I have found myself angry at the world of late. So very angry, in that impotent, hopeless way that every single human feels on a regular basis. Impotent frustration at the global media feeding me half-baked coverage of earth-changing events, wrapped in the bile inducing effervescent bullshit spewed forth from the effluence of our culture: every day I see millions of protesters reduced to ‘a directionless movement’ and quickly overwritten in the minds of the media consuming public by the scandalous affair of a man famous for kicking a ball a bit better than most people.
The fury writhes inside me like a black worm from the bowels of satan himself; an ouroboros constantly eating its own sickened tail, finding nowhere else to vent its destructive, righteous rage.
And it is a righteous rage. It’s a rage that wants to tear off the face of every lying politician who sold our freedoms for the cost of their second home. It’s a pus-filled sore, desperate to burst all over the faces of the rich fucks who sit in front of a camera, wiping the semen of the technocratic elite from their lips before they read out the days list of divisive, fear-mongering arse-relish. It’s a putrefied, base impulse to beat each fat-walleted, self-interested apologist to death with their own gold-plated genitals for every moment of their lives spent stealing the livelihoods of the populous in order to pump the words of their crass media puppets to their fucking enormous HD, 3D TVs.
All that fucking anger, it all has no-where to go. Not unless I want to join the jaded masses throwing bricks through shop windows because they’re pissed off that their shoes aren’t the same as the ones on all the cheese-encrusted advertisement posters. Not unless I want to join a collection of distressed hippies seeking to replace the hierarchy of government with their own sick and desperate egos, in a mis-guided attempt to speak for the people that they refuse to let into their meetings for fear that those very people might detract from the clarity of the message their personal agenda is so desperate to disgorge upon the world.
So I have no-where to turn in the tumult of vomitous, disgraceful occurrences. My fellow humans are crawling the streets in fear of each other, terrified that their tiny patch of existence will be stolen from their very hands by either the fat, flea-infested cats licking their jewel-encrusted paws in the palaces of the mighty, or the stray mongrel dogs that rove the streets, indistinguishable from the rest of the new scum in their desperation for a bigger slice of the maggoty pie.
Where am I to turn to evacuate this flow of disgust into something that is more a mere contribution to the a river of turds that floats into my eyeballs from the streets, and from the tubes that feed chat shows and falsehoods into the hungry mouths of the world. How can I remove this coil of intestinal waste that wraps around my heart, without simply hurling it into the throat of my fellows like a diseased urban bird, feeding its already dying offspring with the regurgitated remnants of another beings waste?
I fuck. I fuck like I hate the world, and everything in it. I fuck like there is nothing else in the world except the person I’m fucking. I grab my lover by the hips and it’s my hatred that propels the thrusts that make them scream until the world ends. Their flesh burns against mine, slick and salted with the tears that burst through my flesh for each petit mort.
I screw my fury up into a rock hard shaft and screw with it. Each groan is drawn in though lungs that yearn to sob at each unjust death; every exhalation, saturated pleasure, still shares in the pain of each terminal expulsion of air across the globe. Every disgusting movement of a ruling bastard is shaken to its foundations by the tremors of my arched back, every plunging adoration into my fuck.
As my sexuality explodes, I feel the shudders of each explosion we pour upon the thin surface of this world. The reverberation of my cries echo with the outrage of every human being whose call for change has been met with steel, fire and club.
The brutality of this terminally ill planet, scourged as it is with the pestilence of a human race driven by fear of itself, flows through my flesh as I clutch love to me and squeeze the hot meat of their back, their buttocks. The threads of each individual life in this rotting culture wind between my fingers with the hair I pull tightly into my fist, as the jarring roughness of a tender kiss pulses across my tongue. The taste of humanity is sweet in my mouth, so unexpected and different from the polluted air I experience each day in the streets.
As we settle into our desperate clutches, two specks on biological matter floating upon a film of the same but rotten, crawling across a molten lump of rock; I remember all this, and I finally relax the tension that wracked my simple frame. I have found a way to throw away the fear, for at least a little while, and remember that each dirt-encrusted beggar on the corner; each spitting youth bedecked in tracksuit and false-gold; each bitter octogenarian creeping slowly towards anywhere warm; each sharp-suited, snide-faced businessman; each drunk, each fast food-employee, each banker, each media tycoon, each big issue seller – every fuck-faced human being on this rock is driven by the same terror, the same passion, the same hatred, and the same love.
That love, desperately clawing its way out of the sewers of our blackened, hardened hearts, cannot save us. Even if I were not the ebony-souled cunt I am now, I know that thinking love can save the world is so fucking ludicrous that the imbeciles who beg for love and compassion while the boot of the policeman descends upon their children’s necks deserve almost as much derision as the micro-cocked power junkies behind the shields.
No, love won’t fucking save us. Fucking might though. Because when we fuck we become the brutal animals that we all are at the core of our being. We revert to our base drives, we become the hedonistic little shits that we spend all the other hours of our days chaining up, just to get by in a society filled with millions of little shits just like us.
Just like us. Every single one of the plastic-faced media pundits, political speakers with sperm-white smiles, narcotic-addled victims of domestic abuse, and all the people who work in your office, live in your neighbourhood, sit on your bus and drive on your roads.
When we strip off our clothes and put aside our insecurities for just long enough to let someone else under our skin, into our beds, maybe even our hearts, then we can get some kind of reminder about what it is to be human, just like every other differently-sick fuckhead out there. We can wrap ourselves in the sticky covers, coating ourselves in what it is to be alive in this over-populated toilet world.
If we can cling on to that memory for a little time after we’ve oozed our erotic fluids onto the loins of another creature, then maybe we can make tiny steps towards treating everyone else like a human being too.
So next time you feel the hatred of the uneducated masses, or fury at the filthy rich welling up inside your probably cancerous stomach ulcers, do the world a favour – go get yourself a good fuck.
–with thanks to Warren Ellis for the motivation.