The slug will not clean, nor be cleansed

…how each piece of grit and grime from fingers stained or coffee flicked out of the mouth, the way it happens when you are trying to make a fucking point, that little piece visible to you and to all flies out (in character acting studies they say to ‘go for it’ as in go for the spit, expel means emotion that’s why you see that in film and at that point, when the little bit of spit is flicked or spat out you know in your heart or mind that that actor who noticed that happen is satisfied and exhilarated, they think, “yes! I did it I did that thing where I appeared to be ‘in the moment’ and passionate and intense!”) negating EVERYTHING you said because you have to search for and wipe up or use a serviette to find and conceal the small piece of rice that flung out there on the table diminishes you, same that your keyboard looks like it was salvaged, your device, your medium through which you write what you hope will be transcendent; for example tonight I again hoped for and plotted out a manifesto for the human race not unlike one that Marx or, say, Machiavelli would have produced and in thinking of its composition and content assured myself that IT WAS POSSIBLE and that upon completing it it would or could, as time goes on, perhaps be held as a hallmark or foreboding point not unlike the hunger stones that have reappeared in Europe, that is to say, both a record and prescient inflection point (a la Capital), and in this light makes the project more reasonable or achievable in that it is not reliant on trend or reflex or a small mistake and that there is meat in these bones yet, and so pouring solvents and caustic cleaners across great swathes of ones own infrastructure (is that cleaning out the hordes with ultra-violence, is every instinct akin to its other, is ‘evil’ violence and visa versa, is cleanliness next to genocidal godliness and what is a clean white surface devoid of germ other than the light of god or an empty a blank slate, is that what clean means: nothing, nothingness at all as the ultimate cleanliness, the abyss that once observed causes one to recoil in horror) to what, sanitise or do away with an unpleasant reality and be replaced by a virginal shining dais, no, that would never suit our sallow species…we have the dead moth who gave out early, some few days lived, his weak body fluttered about using every ounce of instinct, he fluttered here and flittered there, he went close to the light then got tired, burnt and floated down, didn’t find food and then became a dead husk, dried extremely fast in front of my keyboard and I have recorded him here – he will be an eternal digital entity, he has transcended the animal kingdom by being so weak and ineffectual to be noticed by a top predator, he has achieved a godhood that only requires the incessant burning of the sun to produce energy that will recharge the batteries that keep the electro-magnetism in this laptop’s hard drive (or if this hard drive is thrown into a pit in the future and after eons and piles and piles of electronic waste are built up and compressed into a new substance as we now revere oil and diamond this new substance, a condensed metal imbued also with magnetic memory, there is a way in which this metal tells a story or, wants to, future generations will say, it’s as if this type of metal we have been mining has a soul, or hurts, or has some value other than the way we use it to report value from our underclass who need heating and to cook for an hour or so a day) alive, his tale will be a miniscule event and in its very recording one could say has circumvented or reinvented the Darwinian evolution to include a digital representation, perhaps as fleeting and irrelevant as eons will subscribe to our idea of life, like imagining gliding your hand through the water flowing along an aqueduct could eventually be the impetus for an action that brought about Armageddon…could a sculptor hope to scrunch a better form than a thrown tissue, or evince disgust more purely than from a yellow-brown hued scrunched tissue, the flailing fire like tendrils from an entangled over-used pornographic throw pillow who time has forgot (save her from her cigarette burns, she has survived! a relic from years gone by as if sex-objects contained memories, sitting there sick to the touch, the tendrils of a sad sick prostitute, we who think a different way of life is preferable or hope to save or heal or console, and from our ‘lovely’ standpoint her beautiful arms reach out, seducing us back to the 80s back to cocaine back to underage girls back to neon and wiping a small piece of faeces off your cock because she hadn’t properly douched type of throw pillow in your home) is laying there, slumped, she would be tired, she has worked all night and came home to either a kiss on the cheek or a beating, depending on how much money she made, difficult to clean this type of cushion covering (nails, hair, boots, stockings, “god damn how many times have I told you girl”, kind of back hand slaps you know what I mean she’s fucking hard to clean up) wet like a sad dog slung over a railing (now removed from the pillow and washed), waiting for her form to return, light and free, those tendrils reaching up and out, clean and fresh again, light and airy, the comfort and joy of tomorrow snuggling up to this kind of “restored cushion”, sun sterilised (“baby girl you know I would never”), this idea that there is joy and happiness and a freedom of spirit that should be there in everyone’s life…