CHTHONIQ

Bedlam Methodology
“The tiger
Kills expertly, with anaesthetic hand.”
—Tiger Psalm, Ted Hughes
We sit at the red vinyl booth and sip the neon blue liquor as the clock ticks. I wear my usual gear—
black T-shirt
black jeans
red leather belt.
His shirt is the colour of blood on mahogany.
I endure the vibe, and register the vomit orange hue of the umbrella in my drink.
Outside, beyond the fogging glass, the real party is kicking off. An archery target of a human being, his blubbery torso swaddled in a Kodachrome Hawaiian shirt, launches himself at the bouncer. A shaved head glints as four trained knuckles contact the triple chin, and soon after I hear a soft, wobbling crunch echo through the street.
—so, anyway, that’s why I think that we shou—
I can’t bring myself to pay attention to the realpolitik my companion is spewing onto the table. A little self-serving neo-liberalism attempts to spill from his lips onto my steak, and I semi-consciously flick it onto the floor tiles before it makes contact.
Two hoodlums in tank tops have joined the fray, and the bouncer’s shaved head shines like a beacon of truth and justice as he kicks one in the groin and throws the other over his shoulder jujitsu-style.
I start to wonder if the bouncer has his own religion.
—nd my brother thinks that immigratio—
The smoothness of the movements.
The crispness of every snapping strike.
Visions of this bald bouncer training in the Shaolin Temple flood my mind: monks in lurid orange robes swarming him with Wu-Tang sword and Tiger Strikes and Buddha Palms and Dragon Kicks, all in vain as the bouncer moves like water. Every strike dodged, every movement countered, every flex to a drumbeat only the divine may hear—
—what do you think about that, hmm?
My mouth opens, and something within speaks:
—Every politician should know kung fu.

I wander along the streets for a while, the liquor not having left my tongue.
Before this day, I had never encountered the pure taste of “blue”.
Liquorice sherbet and bad decisions seems a decent approximation.
I look at my wrists and observe the thick red marks around them, the little calluses that formed where the clasps has once been.
I raise my arms above my head, and feel the unsettling lightness of my hands – despite my belly, I feel like I could simply float off the cool ground and into that oil-slick sky.
My breath condenses and coils before me, and I drift backwards—

Pink Paint Spectacles
“Let us love a thing together once
A thing vermillion”
—Thoughts on a Japanese Movie, Gregory Corso
The crisp gold of cellular annihilation began to break out on sycamore leaves when lips first met. Dull browns became dust underfoot as we walked and spoke of philosophy and freedom and cold brew coffee.
An empty year made whole with a smile.
I willingly wear the blindfold so that the waving crimson on the horizon won’t draw my attention, as I have done so many times before.
A silk scarf is placed around my neck in the name of fashion—
—the patterned leash lies upon the carpet, and I study it as a student of Kulchur would study the sunfish—
—you teach me the footsteps of the waltz—
—you take me by the hand, pulling me side to side as I get a sense of the cage’s dimensions—
—you pass me hot honeyed water as I choke and splutter, sick as a dog—
—black spores bloom on the walls like a cancer as you check my glassy eyes and measure my wrists.
In the day, my smile’s brightness rivals the sun.
In the night, hot teardrops crawl across my cheeks as we sleep back to back, and a chill runs along my spine as my lungs rattle.
I do not understand.
I tuck my legs into my body tighter and wrap my arms around them until my eyes simply can’t stay open any more, dragging me down into abrupt blackne—

Hagakure Manacles
“Generally speaking, the Way of the warrior is resolute acceptance of death.”
—Go Rin no Sho, Miyamoto Musashi
In dreams, I run naked through paper screens, panting in terror.
Heavy footsteps follow, and the sound of sharpness pierces my ears – a high metallic thrumming signalling doom that I just can’t seem to escape.
I burst through screen after screen, moving along a corridor in a void that refuses to bring itself fully into existence.
Within my head, a miniature copy of me curses his deity and protector for having twice as much pizza as was needed to fuel this moving corpse.
I hazard a glance behind me – there, the samurai, katana drawn, impervious armour laid upon his flesh, eyes like blazing coals in the darkness – and I keep running, knowing damn well what will happen if I slow down.
The body starts to flag, and my feet decelerate.
Steady zenkutsu dachi steps in heavy boots follow, never stopping, never slowing.
I eventually crash out on the floor, and turn to see the blade about to pierce my chest, an—

