Paradise Is A Schizophrenic Slum

“It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.” ― Leo Tolstoy

Flushing, New York — Winter 1997

Heaven exists only in the minds of bicameral playthings who never plaster the walls or fixes the toilet; nor do they replace broken windows nor take out the trash. The slumlord watches over lunatics who chip away at life brick by brick, laughing as we scurry from here to there, while reaching out to grab one another by the throat.

He doesn’t care — he doesn’t have to live here. Paradise is a schizophrenic slum and the broken bottles and infestation of human vermin only serves to satisfy his sadistic needs. There is no love here and if you are lucky enough to find it, fear, paranoia, and neurosis is served raw to make absolutely certain that it will never last. The crumbs left on the dinner plate is for the rest of us to share but it seems the vermin have gotten to that as well.

How terrifying it is to be trapped in that mucus cocoon, breathing in remnants of dead childhood demons; folklore twisted into silence as you fight to break free of her. The terror is that you will never get over her but now she is a remnant of fear, paranoia, and gut wrenching screams so silent but somehow deafening to this very day. Illusions, like apples in rotten stomach, gum too hard to chew but ever so sweet in the acidic saliva in the mouths of the irreverent preachers who walk among the shattered glass strewn about by the followers of normalcy.

You kiss the cunt life offers up on dirty dinner plates. It foams and drips into your mouth. You fuck her spirit, her legs wide open.