Chapter Seven: The Beast-Man Emergeth

Genesis of Another American God

            May I thrash you to pieces

            In this moonlight

            Kick you to shit

            Tell me it’s all right

           

            Let me beat you

            Let me kill you

            I am animal

 

            Let me eat you

            Let me thrill you

            I am animal

 

            Going long miles

            At a time

            We have to hide

            This cursed crying

            We say we’re loving

            But I think we know

            We’re lying

            The love we had

            So strong is dying

 

            Let me eat you

            Let me beat you

            Let me thrill you

            Let me kill you

            I am

            I am

            I am animal

 

            You tell me the secret

We’ve shared

            You’ve given to another

            You hussy

            Who dared

           

            Getting out the belts

            The whips and the chains

            Beat you back slut

            Back within my reigns

 

            Ever tightening

            Ever gripping

            Ever tightening now

            Ever gripping

            Never slipping

            Ever tightening down

 

Getting out the belts

            The whips and the chains

            Beat you back slut

            Back within my reigns

 

            You should see me go crazy

Like never before

Take what I give you

You deserving whore

 

I did this

I did this

I did this once

Back as a child

Beat down on another

Younger some shit sluts

Bastard little brother

Getting way too wild

 

Never forget the little shit

The way the crying ran from it

 

            Let me beat them

            Let me kill them

            I am animal

 

            Let me eat them

            Let me thrill them

            I am animal

 

Get down to the floor

I’m gonna punch you more

Man I wanna see blood flow now

I’m psyched up

It’s all fucked up

Now we’ll really have a row

 

Get down to the floor

We’ll roll some more

Get the blood flowing now

We’re both crying

Can’t breathe, we’re dying

Attack like scythe into a sow

 

            I thrash you to pieces

            In this moonlight

            Kick you to shit

            Tell me it’s all right

 

We want it like this

We want it like this

God knows

Your glow

Says you want it like this

 

Crying, crying, crying

Ever dropping into

A puddle of hatred

A puddle of sorrow

A puddle a muddle

Of me and you

 

Who am I

And what have I done?

Is this my life

Of terror begun?

What can I do now

But lay down my gone

 

I’m scaring me

I’m scaring all

I’m scaring me

With my own fall

 

I’m scared of my actions

I’m scared of my fists

I’m scared I might

Live like this

 

Am I the animal

Am I the animal

I don’t wanna be an animal

I am the animal

I got to get free

 

Crying, crying, crying

Ever dropping into

A puddle of hatred

A puddle of sorrow

A puddle a muddle

Of me and you

 

Who am I now anyways?

            I lost myself in this craze

            Try to push back through the haze

            Who am I now anyways?

 

            Ever crying

Ever dying

Ever killing myself

All over you

And the dirty things I do

 

Am I the animal

Or am I the man

I gotta get my soul back

Right now if I can

 

I did this

I did this

I did this once

Back as a child

Beat down on another

Younger some shit sluts

Bastard little brother

Getting way too wild

 

Never forget the little shit

I was wrong now I know it

I hurt my love now

I can’t get over it

 

We want it like this

We want it like this

God knows

Your glow

Says you want it like this

 

I’m scaring me

I’m scaring all

I’m scaring me

With my own fall

 

Find me again

Breathe through the pain

Pick up the broken glass

The hole in the wall

Punched there last fall

Like a drunk old

Fucked up geezer ass

 

Find me again

My minds gone away

To simpler times

Look down to my fist

Feel hurt in my wrist

Knowing then

Scared too

Of my own crimes

 

Glass and wire

A desire

From the heart of me

I could get on a spire

On a rock my eyes fire

I deserve to drown in the sea

 

Find me again

Breathe through the pain

Pick up the broken glass

The hole in the wall

Punched there last fall

Like a drunk old

Fucked up geezer ass

 

I want it like this

I want it like this

God knows

I glow

Says I want it like this

 

I’m scaring me

I’m scaring all

I’m scaring me

With my own fall

 

Crying, crying, crying

Ever dropping into

A puddle of hatred

A puddle of sorrow

A puddle a muddle

Of me and you

 

My crimes are like grime

I see covers my face

My crimes are badges wound into me

I have this past

Skeletons that will last

My terrible brutality

 

Beating you

Beating you

Beating you down

Beating you

Beating you

Beating you to the ground

 

