The Open Matt Project

Maybe the problem is that

Maybe the problem is that I am trying to find truth outside of myself. Maybe my perceptions are not as honest as they seem. Seems? Nay, I know not seems. It is in fact a strange wandering between what I see and what is seen.

I'm Mr. Fucking Untouchable-Touchable. I cruise from spot to spot with my dick hanging out and a smile on my face. I show my weakness and dare you to score a hit. I'm the slap you would be offended about if you weren't so busy being aroused. I'm the stink you can't stop sniffing, trying to find a parking spot in your memory for. I'm the best you'll find and I'm the reason for despair. It doesn't get better than this, but it can sure as fuck be a lot worse. I score an "E" for effort, a "F" for achievement, and a "F-U" for comfort. I wear my world like a layer of thermal underwear I'm afraid to take off not because it's too cold but because it's so soaked with my sweat and stink that it would be killing my hollow twin to take it off. I'm too soft for prime time, and too hard for late night with Conan. I'm searching and searching for something to touch, too obsessed to notice my perpetual self-caress. It's got to be out there. It's got to be.

The vista and vision of the midwest is a perpetual fantasy. The scope of tangible perspective has always been a siren call for tangled thoughts. That quiet and wide open desert. The sleeptaking whisper of the sands comforting as they quietly unchain me from the overbearing assault of endless thoughts. The silence of dusts whirling. The scratch of toads. The drum of my chest and sliding breaths rhythmic and pacifying.

God damn I'm annoying.

I'm offered stars and glowing gems and wonder and I just shrink from it. I cannot stand the glare. The brightness burns me and forces me to scurry into safer holes. Dark holes.

I used to think that I could subdue the demons that plagued me and chain them to my will. I'd just chain them and have their passion and drive without being controlled by them. The passion for pain and suffering. The endless unsatisfaction for destruction and consuming hunger. I think I was wrong. I think I have made a terrible mistake. The chains around their necks are unimportant to them. They notice the cold steel as much as I would notice my hair. They live with chains wrapped around them from the beginning of time and my folly was thinking that adding to their bonds would affect them. By chaining them, I have only ensured that I would never be free from them. I think of the broken smiles they had when I first choked them with my fists and shudder with fear in the knowledge that they weren't afraid at all, they were pitying me. They knew what I was attempting. They knew the schedule of my destruction. They knew my name.

Now I can only look with irony on my plans of strength and laugh at how naieve they were. Superiority assaults me. Depravity snipes me. My very will is an opponent clothed and fed by my own vanity. The cloaked figure that I am is more scars tissue than innocent flesh. His blades are soaked with infernal blood and his fatigue is nearly all that feeds him. His oilskin hat is drenched in my blood. His blades are more trained on himself than they are on anything outside him. Little is left on his face but the grimace of conflict and a gaze whose sight reaches no further than the next strike.

I walk down the street each day with each footstep on a different path.

One path holds unrestrained violence. The unaware bystander is walking enroute to morning coffee, completely devoid of fear. My fingertips, long and razorpointed, would sink so smoothly into their flesh. The scrape of their bones against my blood hot fingers would draw them to me. My caress draws them close enough for me to feel the heat of their blood and fear and life and breath. I know the immense satisfaction of their thick life flowing down my throat after my jaws have locked on their desparately taut neck. The simple certainty and terror in their eyes mirrors my own. I cannot imagine anything more intimate and sexual then their final struggle as I absorb their life. Where our beginnings and ends lie are a simultaneous mystery. A heated bath of conversion occurs in our jerking, gurgling, hot fuck of death.

The other opens myself to accepting absorbsion. I eagerly offer my belly for their sharp fingertips to find in me the core I lack. My burst of flesh and fluid covers their mask of hunger and washes over it, revealing the innocent look of simple satisfaction underneath. I feel the pressure and snap of bone as clearly as the pierce and pop of meat as their teeth consume me. I can see in their eyes the natural hunger of one who feeds as hungrily as I am horrified to be consumed. To be shattered into dissolution and gorged upon as pulsating sustinance. To cling to scraps of consciousness long enough to see the knowing look of neccessary murder in their eyes. My final sigh is an epilogue for a story so old it shames cliches.

Posted by Matt at November 11, 2002 10:51 PM