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Paris: City of Suicides
It was into the underbelly of the city and behind the scenes, as it were. Into the way that the only out is in, further and down like into a hole. The tense of the subjunctive mood correlates directly with the narrative element of style in the writer’s voice. This is the train they road, Paris and Joan. And here, is, a little bit about the authors:
Paris has a big cock
Joan is not a woman, she is a trans-sexual. To be trans-sexual is to be without, within the without. Because to be trans-sexual, you are no longer outside of those that are within, you are without all of that. She has a large hole in the middle of her body that she calls home.
feminist education: Men are never important, other than the fuck-stick they carry between their legs. Paris had a new version: cock 10.5 His was an upgrade from a previous installed model. This one would not only vibrate, it would roll around in circles and bark like a dog chases its tail. There is nothing to say about Paris as a man, so it is to be from here forth known that Paris, as Joan is without the outside of her withinness, Paris is a machine because all men are only good for that one part of themselves that is removable and expandable and, through surgery, reconstructable in the shape of a penis. Anyway...
The train moved through the night of the tunnel as a shit would find it’s way through an intestine to it’s final destination, sinking with a plop into the pond of porcelain below its decent. Like the writers who work on narrative, feces is very much biological as our two heroine’s story unfolds in the flesh of the tendrils soft pulpy part. The cool porcelain skin, white with victorian fashion. These were the thoughts of Joan as she slithered into the bowels of Paris, France with her lover, Paris.
PROLOGUE
My shit don’t stink, “she said as she leaned up against? the rail of the passenger car Where are” you taking me
We are going? into the blithe underbelly of the show: and into it’s darkest places where machines will whir and lights will fade and there will be no magic or discussion of the surreal or anything like that anymore, “he said”
Paris smells like a pig farm in a heat wave
Where did you *learn* about that
{I} was + raised in the city. I
why do we speak
?So that time will pass without pain?
If there is no pain #1 can I cease to exist as abcdefgh I know it to
--what are you “speaking”
this is the narrative of (my) meaning
It was into the bowels of the beast, as it were. and their vacation, to the place of forgetting that there was a place like life on the other side. It was on that train and moving, this traveling hill and dale and into the deeper recesses of the tube.
TEXT OF URINE: URINE’S TEXT
this is France: a noun. This is Paris: a modifier. Together, they are a phrase ( a group of words without a verb, any words, even verbs but not with nouns because words with nouns and verbs are clauses and not phrases) The subway is a phrase. it is a passageway through the city and its underbelly. This is were the ir-real and the sur-real collide because in this moment there is a wreck on the train and there is a crash and everyone except our heroines have died, but they are now trapped and don’t speak French is a noun. A language is actually an adjective, one big giant adjective or adverb, depending on who you want to talk to about the matter of language and its adverbial qualities.
If this narrative would talk, it would smell like the vaporous scent of this text, this new. The smell of homelessness is the trouble with this country. The smell of excrement and water. Paris must be written about. It has something to say, even though it may not know what that is at this time place. Did you forget to reset the date? “Joan stared at Paris”, no. I’m am well aware of what time it is
and when this all started, a word about the crash is required so the narrative can alive itself. BANG! the crash is a theory that most people have come to accept as true. it exploded and our story is plastic surgery. if it is’ a beginning then let this be said as truth to it now formed swirl these wrappings around flesh around bone around muscle and buttock what is the sound of a large, enormous, gassy, fart ?that is our? beginning and with that, the tube constipated and the city stopped functioning and death cloaked its robe, over, the tired, time-scape.
TIME TRAVEL: UNCONSCIOUSNESS
And on their way to paris: Joan darling, do you know how to tell the difference between, do you? And on our way--darling, do you? If their name wasn't Paris, I don't know whose name it would be. Do you know what Paris was? If this is Paris, and Paris is where one another--do you know what Paris was that it could never be now anymore?
"Sometimes I don't want to remember you like that"
Paris: My cunt is bigger than the sky and only it's most primitive form of energy, cock. It has collapsed into the center of itself and instead of light it only devoids the universe. This is my cunt, whereupon I shall render a drawing of my name, Paris.
They speak French in france. There are poor everywhere you look there's a poor person with no legs begging for commodity and dirty sex. The city has its slums too, the police. There is a stink too, like paris' in France. It's like urine only it's not a subway. If paris had a name it would be yours. If all names were yours, who would paris be to you?
Paris: "I can only push my fingers further inside myself to feel alive".
Paris sat on the metro waiting for her stop. She saw him again. She saw him an wiggled her fingers to remind herself what it was like. She smiled, in a kind of masturbated passion. Paris watched the little innocence, reaching inside herself like that to find meaning in economy. She couldn't have been more than four; perhaps five. A kindergartener at best. Paris was in love, the aged place. Paris stood there, his hands resting on the metal pole which held him erect. Her gaze was locked behind him, on the door that at any moment, like she herself, could slide open and, if he would but let her, let it out. Let her.