Cry why god why

Profanity at the sky

Trying to slip away

Trying to escape to some dream world

But this is a rape of trust

I fucked up in this real world

I fucked up with my dreamed girl

 

Crying, crying, crying

Ever dropping into

A puddle of hatred

A puddle of sorrow

A puddle a muddle

Of me and you

 

            Let me beat you

            Let me kill you

            I am animal

 

            Let me eat you

            Let me thrill you

            I am animal

 

            Let me eat you

            Let me beat you

            Let me thrill you

            Let me kill you

            I am

            I am

            I am animal

 

And it tears me apart so hard

The mirrors all in shards

Blood running down my hand

I slapping away at sea and sand

Ants out of my palm

Galucha come and gone

            I’m crying away now

 

*     *     *

 

            As I said, I felt terrible. A brute. Animal. Far less than human. But still I clung on to the very thing I hurt so deeply. We stayed together and the fall leaves faded away turning into the death of winter. I still held Makayla close, a far cry from those dark winters before I met her, the winters alone.

            Appearances are far different from realities. On the inside I think we hated each other now. I hated her for the cheating, for the disloyalty. She hated me for the abuse, the scars on the inside of her cheek and the long hours of crying and sobbing “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m ever so sorry.” I got so bad, apologizing for every infraction of order that she told me off about that as well.

            I think she just wanted me to go to hell. Who could blame her? Not I. I may consider myself a spiritual, religious person (more so than your frocked rapists), but I held absolutely no morality any more. The relationship belonged to her. All she needed to do was bring the event up in a break up talk. I would agree with her, and go cry my eyes out. Sad, scared little child.

            So the psychology of my senior year in high school looked like Quadrophenia: “Leaves start falling, come down is calling, loneliness starts sinking in.”

            Sure enough the leaves began to fall. I started to hang around with Makayla’s friends. I found them pretentious posers at best. One, a mulatto (I still think in some old terms, despite my efforts to stamp them out), I found nothing more than bitch. Tall for a freshman, she dressed in corsets and lace and bondage gear. The stuff one might call hardcore Goth. She read shitty novels about rape and vampires. Not real vampires, like animals, like me. Vampires like Anne Rice crap and the necrophile thing.

            There is nothing in me against necrophilia. Only against vampires and necrophilia as an act of attractive sexuality. It is never about that with vampiric myth. I believe in Nosferatu, ugly beasts. That Dracula looked attractive is only because of his powerful illusions. No vampire is attractive, and the sex is a forced thing—more signs of my lust for control, I suppose. After all, vampires can hypnotize with their eyes. I guess I acted as a vampire, sucking the soul out of the woman I loved and replacing those I preferred to dominate. I guess what it comes down to is I fetishize over mind control, understand the motives of necrophilia, and disdain the modern usage of vampires as a sexual symbol (possibly Fruedian). Lestat, fuck no. but Girls and Corpses, or Crucifix porn? Now, those I can dig into and fantasize with all the shit and cum of my most depraved states. 

            Of course, she hated me. This happens mainly when I am right and other people are wrong. She disdained me, stuck up her nose, and kicked her boots out when I tried to make a meaningful statement. The worst part of this, personally, was her artistic ability. She wasted it on crap! Vampiric images and stereotypical gothic art—werewolves, moons, and all the stuff of poor thought fantasy. Better use that talent to paint the classics, studying tradition to begin before going off into a personalized style. We must first mimic before we innovate.

            Othersw I hung out with: a weird of scruffy kid that liked to scrap, his even-more-depressed-than-I girlfriend who Careen crushed on, and Gotilf who dressed in black and listened to the cure and all those shitty bands. He talked a mean game, but in the end seemed a loser like the rest, just trying to conform to fit in. always going on about how older women would take advantage of him, rape him or something. And he liked it, went along, encouraged it. Lying asshole. Otherwise, Gotilf acted nicer than most people—and actually listened. He discovered, as everyone should, I am nearly always right.

            So the social circle changed, and the difficulty of classes changed. I took the easy road, taking creative writing and psychology. I took mainly electives, just to finish all the credit requirements. In multimedia and video and design I excelled as I paid attention to the rules, and then snuck around them with my own visions. I understood the concepts, practiced them. Then I turned them around and tried my own way of doing things. Almost always my work succeeded in impressing with it shock value or ability to obscure the line between reality and the rest of the world. One that sticks in my mind is a hand I superimposed over a stone bench, letting blood drip down both the palm of the hand and the bench, giving a shared feature in the double image. As everything great I create, it is most likely lost.

