“Come closer, sit next to me. But don’t you dare touch me.
Your silhouette will light up my eyes. Dance for me; imitate divinity;
parody eternity so I can believe that this moment won’t die.

“Let me displace my form into the one you will take.
Let it be so everything finally makes sense again.
…I say “again” but cannot recall when I had harmony last.

“Masquerade for me and fill-out what is fake inside of me.
I will make you my world, and it will be such a beautiful world.
A world where all of creation stops short before my Word.

“No more negation or opposition, other than in performance.
No true otherness; nothing lost or unknown; no more secrets.
Everything illuminated by the all-burning fires of my passion.

“It all should burn anyway. Everything’s decomposing bodies.
Everything burns; fire is the greatest defense against incontinence.”

The blame of the body will fall on the same ones
we fetishize, sex and stigmatize in order to enjoy.
It will fall on the objects we love (f)or hate.

They will be the scapegoat. Bodies without the organ.
The one we lose at birth, and forever made into an object.
In the shadow of that organ, life is but the trace of loss and lack.

“Now that it is gone, and I am abandoned to organic rhythms,
everything left to me after the fall is capable of breaking and dying.
Everything’s fleeting and partial objects, dishonest repetitions.
Everything fakes and only glimpses truth as masquerade.”

Held against the Idea of eternity—life that is not immortal—
life in the shadow of the phallus is always-already dead.

“Sit next to me, faux-divine distraction from mortality.
I’ll make you into Truth, but a truth for my own signifying economy.
A truth which is blinding, burning white, and yet shrouded from you.
A truth which is bitter and painful, to justify my own pain.”

The speaking subject is ripped in(-)t(w)o discourse(s).
Temporalized and thus given an end. Where there ought to be
the necessary punctuation for teleology to blossom,
for the patriarch, this is only an obsession with death.
The thought of death is repressed, only to return in erotic visions.
He exhausts his life in his cursing of life, he curses fate
while jealously imitating the one he supposes to cause fate.
In the pit of guilt, he returns to subjugated substitutes.
“How wonderful that I can displace this guilt outside myself?”
He speaks, and seals into femininity the blame for life itself.

Even the attempt to glorify femininity for bearing this blame
smacks of sophistic prattle and violent perversion.
Know-it-all-men obsessed with a primordial and
pre-verbal womb; the photo-negative of frustration and pain.
They simply put their own unconscious out for rent
so they can find it once more, conveniently when evicting others.

These know-it-all men speaking of an abstract Mother of all,
thus rendering their own particular mother as lazy existenz.
What they truly obsess over is the same (differ/defer)ing specter of guilt.
The primal father resurfaces as the cause of our fear of mortality.

Since we can’t reclaim or re-appropriate the object which we’ve lost,
since that object was never there to begin with,
let us exceed the narrow vision of these shameful sons
who only know how to jealously possess what they want to be.
Let us know no metaphysics in the assignment and reassignment
of the bodies which only truly know the binary of pain/pleasure.
Bless us with the contentment of knowing both being and having.

Life, when subject to temporality, self-destructs under the weight of eternal Ideas:
the Idea of unchallenged freedom only gives rise to jealous aggression.

But speech is not enough; we will continue to hear a death-cry
masquerading as a pathological will to life and power.
Standing at the burial site of the primal father,
the cries of the sons synthesize like the gnashing teeth of the damned:

“Everything must be a mirror of our virility.
We will suppress even our own enjoyment and fulfillment
if it is not a projection of the vulgar image of masculinity.
We will take a pact of surveillance so we are each our own
tormentors and prison guards, as well as the others.
Everything will be burned by the passion of the most powerful.
Everything’s fucking the same, but it’s better this way.
Everything ought to sit still and obey, like corpse-puppets.
(It’s) Everything’s not(-)all that we want.”