Loony-Lu and Lulu

This book, this story has been so hard and so long to come out of my mind! The matter and the flesh of it was too close to my life, my real life, the life I must have had somewhere in this world so many years ago. The flesh I said, indeed. The pith and marrow of my bones and brain, the very blood of my own heart pumped in and out of my mind’s eye and dumped on the page, wrought in the shape of a cast iron motto hanging at the gates of camps I visited more than forty years ago in Buchenwald and Ravensbrück haunting me since then with the hot sweat of any human intercourse.

ARBEIT MACHT FREI.

I have loved life so much that I am ready to die for it, ready to let my life die to save cosmic eternity. But after so many years of love and hatred equally balanced in our daily survival that is like a never ending birth of death itself in a world that reeks like open tombs in a haunted cemetery; after so many years sipping at the chalice of putrefying ambitions and smoldering disillusions, I can only look at my life with the eyes full of blood that any vampiristic mind would have. Tyger tyger, prancing cramped in the trauma of our tight-arsed parsimonious gods!

I have visited too many dark alleys beyond the drabbest cul-de-sacs you can imagine at the bottom of my dead-end descent into the bleakest exhilaration I finally feel creeping in from the damp crypt in which I came to have kinky sex and in which I will only get some exquisite kinky necrophiliac orgasm.

Will I have to give the street and numbers of these places where I was cumming like an animal with some other animal that had the skin of a cocky human being but the mind of a cockroach, just next to the dying corpse that will be OD’ed by some coroner tomorrow morning, to be believed? And I did not care about the smell. And I know the horny capricorn I was filling with my orgiastic pleasure was going to mount that corpse lying next to us before the arrival of the cops and other death-loving officials. And I did not care about the gooey substance in which I was oozing all over, cum, funk and spunk it all.

What was I then? A haunted ghost obsessed with sex and preaching love as the salvation from rotting perdition. Love indeed!

What am I now? A falling soul diving into the chasm of my memory, afraid of what comes back, scared by what I may encounter in this plunge into rubbish, frightened by not being able to refrain it, keep it silent, hide it under the carpet forever.

When I opened the skylights of my old life, of me as a child, me as a teenager, as a young man even, a deluge of hypo-mental syringes, a flood of mind-destroying hallucinogenic substances came back from the sterile compost pile where they had been buried along with my cultural manure.

Those skylights were the fatal, lethal storms of my innocence under the avalanche of what was suddenly getting alive again.

Welcome to my inferno! And only one leash ever led me through. Love! Love and not sex! The love I had so little outside my dream and the sex I had galore inside my nightmare. Love was victimized, harrowed and agonized, systematically wounded for my soul to howl, mutilated and crippled by the almighty, all-powerful and omniscient sex, the real devil of my brain, the devil that used and still uses my hormones to turn me into the loving puppet of the exquisite desire to succumb to the impulses and drives of the other, any other.

Love truly is the most surprising force we can encounter on earth. You can love someone so much that you want to totally offer yourself to the sacrificial craving of the possessive even voracious self of the other, the loved one, your beloved, the one who says you are his or her beloved when you are only a block of vociferous living meat.

This inclination to be consumed and flared up into an evanescent light in the night will produce in the beloved the libidinous lustful lechery to devour you, and then the contrite guilt of cajoling such a greed, though the beloved has already quenched his or her thirst and hunger both on your bombarded mind and in your wasted flesh.

This deeply carnal cult of pleasure to the extreme of dying for the beloved under the beloved’s own hands has a lot to do with the orphic hallucinating fundamentalist sapience of all blind faiths and has to be kept away from the eyes and ears of young children. They would be mesmerized and hypnotized by this deeply both egestive and retentive appetite. The way it happened to me when I was three or less, and still in a crib.

Let me tell you my story in my own words and contemplate how human sacrifice is natural to those who believe in the beauty of longing for the miraculous satisfaction of the call of the wildest inner cultivated phantasms.

LOONY-LU
November 11, 2014