August 27th 2008

Chatting to a dear and avuncular friend whose interests lie somewhere spectacularly in the vicinity of extreme S'n'M, tonight, I've learned of a splendid new technique, practice, transaction, whatever, known in the argot of this trade as 'Rockerfellering'. Essentiall, this factors the carving off of one's fist, the freezing of said fist, and the subsequent employment of said fist as a rather potent anal stimulator. The beauty being, it has to be an autoerotic practice - in Rockerfellering 'circles' the substitution of a rogue, exotic or phantom fist for one's own is severely frowned upon, not least maroonly obvious. It's a commitment at worst.

Walking to work on tuesday, I found a smashed ujp drunk tramp, leaned up against a wheelie bin, obviously fucked up on booze. I always carry a razor blade around with me, useful for so many things - severing plastic tgies from garments, levering accumulated dirt from narrow grooves in the dishwasher at work - I took the blade to the vagrant's face, gently sliced through his lips, carved them off piece by piece, then repeated the operation on his eyelids. I then opened the half-empty bottle of Gulag 19 vodka cradled on his lap, stuffed soluble codeine into his mouth, doused his head in vodka, and happy that his whole form was adequately anaesthetized, loped onto work, and made it on time.

I received a further letter from michael Alig. Within its ebullient folds he details amongst other things his desire to mount a fairly provocative performance art action at the expense of the slimy bespoke goons peddling impeccably soulless show apartments bordering Central Park. Rather than detail precisely his intentions, I'll refer the honrouable reader to an idea of my own. I'm gonna secure a night at a notable local theatre, and gather a troupe of inside fellow hoaxers to mount a a shambolically awful, trite, underrehearsed staging of a minor classic play - something respected by the genteel, sub-bourgeoise musical theatre cocksucking lapsed angels. Perhaps a lesser-known Ibsen, something to compel a seam of the most cluelessly middle-class, hetero, beige, home improvement-fixated, towards attendance. Midway through the performance, and we're really gonna stretch the tiresomeness of this - missed cues, fluffled lines, collapsing scenography, rogue and faulty lighting - the auditorium is violated by the intrusion of middle-eastern attired banditi, who wrestle select audience members to the ground at 'gunpoint', coinciding with the release of an 'biological' agent in gaseous form, as the director/maitr'd frenziedly instructs everyone to lie on the floor and cover their heads with their cheap coats. Fake a terrorist action. Manipulate the audience into being bored shitless of a play they really should, according to the prescribed etiquette of their kind, respect, and upon breaching a previously agreed threshold of yawns and bored shuffling, initiate Act II.

I'm absolutely exhausted today, only just woke at two pm after having crashed out on a high dose of codeine at three this morning. I'd forgotten how codeine compounds the effects of alcohol, and given Bacchus factored in my evening, and Jesus, occasionally a night with Bacchus feels awkardly like I'm interacting with a future incarnation of myself, the evangelical bug-eyes, the wholly expressive physicality - we each employ our entire body to articulate, or lend further nuance to every syllable, and when talking to others, lean intrusively into their space, as though hypodermically insisting our point, sandblasting our missionary zeal into their moons of docile consternation. I intend at some point to abstract Bacchus into novel form, so as he exists purely as a sequnce of words, sentences, paragraphs, available for consultation at any wanting juncture, rather like the time I spent a fortnight sleeping discreetly in a British copyright library, hoping to assimilate the entire collected works of the library, to upload every logged cypher into my consciousness, in my quest to become universally encylcopaediac. I Though I was never accosted by the door attendants, I failed to assimilate little more than a trifling cold and the characteristic chill of uncarpeted marble upon one's cheek. Still, by day, I did autistically bulldoze my way throuigh the collected works of Genet, and related hubris - my particular bent at this period in my autodidactism was early-twentieth-century highbrow French porn, a grounding whose molecules I'd subsequently reconfigure according to my own fixations, programming and narrative interests in a sequence of pieces presenting intensified and sustained sexual violence, usually featuring myself as the passive protagonist, though on occasion inserting a fantasised incarnation of a famous dead person, Rimbaud, James Dean, Jim Morrisson and having them annihilate a boy into an ecstatic puddle of formless flesh, through the abominable administering of knives, penus, fist, teeth, nails, and any other available implement as manifested in the envrionment I'd previously created - a school, a windmill, a cellar, a woodland shack. My intention with this sequence of stories being to render this sexual violence, through repetition and sustained intensity, meaningless, devoid of ecstasy, emptied of transcendence, just words.

I met a guy on thursday, who revealed through gentle probing, that his sole objective in remaining alive - against all manner of indications that he really should self-murder, not least of which my own suggestion that he's professionally charmless and stinks of a thousand dead guy's piss - was to save up the cash so as he might have the image of his younger, happier self tattooed across his existing face, in a Dorian-Grey-like literalised wish-fulfilment bid, his rationale being this might engender the immortality of a long-exhausted vital spark. I told him this was a plan destined to succeed, bought him a drink, donkey punched him in the face, set fire to myself and ran from the pub.