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The last of the angels’ Castaway nametags Hung from the plush red edges Of the art deco interior. A breeze from the open door Cast the doctor’s pamphlets to the floor Advertising his services For the special remediation program Since he could not sleep What with all the voices From below chanting his name— How he envied the people he killed: For they were spoken so little of. That is, except for on his intake sheet: After passing over the names, Seven in all, Whose lives were, shameless, Shed over *** The latch clicked And out came the doctor’s hand Beckoning through the door A “come hither” gesture. On the couch he sat, Neck conforming perfectly to the couch As he swam a cascade of Rorschachs Apart the mirror-faced, owl-like man. Speaking with a heavy Eastern-European accent He knew exactly why Elliot had come: Perhaps the intentions were dubious, Perhaps he was looking For quick solutions; Regardless, Mirror-Face was there to help: Too easily, these days, was it To determine dysfunction in the masculine— And this case was rare, Awash in chatter from below. So, there must be something deeper Rooted in fear of perpetual Romance fetishism And absence of its referent. Yes! The penetrative is missing— The limerant object Is without form, shapely, and feminine And would forever escape him, In part by suicide, In part by isolation. The reason you are here Is the absent-present offspring Of such missing *** A veritable porcupine-dilemma In the flesh, a show of insufficient ****** capital— See now in this face of mine. Yes, now that I’ve diagnosed What ails Let us explore what solutions Could have been: The living world does offer suitable surrogates For those lacking— Recognizing this is the first step To being forgotten, To allow you to sleep. Yes, you recognized then The gun as the extension of the phallus And it levels the playing field Raised up, aroused by power One feels when operating heavy machinery— Yes, all flesh which is the metaphorical egg, The bullet is the ***** Which penetrates the flesh of the paramour Impregnating her with life inverted And creates, in death, The child of ****** frustration. While this child is one of children lost, It is child nonetheless. Yes, and this gun, the metal ***** ***** not one But many—in fact, incestuously, It ***** entire families, Entire communities, And leaves their lives gravid With your legacy. Yes, it is the only way to create The ultimate matron, the universal feminine, The supreme m-Other For the Supreme Gentleman. And you, as you see me, Are the absent-present of this child of death This union of bullet-sperm and the whole-body womb, With which you, sadly, impregnated yourself. But, here’s the secret, Because of this, you can only do damage control: Your child will prevail. Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails. Name may be gone, but child prevails. Name gone, child here. So, have the voices stopped? Has the child matured in you? You are on your way to being forgotten, But the child lives on: Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails. Name may be gone, but child prevails. Name gone, child here.
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Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
jp-goss
Elliot Rodger sees a Psychoanalyst in the Afterlife as a Condition to Participate in the “How to be Forgotten” Program for the Recently Deceased
The last of the angels’ Castaway nametags Hung from the plush red edges Of the art deco interior. A breeze from the open door Cast the doctor’s pamphlets to the floor Advertising his services For the special remediation program Since he could not sleep What with all the voices From below chanting his name— How he envied the people he killed: For they were spoken so little of. That is, except for on his intake sheet: After passing over the names, Seven in all, Whose lives were, shameless, Shed over *** The latch clicked And out came the doctor’s hand Beckoning through the door A “come hither” gesture. On the couch he sat, Neck conforming perfectly to the couch As he swam a cascade of Rorschachs Apart the mirror-faced, owl-like man. Speaking with a heavy Eastern-European accent He knew exactly why Elliot had come: Perhaps the intentions were dubious, Perhaps he was looking For quick solutions; Regardless, Mirror-Face was there to help: Too easily, these days, was it To determine dysfunction in the masculine— And this case was rare, Awash in chatter from below. So, there must be something deeper Rooted in fear of perpetual Romance fetishism And absence of its referent. Yes! The penetrative is missing— The limerant object Is without form, shapely, and feminine And would forever escape him, In part by suicide, In part by isolation. The reason you are here Is the absent-present offspring Of such missing *** A veritable porcupine-dilemma In the flesh, a show of insufficient ****** capital— See now in this face of mine. Yes, now that I’ve diagnosed What ails Let us explore what solutions Could have been: The living world does offer suitable surrogates For those lacking— Recognizing this is the first step To being forgotten, To allow you to sleep. Yes, you recognized then The gun as the extension of the phallus And it levels the playing field Raised up, aroused by power One feels when operating heavy machinery— Yes, all flesh which is the metaphorical egg, The bullet is the ***** Which penetrates the flesh of the paramour Impregnating her with life inverted And creates, in death, The child of ****** frustration. While this child is one of children lost, It is child nonetheless. Yes, and this gun, the metal ***** ***** not one But many—in fact, incestuously, It ***** entire families, Entire communities, And leaves their lives gravid With your legacy. Yes, it is the only way to create The ultimate matron, the universal feminine, The supreme m-Other For the Supreme Gentleman. And you, as you see me, Are the absent-present of this child of death This union of bullet-sperm and the whole-body womb, With which you, sadly, impregnated yourself. But, here’s the secret, Because of this, you can only do damage control: Your child will prevail. Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails. Name may be gone, but child prevails. Name gone, child here. So, have the voices stopped? Has the child matured in you? You are on your way to being forgotten, But the child lives on: Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails. Name may be gone, but child prevails. Name gone, child here.
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