Violence Fetish v.2.0

"We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered."
-Tom Stoppard

A brief synopse - The author is strapped down with ducktape, held without stimuli, shackled, and sucked for his images and story, which is stored in vast databases, pattern-matched, assembled, and reconstructed by our team of experts. The Author brought to the madness which was always lying dormant, a dormant Beowoulf avant-gardism, is measured and doled out, market-tested, to produce a best-seller, a blockbuster screenplay, the idea of "commercializing" the human mind, brought to its most perverse in the end chapters, as the author is conditioned to become a media hit, a "brilliant individual" only after his brilliance is detached from its petty humanity and used to sell the "public" to the global corporate brands.


Violence Fetish v.2.0

Cut to love scene,

Fantasies of control,

his lustful desires,

lacking that dignity,

poverty's vassals,

lay gifts of gold

and rare spices,

for tortured blessings,

prostrate prayers,

with razors razed to

cut and drink celebrity.

His fraud,

his apathy,

majesty's vanity,

a golden god on a

throne of bone,

surveys of pools,

glistening moist eyes,

of circumscribed lust,

Left on cutting room floors,

Luxurious sanguine hope

pooling in ashen hands,

death to innocence,

Who believes his lies?

her fleeting eyes, lips flushed,

potencies and varieties, a myriad

passions of steel, rust, and dirt.

Blood that mists,

rolling fog, perfumed,

lending air a hopeless rage,

Who will love these lies?

that otherwise,

would embrace the stench,

Coddled sweetly,

this hollow,abandoned

slaughterhouse of commerce,

And love it's sweet anxiety?