—and I awaken next to her.
I feel heavier than usual.
I check myself.
—How the hell did these get here? I ask, seeing the ornate locks around my wrists.
—They were always there, she says. Don’t worry about it. Just go back to sleep.
I pull down the black velvet blindfold again, and dream of samurai in corridors.
I do not sleep for long.
The ganglion twitches with every strike.
Eventually, I give up on sleep. I tread along laminate floors and make my way to the couch, and I sit there watching the wall until dawn creeps through the blinds.
It must be raining inside.
Or there must be a leak.
Droplets strike the floor like so many men in Kodachrome Hawaiian shirts.
Days pass the way years do.
We sit on the couch together, and as she speaks, the walls unfold like paper to reveal the circle of tiki torches around me and the altar behind the TV.
“That leather jacket… it just isn’t you.”
—wait – where did this come from?
“Honestly, you suit more sunny colours. Like yello—”
—But I don’t want to wear yellow. Just… that’s just weird.
“But the jacket gives off all the wrong signals. It screams ‘power’.”
—Maybe I want to look powerful.
“But you’re not, are you? You really aren’t. You have to start accepting this.”
—B-but I like this jacket. This jacket is my jacke–
“That jacket is a symbol of strength when you are really a kind, soft, sweet person. You should accept that. Why can’t you accept that you’re not strong?”
—b-b-but this is–
“Why can’t you just accept the facts? How do you think this makes me feel, having to deal with you wearing that?”
—I… didn’t think of that.
“Maybe you should. Now, please?”
—o-okay. Okay. I’ll… I’ll just leave it here.
I place the jacket on the altar, and watch as flames swallow it up and carry its ashes to the sky.
My wrists feel tighter.
She kisses me. I stare numbly through my eyelids, and see her smirk. When she lets go, I yank down the blindfold.

Kafka By Kubrick
“One of the first signs of the beginning of understanding is the wish to die.”
—Blue Octavo Notebooks, Franz Kafka
I arrive at the reception desk. I speak:
—Where can I find the Professor?
—Third floor, seventh door on the right.
—Thank you.
I trudge up the winding staircase – floor one, floor two, floor three – and down the corridor – door one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
I knock at the door.
No response.
I knock again.
No response.
I trudge back up the corridor and down the stairs to the reception desk.
—Is the Professor actually in today?
—We aren’t cleared to know the movements of Professors. All I know is that this Professor’s room is on the third floor – seventh door on the right.
—Right. Thank you.
I trudge back up the winding staircase – floor one, floor two, floor three – and back down the corridor – door one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
I knock again.
No response.
I knock louder.
No response.
I wait.
I wait.
I sit on the staircase and read some Kavan.
I watch the clock.
I trudge back up the corridor and down the stairs to the reception desk.
—Is there anybody here who knows where the Professor is?
—Perhaps another Professor may know. But we aren’t cleared to know the movements of Professors. All I know is that this Professor’s room is on the third floor – seventh door on the right.
There is a sound in the centre of my head.
—Is there anybody who isn’t a Professor who might be able to help me find the Professor?
There is a high metallic thrumming in the centre of my head.
—I don’t know about that. All I know is that this Professor’s room is on–
—on the third floor – seventh door on the right, yes, I know, I know.
The receptionist’s face is cleaved in two as the painted paper screen is split by a katana.
Eyes like blazing coals peer through me.
The blade is raised.
I run back up the winding staircase – flooronefloortwofloorthree – and back down the corridor – dooronetwothreefourfivesixseven.
My fists start to hammer on the door as steady zenkutsu dachi steps in heavy boots follow, never stopping, never slowing.
I hammer my fists on the door, and glance back to see the blade
falling
falling
falling
cutting
clearing
and I’m gone to the void, drifting–

