big night taming some rich but underneath it all street dirty
whore, some glamorous thing but underneath filth; I think
even i f you were with them all the time they wouldn’t
remember you day-to-day, it’s like being null and void and
fucked at the same time, I am fucked, therefore I am not.
M aybe I’ll write books about history— prior times, the War o f
1812; not here and now, which is a heartbreaking time, place,
situation, for someone. Y o u ’re nothing to them. I don’t think
they’re afraid. Maybe I’m afraid. The men want to come in; I
hear them outside, banging; they’re banging against the door
with metal things, probably knives; the men around here have
knives; they use knives; I’m familiar with knives; I grew up
around knives; Nino used a knife; I’m not afraid o f knives.
Fear’s a funny thing; you get fucked enough you lose it; or
most o f it; I don’t know w hy that should be per se. It’s all
callouses, not fear, a hard heart, and inside a lot o f death as if
they put it there, delivered it in. And then out o f nowhere you
ju st drown in it, it’s a million tons o f water on you. if I was
afraid o f individual things, normal things— today, tom orrow ,
w hat’s next, w h o ’s on top, what already has transpired that
you can’t quite reach down into to remember— I’d have to
surrender; but it drowns you fast, then it’s gone. I’d like to
surrender; but to whom , where, or do you just put up a white
flag and they take you to throw your body on a pile
somewhere? I don’t believe in it. I think you have to make
them come get you, you don’t volunteer, it’s a matter o f pride.
Who do you turn yourself into and on what terms— hey,
fellow, I’m done but that don’t mean you get to hurt me
more, you have to keep the'deal, I made a deal, I get not to feel
more pain, I’m finished, I’m not fighting you fucks anymore,
I’ll be dead if it’s the w ay to accomplish this transformation
from what I am into being nothing with no pain. But if you get
dead and there’s an afterlife and it’s more o f the same but
worse— I would just die from that. Y ou got all these same
mean motherfuckers around after yo u ’re dead and you got the
God who made it all still messing with you but now up
close— H e’s around. Y o u ’re listening to angels and yo u ’re
not allowed to tell God H e’s one m aggoty bastard; or yo u ’re
running around in circles in hell, imprisoned by your fatal
flaw, instead o f being here on a leash with all your flaws, none
fatal enough, making you a m aggoty piece o f meat. I want
dead to mean dead; all done; finished; quiet; insensate;
nothing; I want it to be peaceful, no me being pushed around
or pushing, I don’t want to feel the worm s crawling on me or
eating me or the cold o f the wet ground or suffocating from
being buried or smothering from being under the ground; or
being stone cold from being dead; I don’t want to feel cold; I
don’t want to be in eternal dark forever stone cold. N othing
