The Impalement, and the Reading Audience: The Following is not true. Then why am I writing it.

Because the following little ditty is not true. A double twitch of disaffection. Morpheus does not sing in the irony of lament, crawling around his grief that something has been stolen from him, that was his cherry orchard cherry, Chekhov is dead. I knew Chekov, and you, sir, are no Chekov. Your orchard remains your reservation. What you pick is so surrounded by smoke, that your Alcyone is a one-act, rather awkwardly anticipated spewing enthroned upon an urgent plea.

Only the mainstream can save us so forward in accompaniment to a mainstream’s wake, the contextual differences are a matter of pornography and sex, and in particular the kind of gay sex that ALL high schools will presumably institute total bans on with the historical black market of ideas as old as Sparta, soft porn ripples in a timeline menstruation subtracted as a loss, masturbation is about the person or the writer who watches it.

As all the really good pornographers know.

De Sade being the holy trinity of churches. The audience only wants the surface as a competition like a writing contest ascribes to no apology which is exactly what De Sade pulled off enthralled with his work itself seeing how a lot of people knew of its existence, but almost no one had read it outside of a few distinctly European intellectuals pulling their willies out of the asshole that was Rome, having impregnated that Lutheran bitch, but to stir the envy of the pot.

Stir away.

De Sade was actually dangerous. All his aberrations belonged to us.

The chicken or the egg. The person who shits or the person who eats the shit. Being first is everything as is Silicon Valley. The writer or the audience. Entire governments for several centuries banned De Sade because he scared them silly, mass marking and the printing press could themselves distribute these ideas that resembled a morality play written by the priests of Elsinore where Hamlet in a righteous wrath bespeaks an overheated cock, oh, Yorick, you dirty dog, you. Read between the lines, it’s barely an insipid masturbation, a post-Christian sensibility of the afterlife, and it’s not Chekov’s disinterested introspection sitting at a table. It’s literature turning in the very mouths of men. It has only been recently that publishing has been hiring women to rectify the things. For a long time, men operated the great machine. But now that the thing has conspired with itself to fail, women have been compelled by no less than stockholders who have held feet to the fire. High heels and the immediate identity. As yet, no one has been beheaded, but brutality will gets its turn the page.

Then, there is the tribal illusion you are not niche publishing. All audiences are niche publishing and always have been. Niche publishing like a highlighter pen highlights the suggestion that flesh will crawl as he beats it with the dildo of his words and ancient wisdoms. Oh, poor him.

He is a lesser event and death from a remote insomnia.

When by his own reckoning, Morpheus carries his burden as incitement for the dead. The problem isn’t that publishing isn’t currently, all aglow. Esquire and most of magazine publishing is alive and well and knows the names of the people who read it. Pins are made to create choreography upon just such a dancing head who given time will understand it cannot run, it has no legs, it’s a dancing head, it can only suck the cocks of suits all of whom have failed to fulfill themselves.

Orpheus is dead but his legend is De Sade. Not as a definition of sex, but as the featured heretofore mentioned brutality of time.

The final insult.

It’s not about the Pope, it’s not about a cherry orchard, it’s not about a glitzy magazine, it not about another list of yawns at the New York Times, it’s not about islam, it’s about De Sade. Who prolonged his death ironically to orgasm as a letting go, the formulated suffering can finally end, nail his cross to the Paris demonstrations. When the head falls into the basket of the guillotine, the hardened cock will cum inside its silken pants. There is only possibility in pornography. No ones head goes to the chopping block, not too many people die in it, death rejects all amorous sin, and it did invent the Internet because we are the Internet, and, you, and Toto, too. Now, close your eyes, and count to three.

The final insult that there is no audience, only a Bastille, holding back the revelation, or the secrets of the tribe, or the rituals of the Nagavista’s extended form in correspondence to the head. Smitten as it always has been for the cocks in strokes unwilling to be swings. The impalement was not simply at the party, it was the party.

The differences between us are not ethnic. Torment is not redeemable. The differences between us have to do with sex for the sake of sex which is not in any way, literature, or is it.

