinate life. Art is not communication—just the opposite, it’s the despair of any possibility of communication whatsoever.

Art is like a suicide note: it’s always misinterpreted. It is always irrelevant what the "other" thinks.

There are no "others."

People, being mainly morons, need a story.

"For weeks, he spoon-feeds me babyfood and fruit sauces heavily laced with powerful laxatives until I really do become incontinent, unable to go out anywhere without wearing a diaper, pale, weak, trembly all over..." –The Subtraction of Sissy Mandee

She waits, less and less patiently, as he bleeds to death, naked and on his knees, into the bathtub. She takes her shoes off—it’s easier, she says, to wash her bare feet if they are splattered by his blood and piss than to wash her black velvet pump sandals.

She asks,Do you want to see my pretty toes one last time before you die?

What would happen, let’s say, if a naked woman on a bicycle were to pedal as fast as she could through a car-wash of whirring blades?

Here’s a story:

John woke up. He went to work. He came back home and went to sleep.

What a story is, ordinarily, is the act of putting a microscope to the minutae of the little twists and turns of events that allow John to return—or not to return—home to bed at night.

In a car, a small, possibly yellow, convertible, I’m talking to the widow of Georges Bataille. But I don’t remember anything she says, if she says anything worth remembering...

Its raining...

Who I am, as if I were a radio, or antennae, or radar dish is unimportant and uninteresting: what I think, what I broadcast, what signals I relay, pick-up, from wherever...that is unimportant and uninteresting, too.

"A world purged of the old forms of infection, a world 'ideal’ from the clinical point of view, offers a perfect field of operations for the impalpable and implacable pathology which arises from the sterilisation itself." –Jean Baudrillard

What is it, what apocalyptic disgust with the world, that causes me to dream of one day getting in a car and driving west with no destination, simply heading in the direction of the sunset, and following it until I vanish entirely somewhere short of the end of the earth?

"If, the anti-humanists argued, 'we’ accept humanism’s claim that 'we’ are naturally inclined to think, organise, and act in certain ways, it is difficult to believe that human society and behaviour could ever be other than they are now. Humanism was therefore to be opposed if radical change, the thinking of difference, was to become a possibility. The future would begin with the end of man." –Neil Badmington

"Writing is always writing for animals, that is not to them, but in their place, doing what animals can’t, writing, freeing life from prisons that humans have created and that’s what resistance is. That’s obviously what artists do." –Gilles Deleuze

Imagine: a bomb exploding 15 or 20 miles above the city but with the capacity to flash-freeze everyone into a kind of white basalt statue so that the city itself would forever after become a human museum through which aliens might wander, or, better yet, which entire rat populations would inhabit unchecked.

"The point is that there is a political and social impetus organizing our modes of thinking and making, living and constructing. And because, for Deleuze and Guattari, this impetus is neither teleologically preordained nor radically contigent history, but part of a grab for power based on irrefutable conceptual claims for intelligibility, coherence, and hierarchic distribution, it is Deleuze and Guatarri’s project to realize other ways to see, to open our thinking and practices to the nomad nomos that creates wandering distributions of assemblages, distributions whose pluraity of centers mix perspectives and points of view and open up power to create new social and political institutions not yet envisioned by our current democratic practices." –Dorothea Olkowski

Ingredients: Filtered Water, High Fructose Corn Syrup and/or Pure Cane Sugar, Pear and/or Apple Juice from Concentrate, Citric Acid, Natural Flavors, Asorbic Acid (Vitamin C), Gum Arabic, Ester Gum, Taurine, Vitamin E Acetate. –Jones Naturals "Berry White: Strawberry, Cherry & Grapefruit"

The plastic red handle, for instance, of a large pair of scissors...

Turn right onto Bridge St./MA-9E

Turn left on S Pleasant St.

Turn left onto Selles (?) St.

A woman sitting on a kitchen counter, oiling up her skin. She assumes the position of a raw turkey, knees tucked under, butt raised, and waits to be stuffed with warm buttered bread. Trussed up tightly, she compliantly opens her mouth wide for the apple. Her eyes widen in surprise when the cold meat thermometer is inserted into her swollen anus.

Preheat the oven to 375.

Fictionmania.com

When they take the prisoner away after the sentence has been pronounced, he walks quietly to his fate as if he were cooperating, as if he agreed on some level with the proceedings and the outcome. The impression one gets while watching is one of supreme reasonableness and the ideal exercise of justice. The truth, however, is much different. The prisoner isn’t cooperating; he’s been coerced by the unanswerable might of "judicial" tyranny. The powers arrayed against the prisoner are so one-sided that resistance would be smothered to insignificance within an instant. What elicits his "cooperation" is the threat of overwhelming brute force: the threat of pain and death. He isn’t cooperating, he’s broken. His world has been annhiliated by interrogation and imprisonment. His reality has been legislated out of existence. He is not so much a prisoner, but, inasmuch as he’s survived at all, such a man is a martyr.

God is a nuclear blast inside the "human being."

Colorectal cancer.

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Nutrition Facts: Serv. Size 8fl oz (240ml) Servings Per Container 2.5

Amount Per Serving

Calories 0

% Daily Value *

Total Fat 0g 0%

Sodium 0mg 0%

Total Carb 0g 0%

Protein 0g

*Percent Daily Values are based on a 2,000 calorie diet.

--Aquafina Non-Carbonated Purified Drinking Water

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"A little worried toward the end, she took it well and we were able to cook her up perfectly!" –Muki’s Kitchen

...to think that even my deepest moments of solipsistic introversion are an attempt to elicit a "saving" dialogue with the outside world instead of a circular reductive crusade toward the point of no-return and escape into a peaceful oblivion—that disgusts me, that must stop.

"Wednesday, March 3. On this day in 1876, a shower of meat chunks, one to four square inches in size, rained down on Bath County in Kentucky. Though early opinion was that it was no more than some sort of vegetable matter, it was determined that the samples studied were cartilage, lung tissue, and muscle. The final conclusion was that the meat had fallen from buzzards or vultures who vomited their meals while flying overhead." –Worst Case Scenario Calendar