Jeff Bagato

Pussy Pulls the Trigger

 

 

Who are the murderers?

 

I must draw them out:

It’s as if I can hear them

talking—

 

(voice of a) General: (gibbering cock fear)

(voice of a) Police Chief: (gibbering cock fear)

(voice of a) Doctor: (gibbering cock fear)

(voice of a) Congressman (gibbering cock fear)

 

I determine your names,

I will do it—

I will burn you in hell,

a hell of viscous,

sticky

liquid—

 

a mucous hell—

a mollusc hell,

a hell of lactation, of shit stain and bloodstain, of mind rot and pain and paralysis,

a hell of lubricating cock,

a hell of lubricating cunt—

a hell of your own making,

a hell which you deserve,

a hell in which you suffocate in your greatest fears

 

Cocks die because they do—

I will find out the murderers and bring them to this—

my own

concept of justice—

Murderers intrude upon me,

infecting me

cursing me—

invasion of a virus sent

to effect my death, my

spiritual death—

(I mean by this soul death,

the death of an independent

being who creates,

an independent creator who

creates his own independence)—

 

Infection of murder—

malaise sets in,

forming like a fog around the highest places of my mind,

kneeling on a raised platform in an ancient act of soliciting obeisance from toadies who spill their own blood on command

Murderers expect deference as they do their work

 

I refuse to perform the service of resignation:

I am unobtainable:

 

Urinating copiously to cleanse out the murder,

vomiting at will,

tearing out hair—for in follicles they reside

drying up moist orifices by powder medicated with camphor

showering, rinsing and steaming away the blood and rendered flesh of self murder (metaphorical blood cannot imply real infection—)

                              this is real blood

                              occult blood

 

Blood rising out of curses

Blood rising as screams—

from one who dies unwillingly

in a manner he did not choose

 

I command—

I charge myself

with the murder

of the murderers

 

Every cell, and every atom

of every cell, minutely examined

for loyalty to the mission

chosen by myself

to end self-murder

 

and everything that mission implies

 

(The mission implying crime

against the order of murderers—

crime of all forms—

crimes of values beyond

opposition, metaphor and law)

 

Becoming crime I

am capable of mutations

that accept the presence of murderers,

welcome them to hospitality

that soon turns to mucous,

degenerates into quicksand—

 

sucking at legs and arms of invaders

and applying them to strangle

themselves in a frenzy of horror,

incomprehension,

sudden loss of self,

abandonment—

facilities swallowed by a semi-

liquid form that solidifies only

upon struggle, only upon violence,

and liquefies, pours away,

when resistance yields to abandon

 

Upon resistance, murder is done;

upon abandonment, conversion

to my mission—

irreversible pledge of loyalty

to myself—

 

acceptance of the charge to murder

the murderers of the soul

 

          There’s one thing I want you to remember about Pussy—Pussy never dies. A belief in time causes death, nothing more than a willingness to be controlled. Nothing less than a weakness of the spirit.

          Pussy is beyond time: Pussy is now and time avoids now; time slips away from now constantly, each second falling away into past or future. The invention of time, invention of death, invention of control all rest in the avoidance of NOW, this moment lasting forever now and I have not stopped living it. The concept of time depends on the existence of past and future repository of time and of self. The clock counts you away into time, out of present.

          Clerk Clock counts each of your seconds…one he puts in past and one in future, and at some point more seconds begin to add up in the past, and at this point you begin to die.

          Dying man approaches the writing desk work station of the Lead Clock.

          How many seconds left now?

          None.

          Man drops away dying of fright.

          The clock is a fearsome organism. It devours time. The clock a miser who gives nothing away, makes no allowances. Every second—every single one, not one uncounted—must remain in Clerk Clock’s grasp, either in the past or future column.

          Clock fails to comprehend the power of now, pure power of pussy, this power of now.

          POWER OF PUSSY

          PUSSY FOUNDING NOW

          AT ONCE

 

          Pussy opens a receptacle in self for that one endless uncounted moment.

