“Something about our goodbye will always scratch like an infected nipple under a peasant’s burlap shirt. How else to carry these potatoes?”
I will freely admit that I am questioning to myself whether you are worth more to me dead or alive. Of course, this is mostly due to the uncomfortable feelings of loss that occur with the departure of so many people in my life. All options are on the table in most cases and it will be hard to separate the magnets of my thoughts into the categorically frustrated appeal of your disappearance. Here I lie in retreat as just another orphaned instrument.
Durkheim wrote about the values associated with self-killing, but I think Herzog could have used his script to peddle a film about parricide just the same. Imagine that droning and be-whiskered grey mouth narrating the various ways in which children could experiment and get creative with killing their parents. I imagine somehow the Menendez Brothers could make an appearance court side at the game. Have you abandoned us? Have we killed you? All of our tears now run bladed like digital rain-unjust rivulets down the cheeks of us intermediary children.
There is a benefit to knowing when to pull out (unlike our father’s fathers) and in using this knowledge to tap out at the right time. It is a castigating virtue that alleviates many of their diligence. Look around at these be-spectacled and myopic children malformed and hungry for your withered teat. In pulling out, the burgeoning misgivings of failure that were inevitable under a longer tenure in which your values would have likely slid down the inside of the trouser leg like warmed jellied eels into a complacent expenditure of libidinal force will hence gather no further steam.
These small and often un-trumpeted failures would have otherwise progressively chipped away and eroded your past achievements until there would be little spared of the successes of yore. Imagine us watching your crooked and impish form limp to the pill shelf for a blue to try and invigorate yourself for a short-term proof of life? With a rattle and wheeze in the chest, the wall-mounted cabinet door swings shuts with a slap and the mirror cracks reflecting a sullen and useless face. Sad. Nothing worse than a sad cum.
“With a rattle and wheeze in the chest, the wall-mounted cabinet door swings shuts with a slap and the mirror cracks reflecting a sullen and useless face. Sad. Nothing worse than a sad cum”
And so today we are gathered here to celebrate your immediate departure. We have amassed in flock to wish you an eternal priapic and unchallenged rest. We suckled at your bright moments with hungry and open mouths trying to catch the stars as they fell from your orbit. We traced the blood trapped in the lines of your hands looking on with suspicion at ourselves as you wielded the hammer and the un-bandaged knife of critique. Without your constant interrogation, this hood would never have felt so performance-fit. We fleece ourselves in cryptic metaphor as a sign of valour, not in constipated thought. Something about our goodbye will always scratch like an infected nipple under a peasant’s burlap shirt. How else to carry these potatoes?
I’m happy that you are dead. Thank you for the years and for sparing your vision against an overwhelming raft of mediocrity that peddles its poorly wares down river. I would ram a stake through your heart if I thought I could find it still beating. No return is eternal. Stay dead. With love and admiration we throw handfuls of dirt over your corpse. X