Sublimation = Creative Writing

Freud said we repress our sexual and aggressive energies, and they bubble up as creativity.  For example:

 

--need a punching bag need some sneakers need a fix to feed the tweakers hot and bothered and sweaty and drunk and craving a touch a taste of junk to fill the void to ease the pain to make me happy to keep me sane--

--cups and spoons and stars and moons are travelling over channeling through my then and now and future too twisting fate upon my plate a shadowed path to floating ruin with two black mastiffs standing guard among the mushrooms on my card--

 

My Summer Haiku Collection

I love the way that haikus lend themselves to extended metaphors, inside jokes, and other silly nonsense.  My favourites are those where the last line changes the meaning of those that came before.

 

you can lie to me
and i promise to believe
we're star crossed liars

want the world to know
you are the love of my life
vibrating pillow

my heart stops for you
i am sick to my stomach
lovely diaphram

heart black body blue
wishing for another you
lost my favourite game

drinking antifreeze
with australopithecus
i love history

 

 

The Preacher

“Death is the opposite of time. Death transcends time, breaks through the veil, transmutates our reality so that nothing exists. Death is a final note, a wristwatch in amber, a townclock on fire.”
I imbued these words with a passion I did not feel. I hid my ennui, knowing that my congregation was sharply attuned to the stench of inauthenticity. They swayed and murmured in the pews, hanging on my words like the junkies they were.
“Dispel time and you will dispel fate. There can be no morality without suffering, no purpose without loss, no salvation without the absolute corruption of the soul.”
As I spoke these words I pressed a button beneath the altar. I felt the generators roar to life from below, grumbling like a hungry beast. As the lights flickered, my followers became more agitated. Their eyes were wide but empty, their limbs jerking rhythmically. They shared a need, a desperation, a lunacy so single minded as to grant them a haunting beauty. These were my people.
“Nothing chills the heart like symmetry,” I say. I am feeding off the energy of the crowd and letting it speak through me. I am channelling their greed, their piteous despair, spewing it back at them.
“Beauty is at the heart of grief.” The generators finally reach full power. From the shadows above, the squeal of rusty chains heralds the appearance of an iron pallet. As it lowers to the altar, my worshippers see an angelic figure wearing only manacles. He is a youth of exquisite beauty, and the crowd rises from the pews and sighs in unison, pressing forward.
“Beauty is at the heart of grief. Symmetry is the shape of boredom, the mask of despair. Death is the end of time and the end of mystery. Death is the only morality.”
I raise one arm as I speak, injecting the youth with my latest cocktail. My syringe is silver and so are his eyes, glassy from terror. The drugs reach his brain in seconds, and adrenaline floods his bloodstream. A flush touches his pewter flesh, and I can feel the heat of his body warming the air. He is gasping, convulsing, a victim of my chemical gift.
“The Garden of Eden is filled with reminders of a time before. Fallen statues weep rusty tears into broken fountains. It is only I that sees the light, holds the key, and offers you my love.”
With this I slash my dagger across his throat. Dark arterial blood sprays across my flock, covering their faces and filling their mouths. The drink greedily, anxious for the sweet release. I gaze upon them with boredom, unmoved by their ecstasy. Yet there is one brief moment when I admire the beauty of my own dark soul, reflected so clearly in their half-closed eyes. The moment passes in an instant, and one by one their fall to their knees, shivering with pleasure. I am once more filled with ennui, now tinged by disgust at the vulgarity of the feed.
“Fucking junkies,” I mutter, before leaving them heaped within their pools of filth.