            I wrote poems, mainly. I always enjoyed that more fantastic art form. It seemed so perfect, the way words could break down into elemental forms. Letterism. Concretism. The whole absurdity of trying to describe with a bunch of little marks on a page something a painting or a picture might show. But the ability to lay in emotion—that drew into the whole thing, including the writings of Burroughs, Ginsberg, and Kerouac. The year before, after all, an English teacher introduced me to the beats, and I wrote an excellent seventeen minute howl like poem called Messiah I, which went something like this in refrain:

 

            I am messiah as you

            And you

            And you

            I am stoned and alone

            Try to find the Highest throne

            And see it in my heart

            And yours

            And yours

            We are all our own Goddess part.

 

            So the circle changed. Because the circle changed, the dynamic changed as well. Before I played a substantial part in the leadership. This year, however, I became the outsider. I never minded outsider status before, but the fall from the leadership into the outsider of the outsider collective left me bitter and spiteful. I felt alone, and probably was—though I still deluded myself that Makayla and I retained the hard love I destroyed with one hard slap across the face.

 

*     *     *

 

Moving through a social circle

Got to find the lines

It’s always confusing

Allegiance changing all the time

 

I’m off alone

And I’m almost drowning

No one cares anyway

The sorrows I’m downing

 

And they leave me off

To cough alone

They leave me off

To piss and moan

They leave me off

Leave me off alone

 

You should see

No one is smarter than me

You should see

What I understand

But they push me out

With little doubt

They want to ruin the land

 

Now you could see the talent

The blood dripping down

But it looks the same

As everything around

 

It’s hard to be original

When you’re in the mindset

You gotta move with the group

(I know) the self is easy to forget

 

So loose yourself in the crowd

With the ideologues

But don’t act surprised

When I surmise

To treat you all as dogs

 

They leave me off

To cough alone

They leave me off

To piss and moan

They leave me off

Leave me off alone

 

They know I’m right

But they’re wound up tight

You should see me crying

Fell like dying

Against your chest

Against your breast

My head rests

Crying tonight

 

And I surmise

Don’t act surprised

The way you’re dressed

Your hair so messed

You think you’re blessed

With insight

Well you’re half-right

You know me

And I can see

That you’re weighted down

Never get free

Rebelling uncool

Traditionally

 

Don’t act surprised

As I surmise

Your mouth lies

It’s all shit

Your words are spit

But I don’t fall for it

No, no

 

Time changes the party lines

I feel like I’m dying

Pushed back into the grand old man

Leader of the party forgot

Leader ever damned

Not in demand as the new

Kids know what they want to do

Try to move reality through

Don’t want to listen like they really should do

 

I may not hold the whole truth

But I understand much better

You might night believe it

But my demons let me

Read the weather

 

Don’t act surprise

As I surmise

Your mouth lies

It’s all shit

Your words are spit

But I don’t fall for it

No, no

 

You should see

No one is smarter than me

You should see

What I understand

But they push me out

With little doubt

They want to ruin the land

 

Now you could see the talent

The blood dripping down

But it looks the same

As everything around

 

It’s hard to be original

When you’re in the mindset

You gotta move with the group

(I know) the self is easy to forget

 

Don’t act surprised

As I surmise

Your mouth lies

It’s all shit

Your words are spit

But I don’t fall for it

No, no

 

They push me out

To the side

And even my love

Thinks I’m something to hide

My soul my humanity

Watch how they denied

That I like them

Have passion inside

 

They leave me off

To cough alone

They leave me off

To piss and moan

They leave me off

Leave me off alone

 

They know I’m right

But they’re wound up tight

You should see me crying

Fell like dying

Against your chest

Against your breast

My head rests

Crying tonight

 

They leave me off

To cough alone

They leave me off

To piss and moan

They leave me off

Leave me off alone

 

*     *     *

 

            Is it true we are all our own greatest enemies? It is said to me over and over, and I wonder at the thought. Surely, for my part, the theme is true—the idea that I sabotage the good things, and then complain of the bad that comes from them. I knew I should change, become a less ambitious, controlling type. But my Catholic sin is acedia, that spiritual torpor and ennui of knowing what must change and refusing to follow that path. Some of us enjoy our little quirks, tics, and spiritual evils.