And we all know what heads do. My beloved husband was a Crow. Anyone can beg for mercy. Not many can look the animal of sex squarely in the eye. And survive it. Your local library will not allow it so fuck them, too. Seriously, exactly how far IS your local library from the very nearest church. Even the churches have have gone to the resurrection of a cock cumming on a computer. Fourteen-year-olds do it all the time. I told you, porn invented pussy and itself.

Hearst is digital to it’s eyeballs. The problem is that even as their literate pens burn, standing by themselves, they as ordered crucify Heideggar just before the old dear has decapitated his own head. De Sade would have called the head someone’s balls, but the effect is the same. A bleeding out whose messengers have inadvertently looked at the animal even as they carry females on their backs like bags. Bob Guccione and Hamlet walk the castle walls. The fundamental basis for any theatre of morality is you will wish you hadn’t done that you will be sorry. Entire civilizations have impaled themselves with the penis of William Blake or his hallucinogenic implant.

The book publishing business, that, now a contradiction in terms, as we all know is hardly a growth industry. The publicist cheerleading team that these businesses employ will collectively, if not metaphorically, jump up and down, finger-waving, going for my throat if they could, screaming insensibly, that as writers we still need to be not just on our knees, but on our knees with our faces buried in the ass of book publishing, eating the embodiment of the idea that the audience matters. Bookstore owners know. Which is why when writers go on the stupid book tour, they are typically assigned a place of chairs in a circle as close to the toilets of the bookstore that can be crammed into one.

Because they matter. Because their jobs matter. Because the audience is god. DescrIbed gleefully by Esquire as everyone’s second husband.

How is it that they are like the rest of us. It is a disavowal of their humanity, not their faith in us, that constricts who gets published, and who draws heavily on the toilet walls of bus stations.

Poor us. Take that and that and that they say. Coherence and fingernails visibly glowing in the dark.

By lack of sleep.

How is it that we can get away with saying that book publishing is dead even as we refer to books to know our gods and totems. Stick a big one up Sherman’s little anus.

Or do I miss my mark. I don’t think I do.

Sherman Alexie is not the problem. I am the problem. Sherman is a dull and ordinary little suit, he longs for those values, the digital white divide, if angry, most suits are angry men, just sublimated, Erica Jong could only have the inevitable fuckless zip because all the little cocks of straight writers are so cute in circumference. And the government, and charity easily picks up the tab for the memory of an education. The ability to write in English can be taught. The ability to write something, anything meaningful as a game-changer, in any language can only be taught that the horse is dead, having been banged around by the technocrats who self-design the Web. Web after web.

Publishing, and Alexie is an opportunistic part of it, does not in its heart of hearts believe, although they will turn on the denial tape at any hint they are ephemeral, that their readers are ethnic minorities, they will cherry-pick a few, and proclaim this exalted example, even as Education fails the lot of us, is meaningful rhetoric, but that does not make it so.

There are no intestines left to suck the juices from. Sherman Alexie has sucked the mistress dry in florid gore, and he is now and will be forever, an Indian writer.

His whiteness so carefully scraped away by an ego the size of a supernova, mainly from within. Publishing dies at the horror of the image of itself some limbless fame, unable to ejaculate with all the consolation of the despair and tongues shoved up its distracted ass.

I have been accused of many cultural crimes. The completely expected is not one of them.

There are many writers who are at fault. Both of them think that things will always remain the same. Betrayal is just another understanding of the truth. You can lose your condo and the waterfront view. De Sade wrote about the moment of release at creation’s one big bang. Everything else was void and empty. The leisure class so bourgeoisie. The destiny of rivers and their fish is more than magic. Most societies ultimately collapse. The battle cries charred black. The earthen dams grown old. The structure breaks. The sun too filled with rage. If there is no audience, there is no tradition. Only an assortment of parents who fail to recognize the world. There is no audience because there is no carnal desire for one outside the humble reign of women. Less women than men have always read. The difference this time is that the men are designing the computers your children will learn to read upon. Apollo’s vengeance upon the crow remains the central feature of the tail.

Nasdijj never really did exist and the thought he brought publishing to its golden knees so it might suck his big fat white cock is pompous. He read out loud by toilets. To mainly women and the unravelling. Sherman was his last goodbye and he never did learn how to sew his panties for want of cunt. His critics didn’t get it. He had no scissors because he had no name.