Paris: "I notice that he is unmoved by my presence and I know I am annoyed because your hand is clasped around that metal pole as if it were your own. And the words" Tumbled like a broken lock in the head of him and he turned, unglued from the child.
Certainly, he said. Allow me to step aside. And Paris leapt forward, putting himself closer to her whose name he did not yet understand.
“I want to be a woman so that I may enjoy the passion of your fruits”
TIME TRAVEL: A RETURN TO CONSCIOUSNESS
Where did you go? Joan was sitting on the train in its anarchist underbelly called libido.
‘I don’t know’ where I went. Why “do you ask”?
‘I don’t know’ why I am asking. “I think it is only for the” sake of conversation that we talk to fill up the silence that lingers between us, otherwise we would have to have sex.
Joan, you know you can’t have sex because you are a frigid bitch.
Yes, I know I understand that, but I am not part of that race.
What race are you?
Russian.
Then you are poor. And since I am your American value system, judgment, I shall call you in ruins--Cuba.
Is that where this train is heading?
“I don’t know what anarchy should look like”
I understand “anarchy only as a clown in a circus car, piling in more and more until the world’s record can’t be broken anymore because of the explosion of stars into dust again. That’s how it all began.
So we are just stars in the skyless night?
Do you hear that tea-pot ringing?
Yes, the water is boiling. I should go answer my telephone. Please have sex with me.
The tunnel of love ran further into the underbelly of anarchy called hole. It was in this place that the city stank most of virtue minus virtue is the end of anarchy.
This is paris in anarchy: Riots. Sex ran in the streets everywhere there was Aids. It was, like in most poor nations, the plague of our time. This desert called love had been strip-mined in the forties so that all of the natural resources could be shipped out of the country under armed guard. If a city like Paris were to not play ball with American pie, bye-bye, it would be sanctioned like the selling of sex is legal to only a certain degree that the state can make some money off of profiting from the conviction and sale of illegal substances that support some struggling third world nations like Columbia, the worlds largest exporter of cocaine and. If only time could talk, this anarchy of disorder called descent. This tunneling train called derailment and railroaded Joan into the back seat of the bus.
I think texts, “Joan squeezed out
Texts”?)
%Yes, I believe that$ is the word. & I speak textually about^ the sale of my commodity: skin is the disease of the ravaged. For example:
When will we meet the anarchists?
“Is that where you think we are going, Paris?
“Yes. I don’t know.
When I open my legs to invite you inside where it’s warm and tender like a new turd floating a bowl of colorless life, you surrender your being into the abyss of sex and utter pleasure fucks of delight in this ravenous chaos called anarchist.
“Is that what you have named your sex?
“That is the Name of my cunt: Anti-Christ”.
“Anarchists? Are they all cunts like you, Joan?
Yes. We are all cunts.
I don’t like that word
Which?
The other word for faggot
Nigger?
no--anarchist.
(oh yes--all anarchists are queer. take for example Djuna Barnes. Born in the year of our lord, sometime or another, she was S and M-ing into the world of the intellect through the process of deconstructing the cultural conventions of morality versus anarchy. It was basically the remaking of the first Sex Pistol’s album with a hint of Briteny Spears thrown in to fool the queers. It went like this:
Most languages depend on the transmission of their constructs from one generation to another. These constructs are culturally dependent and bound by certain laws and regulations that most anarchists attempt to overthrow. The anarchy of language, however, relies on the sole objective that the right-wing factions that are shyly supported by our government do not interfere with the construction of new thought mediums that would disrupt the continuum of accepted main stream criticism. This system of distraction and retraction is sometimes referred to as entertainment. However, in the third world like Paris, this system is known as government.
When a system of society collapses, it’s doom having impended on the destruction of any system that is different from our own, it is co-opted, or conquered, as in war. These conquered systems, as those like Japan, remain constituent parts of the language, but are not allowed to embed themselves in the prevailing social construct. However, as compensation for their inferiority, anarchists like Paris persist in gnawing at the skeletal structures that embroil a world of lineage.
Joan’s legs opened up further
TIME TRAVEL: UNCONSCIOUSNESS
Paris sat on the metro waiting for her stop. She saw him again. She saw him and wiggled her fingers to remind herself what it was like. She smiled, in a kind of masturbated passion. Paris watched the little innocence, reaching inside herself like that to find meaning in economy. She couldn't have been more than four; perhaps five. A kindergartener at best. Paris was in love, the aged place. Paris stood there, his hands resting on the metal pole which held him erect. Her gaze was locked behind him, on the door that at any moment, like she herself, could slide open and, if he would but let her, let it out. Let her.