After all, without such people, what mission could some old pederast religion justify its existence? Not the thought of a God… as most people understood this simple mythological reaction to the thought that after death there is nothing. Otherwise people would see both the good and the bad of their heroes and villains, the laissez-faire attitude of FDR towards warnings of an attack, the populist sentiments of Adolf Hitler, the basic asshole attitude of Jesus towards and out of season fig tree. (The lesson from the latter: always give unto God! What crap!) I play the villain, I suppose, if one looked in mere black and white terms like religion and national security seems to argue. You can only exist with all color, a pure white soul, or without any color, black and immoral. I never wondered where racism came from: the Caucasoids.  

Around no, loosing myself, scaring myself so, I lost the faith in gods. We are men, and therefore we are fallible. I wrote this in an essay around that time, denouncing the ideas of organized religion—organized anything. I came up with a theme I still hold. Order and Chaos are the same things. Out of Chaos we make Order, but who determines what Order is Chaotic. Order is Chaos. There is no separation. When we break down one wall, we always build another that will soon need tearing down again. This is the core of my art theory called “Total Art”, subtitled “rediscovery of the place of the complete cosmic consciousness of human orgasm through the genitals in art.”

The end of the doctrine, in three parts, concludes thusly:

 

“The spirit is kept in art, nowhere else.

Art is successful to reveal the spirit.

The spirit will always be what we least desire.

 

Art is what we wish most to avoid.”

 

The theory is not a rejection of any other theory. Rather it accepts them all as equally valid. I suppose it is Marxist in its way, as it asks evaluation to come from a standpoint of relativism. Some might deride this, but it is impossible to move away from your own culture. Art is what you get out of it, and the art you hate most, that sickens you best, is the most successful as it challenges and subverts the world view you hold. This means that different art succeeds for different people. There is no one criteria for good art. Instead, it is the people who view the art that come away with their own decisions.

I once took a psychological test that asked me how one views art. I answered based on ones own feelings. They then asked me whether I liked Michelangelo. I viewed a few paintings, considered how they made me feel, and said yes. At the end of the test, they suggested this as contradictory, as Michelangelo is considered a master, on many people’s short lists of good art. I disagreed for the reasons above; the paintings challenged me, and made me think about his points. In some ways they sickened me, with their religious messages. Without this contradictory nature, I could not move to form my own opinions. I liked the art because it connected with me personally, not because any old art critic will tell you this is something to enjoy. What I mean is, the theory of that test is crap, ignoring my genius Total Art theory.

 

*     *    *

 

I did not own, could not drive a car. I believed myself the dominated in the relationship. (Convenient self-delusion.) And I thought that as the more feminine, I should not own or drive the car—a cultural brainwashing into sexism. Thinking myself female, I thought I deserved fewer rights than those who identified as males. In essence, I was a sexist, believing that social order is best determined by the distinctions of mental gender. A slightly different take on the old notion that “a wimmens playce is in der home!” I suppose.

I sat around school much of the time, doing nothing. I would go to class, then come out and sit in the cafeteria waiting for Makayla to show up. I would cling to her, hugging, petting, kissing as best as I could. One day, though, I found myself in a great deal of trouble after a great social revolution. I know it is great because everyone around me with an understanding of the importance of tearing down delusions found it a great event.

I went into the art room, and took out some acrylic black paint. I made up a sign that said “God hates white people.” I posted it on the cafeteria for all to see. So that everyone walking through the courtyard would read it. I specifically meant to call up the idea that white people (meaning in this case Americans) cared not at all for that 2004 tsunami. The idiocy of Red Cross collection by people supporting a war to kill so-called ragheads. I never donated because the people leading the money collection drive believed in killing other people. I cannot understand or tolerate people who kill for any reason whatsoever.

If a rose is a rose is a rose, then a murder is a murder is a motherfucking murder.

A student, one of those murder-supporters, and obviously a good religious right republican (fucking up my party!) tore down the poster. I made another. It needed people to read, to think, to try and understand the meaning. He tore it down again. This went on for about four times, until the school disciplinarian, some bitch who probably never got fucked in high school and so spent her time making life miserable for the people that need it least—the losers, the weirdoes that jumped on the roof for fun, and the intellectuals stirring up order—showed up.