          ONE MOMENT UNCOUNTED—

          ONE MOMENT UNSEEN—UNKNOWN,

UNCOUNTED

          BY THE FIELD OF CLOCK RECKONING

 

          CLOCK RECKONS ON

          PARSING OUT SECONDS, SEPARATING LIVES FROM SELVES, SELVES FROM NOW

 

          ONE MOMENT PUSSY HOLDS FOR YOU

 

          FOR YOU TO COME

 

          STEPPING INTO THIS MOMENT

          INVISIBLE TO CLOCK TIME RECKONING

          STEPPING INTO THIS MOMENT

          COME

 

          I REACH FOR THE TRIGGER

          PUSSY PULLS THE TRIGGER

 

          I COME

 

          SOON MY COMING TUMBLING OUT

          INTO NOW This is the moment

          INTO NOW  This is the pussy

          INTO NOW  No longer counting

          INTO NOW  War for myself

 

          MY COMING NOW NOT STOPPING

          AND I FEEL SO HAPPY AND QUIET—

          ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT IS PUSSY

          THE WHOLE WORLD BECOMES PUSSY

          I JUST HANG ON

          I’M HELPLESS TO STOP IT

          AND I DON’T WANT TO

 

          Clerk Clock never notices the moment NOW—he doesn’t recognize it, so he doesn’t reckon it. It’s not counted. It never moves into past or future. From here—from NOW—from coming pussy now all now—past and future do not exist. Clerk Clock a meaningless figment of a sick imagination. Time does not exist, and death does not exist. AND DEATH DOES NOT EXIST.

          Clerk Clock never looks up from his counting table. There are some things we can never change. If this is one of those things, so be it. We have made one less second for him to count. We have rendered all counted seconds irrelevant for this one who has slipped into now. One less second counted, one that failed to slip into the past, one less that realizes death, one that renders counting a lie, death a lie. One less second for Clerk Clock to count—and this has made all the difference.

          This one second is my writing, slipping this writing into NOW. Slipping past Clock into now with these words. Stealing these words from Clock censorship, stealing this one moment of time. Stealing this one moment of time from the vast work table of time. And this stealing, this writing, this pussy, this crime—this moment has made all the difference.

 

PUSSY WILL FIND A WAY

If all else fails, pussy will find a way

to murder the cocks who hold her,

ruin the vast burden of cock history

erase cock values

erase cock words and histories

eradicate lies of time and death

 

Pussy enters this scene with new lessons

Pussy enters and it is all one moment

Pussy, here to steal a single moment,

which is everything,

Here to steal herself from the deathlust of time

Here to abort the reproduction of death

Here to snatch herself from the jaws of death,

Here to erase the rule of death culture

 

Pull out the underpinning of one time—from the system of time,

Steal one moment from the counting board—

Remove one moment from the hands of a moving clock—

Remove now, and remove yourself—

From the hands of time—

Death marches as time—

Cocks are dying, worshipping time—

Cocks are turning away from understanding

Cocks are turning away from themselves

Cocks betraying themselves

 

Pussy would help them if she could.

Sometimes there’s nothing you can do.

          A cock wants to die—

          What can you do?

 

Pussy takes the step

Pussy shows the way

One moment—

One moment in your hands

One moment never counted

One moment never moving past

One moment away from dying

Away from time—

 

One moment now

A crime vital beyond life—

Pussy gladly accepts the necessity of crime

Pussy gladly becomes this crime

Pussy is crime

Pussy is now

Perform this crime

 

Now Pussy Now

Crime is now

Perform this crime

Crime is now

 

Now Pussy Now

Crime is now

Perform this pussy

Pussy is now

 

 

A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music and glitch video. Some of his poetry and visuals have recently appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, Otoliths, Gold Wake Live, H&, The New Post-Literate, and Midnight Lane Boutique. Some short fiction has appeared in Gobbet and The Colored Lens. He has published nineteen books, all available through the usual online markets, including Savage Magic (poetry) and Kill Claus! (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.com.