Cyanide Semantics
“What I tell you three times is true.”
—The Hunting of the Snark, Lewis Carroll
I hit the red button on the smartphone and end the call. The dialysis bag hangs before my eyes, a spectral vision of pains past. I think of my mother back in a hospital bed, and my stomach begins to form itself into the Gordian Knot that I remember from childhood.
Her gimlet eye spots the crack in my facade.
She wastes no time.
“You must feel so depressed about this.”
I can feel her words starting to swirl around me, like a thick smoke that won’t shift.
“It’s such a depressing situation.”
The smoke coalesces into tendrils that begin to dig into trained flesh and blubber from idle months.
“For such a thing to happen to your mother – it must be so depressing.”
My nimble fingers begin to transform to heavy lead with every word that tumbles from her painted lips.
“I don’t know how I would cope with such a depressing situation.”
—But I’m not depressed, honestly, I’m—
“But you are really, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You are so depressed.”
I feel my body getting heavier and heavier.
The manacles around my wrists are pulling harder now, my joints creaking.
“Why can’t you just accept the facts? How do you think this makes me feel, having to deal with you pretending you’re okay?”
– I… didn’t think of that.
“Maybe you should. Now, please?”
—o-okay. I’ll just…
“Just lie down. You’re staying in bed tomorrow.”
I have lectures tomorrow.
I have work tomorrow.
—y-yes. I’m staying in bed tomorrow. i promise.
“I’m doing this for your own good. I love you.”
We sleep back to back.
I find myself crying again.
I start to wonder why.
“Lie down. Relax.”
—yes. okay. i will.
“Good boy. Just calm down.”
—yes. okay.
“Sleep.”
and i drift off—

The Fourth Law
“What seems brutally unendurable never lasts forever.
—The Nine Laws, Ivan Throne
In the library, the word blazes into my mind as I read and make notes.
“ENDURANCE.”
I read the exercises.
One sticks out to me.
“What is the traumatic root of each weakness within your heart, mind and body?”
I begin to write, challenging every clause with a “BECAUSE” in the hopes that I will find my flaw faster. My pen hits the paper:
COWARDICE:
i am afraid of conflict and being forced to engage with people in terms i cannot control
BECAUSE
i am a weak individual with little real presence and i know that i will be considered pathetic after a few moments of engagement
—Wait. Are these… are these my thoughts?
BECAUSE
i never put in the effort to determine what i personally believe in or stand for
—That… that’s not right. Three years of undergrad, five of factory work – I’ve put in effort, youth be damned—
BECAUSE
i am too lazy to actually put in the effort for my self-development.
—I sleep in occasionally… but what the fuck? What is this?
GLUTTONY:
i stuff my face with food
BECAUSE
it brings me a degree of comfort when bored or miserable
—Okay – guilty as charged on that one.
BECAUSE
i don’t actually want to do anything to change my situation
—Point taken – belly could use a little work. I’ll take that on the chin.
DOUBT:
i am afflicted with doubt about my worth and abilities
BECAUSE
i derive my self-worth externally and rely on the way in which i am perceived in order to determine my value
—Hold up. That’s not my thinking.
BECAUSE
i am far too willing to allow people to shape my perception of myself and my worth
—This isn’t me. This isn’t right.
BECAUSE
i am a broken and damaged human being
—FUCK, this isn’t me! Snap out of it, man!
BECAUSE
i should have been born normal and made my family proud instead of being some autistic failure who can barely function in public
—That’s just not fucking true – heck, I have a speech at a formal dinner a month ago! What the hell is– oh, no.
BECAUSE
i fail constantly and i never seem to be able to be a good son or brother or boyfriend
—Oh, dear sweet Jesus, I know what this is. Take off the blindfold.
BECAUSE
i am lazy and cowardly and stupid
—Take off the blindfold, damn you.
and wretched and worthless and weak
—Take off the blindfold before it kills us, dammit!
and retarded and foolish and powerless
—WAKE THE FUCK UP, FOR GOD’S SAKE!
I close the journal.
I am in the flat again.
We lie back to back.
I grit my teeth, and feel the wetness on my cheeks.
I note that even when my mother had cancer, I did not weep.
I do not understand.

