Pusaq: On Nausea

The eternal wound has chosen to bleed, the chained dog nipping my heels. Men-like nausea swallows piss-stained hysteria, control of that wakefulness dream still slipping. That dog. That damned dog. They perceive themselves as something they're not, living in an age where our biggest grievance is our need to be perceived as things unrelated to who we are. The crows still cowl at dusk, your secrets claw the walls, the chains forever binding. I cannot stay the same around the boxing ring. Women is the subject of man. It is less hard to serve man than the friend. There is no shortage of ugliness in the world, it festers inside. The ugly hands do violence of erasing the real in favor of memory. Gaze just for a moment a symposium, this perfect reality Human-kind was once an object of contemplation; now it is its own annihilation for it's self-pleasure. Abolish these symbols of violence, these dog-symbols, there is a pavement of destruction. Maybe in silence, we may sit down with them. In the shared spaces we may realize what we believed these symbols were are nothing like our fetishized images. We superimpose ourselves unto them, yet strike the hammer when they are dissimilar to our wants. Culling of the brother for not being a sister, martyr of the wolf as it is not a lamb. 

I Decay behind a screen every day. Eulogies being self-directed, self-narrated by voiceover audios on parade to stream. Have we felt death to be our courter? That missing figure in our lives, untouchable, fleeting lover who taunts&teases? Every bruise on my skin was a kiss from father Death. 

"Some will wear the mask for their entire lives; some masks are so ugly and obvious, but some masks are well-made and are hard to tell if they are masks or not"

I've silenced the voices in my head. I could not stand them anymore, I could not stand seeing, or presenting. Like a fat lamb, I was passed around to be held, hands inseparable to my flesh, burning cigarettes etch reminders on my fingers, you are not welcome here. The patron can be good and noble so long he serves his purpose, identity, identity, identity. Bile wretched from your throat is the aborted self you've let rot inside... 

I grow tired of the kennel called shame; I come to you now, dressed in nothing but the air beneath my skin, you title me a slut. Would you forgive the men who pissed upon me, too, because of your sympathy for their self-pleasure? Will you kiss their feet as I become their subject?

Cruel men are forgiven for I am the dog that bites them. Perverted hands are baptized in forgiveness, aspire no glory, no happiness. Yet you kiss them. You kiss the hands that raped me. Because they are your men. Because I am their subject. 

When I vomit clear know it's the tears I've shed for you.