Paris: "I notice that he is unmoved by my presence and I know I am annoyed because your hand is clasped around that metal pole as if it were your own. And the words" Tumbled like a broken lock in the head of him and he turned, unglued from the child.
“He is an anarchist. I know this now.”
TIME TRAVEL: A RETURN TO CONSCIOUSNESS
He is an anarchist. I know this now?
What do you mean? Joan’s legs snapped shut at the thought. “I don’t understand you anymore, Paris. I thought we were having sex.
Not on this train. We are going to see the anarchists.
But I’m still a child. I don’t want to go see the anarchists.
But they will answer all of our questions for us.
What do you mean? His legs snapped shut at the thought. “ I don’t understand you anymore, Joan. I thought we were having sex.
Not on this train. I was fantasizing.
tell me about your childhood
Not on this train. I will tell you about my fantasy.
But I’m still a child. I don’t want to hear bout your childhood.
“Shut up!” Paris asked. “I don’t want to hear you speak in front of me anymore. We are in a Muslim country and your face is shrouded with the gauze of shame. You are my master. I am only a servant to this flesh I call a pole that sticks out at you whenever your skirts are lifted to the ankles. Those petticoats. those minister gowns. You are my man, now. I am your slave.
“Shut up!” Joan asked. “I don’t want to hear you speak in front of me anymore. I am an old man on this metro. You are in school, still learning to walk. I am eying your supple sex. It is only a few years old to the infinity of experience that I carry weightlessly around in my groin, pulling me down by the memory it burdens. I envy your thighs, as yet to have been opened up by my serpent kiss. I see your small, rose puckered cheeks and I imagine that your anus would look so similar to a puckering sore that should fester around my cock. I want to split you open like a watermelon and fuck your new mind with the wisdom of my ferocious age.
“Shut up!” She asked. “I don’t want to hear you speak in front of me anymore. My tender animal slips its way up your wrinkled thighs. You are out of shape with your age. I undo your gauze and find only cobwebs where once there were promises. I am repulsed by your beauty and I fondle your pierced nipples with my prepubescent thumbs. I want you to moan my name so that I may learn the secrets of your playground.
“Shut up!” He asked. “ I don’t want to hear you speak in front of me anymore. We are in a playground of children and I am wearing a black trench-coat and rain-hat. I have dark, Jackie-O circles around my eyes in the shape of sunglasses. I am nowhere to be seen, yet I am everywhere. I am under the swings watching the skirts (lips) of the little school girls move in the wind. I am under the monkey bars, holding the waists of supple young men as they struggle to sway their way across the horizontal ladder. I hide behind the trees, waiting for the curious to come seek me out in a game of hide and seek. It is there. I am there.
“Shut up!” We asked. “I don’t want to hear you speak in front of me anymore. I am in a subway, sitting alone in a big city, Paris. You are a foreigner here as am I. You are watching me, grabbing yourself subtly so only I can see. I am embarrassed by your size. I want you in me, but I know that my gauze is too thick for you to see that. I know that it will not happen and I weep publicly at my yearning.
You approach me. “what’s wrong, little boy?” I hear only the broken language of anarchists. “tell me what is troubling you?”
“I am lost,” I respond. My red eyes are swollen from tears.
“I will help you,” You promise. Your remove your hand from your trench-coat pocket. It is moist with sweat and gelled with something undiscrenable. You smile at me. I trust you completely in that moment, and I put my hand in yours.
At your apartment, you call the police. You tell them that you have found a little boy, aged no more than seven at best. (I am only five, but I do not tell you. You already know.) You say something else into the phone and hang up. You were never talking with the police, but I do not know that. Only you do, now. You return to me with hot chocolate in your hand. Your trench-coat is removed and you are wearing a t-shirt and stained boxers. My boy-sex is moved.
You ask me to drink, and tell me that the police are coming soon. I thank you and take the hot chocolate from you. You touch my hair and tell me that I am a good little boy. I drink my hot chocolate. You ask me about the anarchists and I tell you that I do not understand, that they are not part of this fantasy that I am telling you. You smile and nod understandingly. I set my hot chocolate on the coffee table in front of us, spilling just a bit.
What happens next is unclear. Your clothes are on the floor and your fifty-eight year old sex is in my five year old mouth. I devour the salt stench as I would my own urine. It gags me, but I don’t care. I am not panicked with my own suffocation. I am too relaxed to understand.
What happens next is unclear. I am on my stomach and my ass is bleeding. There is a great pain. You are smoking a pipe at the side of the bed. We are in a bedroom. I feel nausea in my stomach. You tell me that it won’t hurt. that I will just fade into sleep. I can barely hear you. I see you rise up and walk behind me. I feel you again. This time there is no pain.
What happens next is unclear. The train, tunneling down into the underbelly of speech, derails and we go flying. Joan’s Paris is flung from her. The anarchists have arrived.
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