Arsenic Mindset
“…trauma isn’t always like a lightning bolt where you know that you’ve been hit. Sometimes trauma is like poison that someone slips into your food in little doses… and you don’t realise it’s building up inside you until you stop…”
—Men. Abuse. Trauma., Oliver Thorne
my body collides with a paper screen in a corridor that never ends. beyond, only the void. there’s no purpose in running, but i run anyway. it passes the time between being told
what is permitted to read
what i have to clean
who can be spoken to
what i am allowed to do
where i am allowed to go
she is always ill. too ill for love. too ill for walks. i make the tea. i clean the flat. her love is a glance. i want this, i tell myself. at long last, i have proven i am a grown man.
overnight, i shift from 22 to 45.
i have a partner.
i have a flat.
i have food bills.
i consider life as a barista.
if it means i have time to clean, i might.
she is too ill to move.
too ill to love beyond a glance.
she watches from the couch as i polish glass and hoover wood.
i can’t escape this.
i don’t want to escape this.
i… i am happy.
this is love, isn’t it?
this is love.
love is love, whether you gain anything from it or not.
i remind myself that devotion is a virtue.
i pay for another cupboard full of food.
my appetite wanes by the day.
my body will learn to live on love.
i will live.
she is too weak right now, but i know she loves me.
if it takes another month, i know she will show me love again.
it’s all just a
matter
of
time
who am i to question her?
she knows me better than i know myself.
she is so smart.
smarter than me by a mile.
i’m so stupid.
i wish i was as smart as she was.
i know my place in this world – making camomile tea and keeping quiet while keeping the place clean.
i can save more money if i skip lunch and dinner again.
more to spend on her.
she’s been so good to me.
she smiled at me twice today – she really does love me.
i don’t deserve somebody like this.
—I don’t deserve somebody like this.
—I don’t deserve somebody like this.

Astral Kumite
“Chinese Kun Tao is a way to break bad instincts that are bad for you and break the limbs of the other guy.”
—Sanction I, Roman McClay
“Why are you packing?”
—Because I’m going.
“But why are you taking everything you own?”
—Because I’m going.
“But you know you should stay, don’t you?”
—I really shouldn’t. I’m going home.
“Why can’t you just accept the facts? This is your home. How do you think this makes me feel—”
—How do you think this makes me feel? I haven’t seen my mother and father in months. I haven’t seen my sisters in months. I’m going home. Goodnight.
I grit my teeth as the waterworks start and start the car up. Halfway down the road, relief washes over me like the tide beyond the promenade wall.
I lay in my own bed that night.
My face remains dry as I pass into slumber.
In my dream, a corridor stretches for as far as the eye can see.
Heavy footsteps follow, and the sound of sharpness pierces my ears – a high metallic thrumming signalling danger that advances toward me.
I cast my gaze behind me – there, the samurai, katana drawn, impervious armour laid upon his flesh, eyes like blazing coals in the darkness – and I stand still, smirking as the figure advances.
Steady zenkutsu dachi steps in heavy boots move toward me, never stopping, never slowing.
My right foot lifts to barely touch the ground, allowing my left leg to take the weight as I ground myself in nekō-ashi. I place my hands before me, open and ready, and I beckon my adversary.
The blade rises up.
Tai sabaki.
My hips turn, guiding my torso in a smooth arc beyond the blade’s reach. It strikes the ground and sticks there, and I quickly begin to pummel the samurai – uraken to the face-mask and groin, mae geri to the solar plexus, and a chain of quick punches to the chest and gut aimed three centimetres past the skin the hopes of shutting down whatever black heart beats beyond the bounds of that flesh – it staggers back with every blow as I begin to roar at the top of my lungs, eventually knocking it flat onto its back with a solid double-footed jumping kick to the throat.
I walk over.
Upon my naked flesh, black and crimson threads reknit themselves into my uniform—
black T-shirt
black jeans
red leather belt.
The samurai rises again, ever loyal to its mistress, and charges me.
I focus my mind into a single point.
I clench my fist, and think Through.
He draws back a gauntleted fist—
His form crumples, black blood trickling.
I stand and bow, leaving the void.
I awaken, finding two small piles of metallic dust next to each of my reddened, bare wrists. I watch the sun begin to rise from my window.

I look at my wrists and observe the thick red marks around them, the little calluses that formed where the clasps has once been.
I raise my arms above my head, and feel the unsettling lightness of my hands – despite my belly, I feel like I could simply float off the cool ground and into that oil-slick sky.
I notice a bald head and a black shirt walking past.
—Hey. You’re the Shaolin Bouncer, right?
He smiles.
—Only when I have to be. Who are you?
I feel a sudden tightness in my chest, and her laughter echoes in my head.
—me? i’m nobody.
His expression darkens, and he notes my wrists.
—You get it back over time, you know. The mojo.
He shows his own arms under a street lamp – muscular, toned, and with several bands of raised pinkness where heavy manacles have pinched skin and tainted cells.
I remain silent.
In the crisp midnight air, we bow and walk away.
