STRINDBERG, Agnail

(Feb 05. 05)
No sky today, no words; too much scrabbling about nothing any more. Saw Hotel Rwanda this evening, cannot begin to express that which is inexpressible. Tears well up, yet so much more. The inability to put expression and emotions to the unconscionable, all so much too much all of it inexpressible. Sleep will do no good, as it still remains without conscience, yet always too little too much too little never enough anymore. Things are dead, all things, dead yet still more, inexpressible, yet always too much more left to be said yet unsaid just the same; to put expression to words no more. I know more, yet it remains too much to express anymore. Questions.
(Feb 06. 05)
A token morning, nothing more, I slept enfolded for some nine hours and forty-seven minutes. I am the luck-fellow one. Neither bullets nor razor-sharp machetes zephyr past my head, arms and legs akimbo. I am a token-human being, a lucky one. I who sit, legs-folded to assume an auricle of my presence, have neither fucking notion nor idea at all whatsoever at all. Questions. I know more than I am letting on. This is the secret to questions and answers: never let on. Keep it to yourself (no secrets) then machetes and razor-sharp bullets will zephyr passing your unquestioning head, akimbo. I know more though it remains to be seen what.
Genocide is a word, a mortal word denoting immoral atrocities. Immoral atrocities are words and actions that are genocidal and expressible only in action murder, hacking, dislimbing and truncating. This word has more power as a word than any other word in the lexicon, except perhaps God, who has only the power that words and we invest in Him, nothing more. The semantics of the word genocide, a word that calls to action, yet remains a word that has no meaning, a simulacra that failsafe inactivity, an immoral laxness delimbing, truncating and inexpressible. A word that has killed murdered hacked limbless, left headless. I hate this word, a word that denotes inaction and immoralities, an inexpressible word: genocide. Words are power and nothing more, thus spoke Foucault. Words subjugate, delimited, allocate hatreds and impunity, rape, erase, eradicate, hack at, incarcerate and fuck sodomies inexpressible. Words I hate, wordlessly. Love for all man or no man, no man’s land is unacceptable, inexpressible and genocidal. Evil, coeval, disapprovingly arch-evil, cunt-evil, coeval, nothing more I fear.
I am morally exhausted. I am tired of man and his atrocities, genocidal evil, black-hatreds, words, like knives and sharp-bullets, goring soulless and unloving, shrapnel. I am hopeless, yet I hope hopelessly. I am a man of gods inexpressible and immoral. I am man, nothing more nor less: man inexpressible man. I am a word denoting hatred, evilness and genocide, that is the god to whom I pray knees-supplicant and parrying. Behold man!
A Sunday morning littered-scrofulous with words and hopeless man. I am such a man, scrofulous and littering; words are murderers, nothing more. I will murder you with my words, words arching effortlessly across this inexpressibly wordless day. This is not the best of all possible words by a long shot.
Molly’s bloomers asscleave’s cinching, Blazes Boylan’s brash-bitter entreaties, gorehole garishly nibbling Molly’s nethermostmouth, bloomers tightly cinching round neck and cockswaddle; poor cuckolded Leopard, adman, custard fillings pocketed with lemony-scented Pears regal queenly soap, soapy soapcurds for morning-lavations and thereafter. No Plumtrees potted meats, skillet-blackened upon a cast-iron meat-searing confection, poor Dylan’s icing-sugary besotted livery-liver tongued between teeth’s jaw-wearied grindings and mastication’s. I will shower now, as I must, to clean away the licescales and dogsbodies, scuttling them to perdition and further.
Labials of ice forming on crones’-teeth and meathawker’s apron, strings pulled tight cinching; labiumice biting through windowsills, Miterhead off-kilter to the gloomy-glomming bow-bowing. In vine-verities, transubstantiate the clotting-glottis with tallow-white biscuits and deepest pomegranate-red watereddownwines: in glottis-veritas. Quixote’s mandrill’s not so assfuckingly funny after all. This, so he fears, is all he has left to look forward backwards to, silly little maudlin crones’headless cunt.
There is, I fear, no remission or recantation, nothing more than dilly-dallying and hopelessness’ piled up in grimy-heaps, a treacherousness most inconceivable, yet all too real and imaginable. Sleep in-veritas. Night falls in mouthfuls too bitter to swallow or chew into shrapnel. Sleep must I much, with crones’head breaching restfulness, legs bent-supplicants beyond perdition then further still.
(Feb 07. 05)
A roan russet-brown sky squalling in the gray afterbirth of morning. We are all supplicants whether we like it or not, of that I can assure you. Media-sorrel begging forgiveness and for more. Humiliated into change at the hoof-and-mouth of Doctor Phil or fat, then thin, then thinly fat Ophra infatuatus redshaming, not purple as once we were led to believe. The morning after the day before the insurgence will put an end to this lollygaging nonsense. I am gnomon, yet every-man; all men are nonsensical murderous cunts; all men or no man, yet every-man, cunts all of them. In Rwanda, Bosnia, the Sudan, anywhere that isn’t homeland. Shrouded faces and running playful children, those evil axial-savages must be erased from the face of our earth, with fierce punition and tanks rallied. If Kafka were drawing breath and in charge of this our world, things would be much, much different I assure you that. Patriarchs be wary, your time is quickly approaching. My lard of Gauloises will soon be bare, and without these I am no more than a peon or a titlark. I have a thesis to attend to and job’s to be culled from the banks of the river Liffey. On with it you foolish cunt, on.
What the fucking to hell is a titlark doing in a mendicant’s lark? Black-fuck the titlark bastard cunts and be done with it. Thus spoke the malarkey-Falmouth that I am and be that I am most certainly that. That is I, oedipal stick-thruster in the fucking eye, I.

