21.June.2001

american trash

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american psycho

"And I kiss the drawing of Eponine's lovely face, her lips, leaving brown streaks of bile smeared across her soft, unassuming face, and the word DYKE scrawled beneath it."

-Patrick Bateman

I have just eaten and my mouth is peppered with spices. I breathe this for 12 minutes before fully contemplating brushing my teeth, but there's something mildly sensual about the heat on my lips, the heat only I dare to notice. Since I have just eaten, the zipper on these trousers cuts into my stomach, and I am forced to loosen them. On the phone with Ben, I marveled at how large the trousers, in fact, were. To demonstrate this, I pulled on the pantlegs so he could hear the rustling.

"What are you wearing, Parachute Pants?" he asked, then finished with, "Pants aren't supposed to make noise, dumbass."

The wind begins to moan, or the trees moan, and I am oddly at peace.

In a 24-hour period, I finished American Psycho by Ellis; I then began to endeavour writing in his stream-of-conscious fashion and suddenly I'm writing an erotic thriller involving lots of flesh, lots of stupidity, lots of murder. Bateman's character literally sucked my mind-nipples; this obsessive-compulsive mannerism bounced off the hollowest portion of my cerebrum, and then bit the nipples of my creativity, causing a flow, an ebb of sorts, and I can't seem to stop functioning on a run-on sentence basis.

I want to create Bateman's female match, completely arrogant, totally ruthless, but soft, odd romantic things, meat, cleaved, total, gorgeous horror. All in a cold-hearted Armani-bound package of corporate, yuppie power.

I ... simply ... cannot ... be ... stopped.

But I stop, regardless, bored or unmotivated or ... full.

The sky above me breaks. You can hear the buzz of the lightning in the split-second before it cracks, and then moans. Storms. Power. Sexuality. My. Mouth. Is. In. Flames.

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time & machine