pornographia

I'm limp in my left hand and all used up, wasted away.
Cold.
Empty.
Disgusted.
Invisible seeds swim in the milky white goo soaking the toilet tissue. It came from me. Wasted bullets that will soon be flushed away like piss, shit and goldfish. Dying bullets deposited from my ugly pistol. But I'm the victim.
Limp.
Faded.
Spent.
The lone gunman.
Despite my condition, the screen continues to flash moving images of naked bodies.
Women: breasts, vaginas, assholes, mouths.
Men: cocks.
The only parts that matter.
The naked bodies. The contorting bodies. Penetrating bodies. Fucking bodies.
This isn't lovemaking.
And this isn't sex.
This is fucking. Ugly and brutal.
The man you never see captures the creatures' flesh and movements. She is splayed out, her naked body like some kind of obscene interactive display, complete with anatomically accurate parts, access points to stimulate, penetrate and destroy. Three men surround her, stroking and sharpening their weapons, unsheathed bayonets coated with skin and veins, preparing to plunge. These pulsating weapons are connected to their bodies, extensions of their bodies. The only parts that matter.
The man you never see captures the motions of exploitation. In his steady hand is an electronic eye, unflinching and hungry.
The man you never see captures the sounds of the creatures, exclaiming some primal language absent of syllables, vowels and consonants.
These images and sounds are recorded, distributed and sold. Dirty hands exchange dirty currency to view the reusable prostitutes trapped on celluloid. They're ready to go with a push of a button. Ready to suck, fuck, moan and scream. Reusable and recyclable. Over and over and over.
Dirty hair: rinse and repeat.
She is merely an object. A crude device used by these filthy creatures. They all get a turn with the device. A doll covered with hot flesh and crawling with cold blood. They insert their stained rods as she glistens with ugly human fluids. Dirty hands sticky with perspiration cover maps of flesh that have been explored countless times. Exploited. The Indian Removal Act of 1830. The Treaty of New Echota of 1835.
A gold watch is wrapped tight around his wrist, the rusting band clings and digs into his hairy arm as he fills the shiny plastic hole. In. Out. In. Out. Instant gratification. The battery is dead. The battery in his gold watch is dead and the hands are stuck on 12:34, stuck in this moment. In. Out. Over and over and over. In and out of the device. The hole. Day after day, 12:34. Feeling and fucking until nothing and it's still 12:34.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Going nowhere fast but "she feels fucking fantastic, hit this, bro." This is instant gratification. Over and over and over and over.
Dirty: rinse and repeat.
The beasts drive her, the device, into a stained mattress, erasing her face until nothing is left. The sound of the primal language cuts through the room. It penetrates.
Empty sounds.
Empty bodies.
The emptiness.
Filling the hole.
In.
Out.
Something they don't have to think about.
In.
Out.
Something they can feel.
Feel.
Feel.
Fill.
Feel until you can't feel anymore.
In.
Out.
A simple action.
Over.
And over.
And over.
She's a device. A facial tissue. A diaper. Make a mess and throw it away.
Drive.
Fuck.
Penetrate until you erase what you used to be.
?: rinse and repeat -- until you erase that person from years ago. That untainted stranger. A person.
Fluids are replenished and so is the desire. Over and over and over and erase and forget and fuck and ignore the reflection and neglect the stranger. The person you once were and love is a four letter word (consonants and vowels) and they don't feel anymore and they just keep refilling over and over and over. Rinse only to repeat.
Ravenous creatures. Birds of prey. Seeking the carcasses of wicked delights. Devices to fuck and forget after the explosion. The ejaculation. Ejecting themselves from their bodies, their minds. Rejecting purity. Sanctity. Rejecting love and love is a four letter word, foul and fake, so fuck and forget.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck love, he says.
Fuck love, she says.
Fuck me, they say.

Limp in my left hand and I'm disgusted.
I will rinse and -- NO. The cycle ends here.
I'm the confined animal pushed beyond its limits. Naked, I smash the contorting bodies, ugly, into a million pieces. I smash the screen, a display device, and beautiful sparks erupt.
And I'm defiant.
Women: hearts.
Men: hearts.
The only parts that matter.

mc


LINKS:
Pornography as violence against women

In his final interview before being put to death, serial killer Ted Bundy disusses how his addiction to porn fueled his horrific crimes

Harvard article: "The Language of Violence In a New Context: Pornography and Cyberspace