affectless penis and the desire for castration

andy pink, foster, washington —

bed instead — when read!

my tactility has been blunted, to the core, i don't remember the last time i felt anything on my body, whatsoever, it may be the meds, not sure, i can feel it in my mouth, it's cold and wet — still and damp — and though i see penises everywhere i wander toward — but mostly away now — i can't help but recoil from the potentiality of any kind of bodily engagement with the penis, even my own. the penis is simply massively overwhelming, its obscenity is such a daily violence to me, that i want desperately to return, i can see it in the men i pass on the street, with my eyes to love, my love to insist, torturously to wish those blond men — white boys — the best possible day, but i am blunted, i can't feel it, i'm indifferent to — the tactile. i am at the point, now, i can only watch: and even that is too painful. i should stay hidden, under an oak, and read a newspaper like people once did back in the day when, in a moment of boredom, they had, they would recall, foresaken the violence of the penis for the washington post — after breakfast, with the dainty lady friends, and the one he's actually in-process in-fuck up-the-ass with, avec his andy pink tool. i will stick to women. they have nothing.

i am terribly miserable these last days — i have begun the light horrors of rapid-cycling — and though i would never do it — i resist the imagination of suicide — but i suffer its image — it happens to me, it overcomes me, and against my will — better: by accidence and contingency — it happens, destined and forced as i resist it, an affect in my body so acute that i feel my stomach and its tortions. i think of the penis in these moments, but i will stay away — i must catch up with my sleep — and the obscenity and violence of such an object must be kept at a distance. i will forever resist, i know what it feels to resist, my own violence, to own and to steal — whose — his. but the image is also such a magical affect, it's so emotive, the sky overwhelms the seas, and there i am here, but also there — waltzing by these men, struting for a stranger — who — is blind to my explosive sperm, as they sail on past me, check me out a bit, then meander forth, onward to their girlfriends, and then beyond even these dark and anonymous women, back to me, they will remember but call, i hope, before they stop by for their dismal ejaculation down my throat as i simultaneously swallow and bite it completely off. and they — boys, blond: boys who are blond — will be with me all day, maybe several 24s, or like a few, for years, until i exasperate in the loins and my stomach — collapsed — the penis that i will throw to the wastebasked and the sperm that i will save for the bedpost — out of me.

the problem is two-fold: first, the enjoyment — of what — is to undo so i defer it; second, the near violent outburst — my own — i fear the most. i cannot borrow: i want to own the penis. to own it is to rip it. to be afraid of ones own violence — it makes one walk with ones head down, ones knees buckled, falsifizing a strut that ought to be a crawl with tongue — out. i will go dancing on saturday night. the penis deserves to be destroyed, and in the future — that I herald — sex will retrospectively be seen for what everybody knows it to be — obviously and plainly — as what?

sex is a symptom. and it is the logical outcome — and the obverse — of lockheed martin.

take your meds, boys, and try to contain it — don't ask, don't tell, don't bite, and don't castrate — there is always tomorrow —

defer your hatred — !

andy pink