“Come with me.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Yes you do. Come with me.”

“No. Why?”

“You know why.”

“Well tell me.”

“You want these posters.”
            “No. Go away. Besides, I need to go to class to get my education. If you want to stand in the way of that, then fine. But let it be known how you’re real goal is to prevent people from learning to think, to get challenged by what they disagree with.”

“You do know, see, you can’t put those posters up.”

“Yes, I can. Public school. There are religious things all over here. That means you need non-religion as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“There were all these posters around the school in December. Something about putting Christ back in Christmas.”

“We took the down,” she lied. I knew this a lie because these posters stayed up for a week until they angered me enough to go around ripping them off the lockers. The vice-principal came up behind me.

“Enough of your silliness.”

“It’s not silly. It’s my right as a student to protest. And I am protesting religion. If you can’t handle that, I suppose I know an organization that can.”

“It won’t work,” he said.

He took me like a rapist into his den. I made sure I could bring a witness along. I chose my Godfrey. They would not talk to me in front of more than two people, I suppose. My thought is the people would support me, except for that one probably Baptist asshole offended by a simple statement: God hates white people. And I’m sure whatever God there is does—being either ambivalent or evil. He must hate all people.

The vice-principal went after my conscience, asking my friend what he would think if someone posted a sign that said “God hates black people.” For one, I tried to explain, the blacks in this country suffered much longer and harder than any fucking whites. It took much quicker to integrate Irish into our society than to accept people with a different skin tone. My friend said he would find it offensive, and tried to continue. The VP cut him off, though.

“See, you can’t do this.” I tried to explain that the next the next thing out of my Godfrey’s mouth, if not cut off, would run something like “but that doesn’t mean people don’t have a right to express themselves.” After all, I only did this because I recently read about school rights and what they cannot take away. Of course, schools tend to ignored something as insignificant as the basis for civil law in the United States. Thank you Woodrow fucking Wilson and your goddamned idea that two classes must arise: workers and leaders, and never the twain shall meet.

They scolded me and told me never to post signs like that again. And like a little bitch, a sell out to revolution, I cried and agreed. Damn it, I just didn’t want to go to jail. They fucking threatened to call a cop on me. I didn’t need a cop. I hate cops. I will do fucking anything to never discuss a single thing with those murdering power crazed assholes. The kind that will shoot a mentally ill old man waving a cane or a kid with a razor about to commit suicide. Or maybe someone who just says Jesus. Is that enough to kill someone? Cops in Oregon seem to think so. I fucking hate them. That’s why I broke down.

I guess I wouldn’t mind cops if it worked by lots, Democratically. The people draw for who the sheriff is for about a sixth month time frame. And each sheriff would stay confined within a neighborhood. Then if something big happened, all these citizen-police would get together and work on the issue. No politicking. Just doing the job of ensuring the safety and wellbeing of their community.

 

*     *     *

 

Another time I sat at the table, Makayla came out from her photo class to take a portrait. I started to refuse, as she told me to smile. I barely smile mainly because of my dental state. I often forget to brush, and always believe orthodontists quacks. I suppose this is why I never completely used a retainer. As soon as my overbite got within normal proportions, I threw that fucker away. But my gums are another story. I know I need to brush my teeth, but I refuse, and my gums get puffy, they inflate. I hate it. But I don’t change it—Acedia again, I suppose.

“C’mon, just smile. You’ll look cute.” She bowed a little, pouted. She looked so cute in her red hooded shirt I couldn’t help but break my mouth open and show my crooked teeth and red gums. The photo, when developed, revealed me looking happy, my eyes grateful to talk to and enjoy the company of this woman. At the time I felt hope that the relationship could turn once more towards the better. Always these little hopes subtracted the fears of the inevitable crushing away. They seemed to shake off the demons for a time. But demons, like angels, are immortal. In no way did any lifter come to me. The demons, once shaken, only resolve to return again, stronger than before. To clamp down on the back.

I found myself in control withdrawal. I continued to imagine the sexually exciting act of exerting influence over the girl. I did not ask for permission, or approach the subject. I gave up that dream, as I knew it hurt her so. Where did I derive any authority anymore? Surely none, I continued to think. I always will think. I lost that respect, and there is no going back. No matter how desperately my memory clings on to those happy hours.