According to the legend, Bhrigu, who had learned everything from his divine father, became so proud of his knowledge that he believed it to surpass that of his master. For this the latter sent him to the underworld where, to humble his pride, he was made to witness many horrible things of which he had previously known nothing.
August Strindberg (Inferno)

A fugue black starless nighttime. Marrowgray clouds scurry, scurrying. Fucking no-good for nothing rot. As legend has it, I am a mendicant’s whore, corpsegaseous and fouling. Blazes be told, I am not neither who nor what I appear to be, no never that at all never that or whom neither as it is, not by a long fuckingshot not.
(Feb 08. 05)
A graymarrow sky. This morning’s attack was inhospitable. This cannot go on; it will go on. I fear pain, not gods. I fear godless-pain. It’s never that simple. The impetigo is back with a fury. Lowry’s furies followed him to the grave, a merciless infanticide. Forgiveness is for those worthy of forgiving, all others, such as I, must wait our turn impatiently.

Man is pity and fear. There is nothing else.
Cesare Pavese

This postmortem is just that, mortem. The cockriding in the bridle of my guts has abated; remission, however, is never possible, never premortem. Or is all premortum and I, as such, am deadened to it all perfectas. Be so it as it may. The cunt is edging its way up the rail and pike of my spine, nasty little cunt that she is. (Isn’t she?) Fuck it, what it, all of it, deadened blackest black. What is black-fuck, fuck? (Isn’t she?) Who is she, this who is fucking and edging-up the pike and rail of my black-spine backblack? Gods only know. I will swill brownbitter ales and chew ragged biscuitsblackened in the maw of a coalwhore’s fire. These are things, two, that I can do within my mien. These gallseeds are most fucking inhospitable. Mill-wheeled in the gizzard, milling stones churned to millet (godsseed’s) punitions for soullessness and malcontention.
A jaundice-yellow moon swinging in a sky madhatter black, blacker: creosote-blacker. Soot-devils drubbing, feet crossing lazily, mindless simple fucks. What is fuck-black, fuck? (Who is she, blacker than nights black-cunt?) I have only my pain to contend with and pay tribute to, yours, I fear, I will never contend or understand (Wittgenfuckingstein) as much as I try and see fit. I am tired of exhaustion, creosote-black. My ministrations serve no other purpose or rhyme than to deflate this tired and most frail ego I. I must go on; I cannot go on. Go on, you must go on, you. I am fucking inhospitable to myself, to no one other. Cesare: throat slitter. All poets worthy of the name poet die horribly by their own words. Words are murders, nothing more. I am nothing more than an assfucker of words, words cast sundered into a night sky begging. That is I, whom is I that is I, oedipal I, that is (I), no-nothing more than (I) nothing. May gods’ chase the vermin clean from the sky, then may we begin again, once again, not ever again? Fucking Italics!