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The Story of Joan of Arc: Martyr Complex

The story of the skin is carved out in flesh. The story of the flesh is detailed with the manipulation of skin. The manipulation of skin is the job for storytellers and artists. The artist is only a representation of the skin. Skin is a tattoo covered in itself.

All art costs money. All money is art. Art is the root of all things beautiful. Art has no value. In the story of skin, pictures paint a thousand words. In the story of art, artists are anarchy. In the story of anarchy, tattoos ruled the Earth.

Tattoos are the representation of the people. Most children, being children of children themselves, want tattoos. Because people want more than anything a tattoo, their skin suffers as a blank canvas—a slate of bedrock poured over by river upon river of water and running water. This water, the symbol of the skin, is the rebellion of our socialization.

In social constructivist theories of activism, feminism is a construct that was created to validate the skin as it represents itself in that particular moment. In feminist constructs, politics are irrelevant. Sex among women is only as political as the tattoo is another self in the form of a story. This is the picture:

Joan of arc was a whore. Her whoring had lead nowhere but to crack addiction and immodesty. It was the antithesis of the tattoo, until her pimp forced her to undergo the removal of her clitoris. “Remove your clitoris,” he demanded. Joan, being a feminist, could only acquiesce. Once her burden of pleasure was denied her body, her republic politics of state representation is more important than federal funding of oil welfare and big business, she was a better whore because she was a numb-fuck. Because of this, the only pleasure left for Joan was with her pimp. Every night, at roughly seven oh five pm, Joan would visit her pimp and beg for money.

“Please give me money,” she would cry to him. “Please give me back to my self.”

“You are a whore,” the pimp would laugh. “You must give me your body.”

“I am all you have.”

“You are mine.”

After twelve months of delivering herself unto her pimp, Joan decided to go to church. Because she was a whore and not allowed to make any decision for herself, she had to first ask her pimp.

“Pimp, can I go to church?”

“Why do you want to worship what is not my cock?”

“Because of female castration I can no longer feel the pleasure of my flesh.”

“You are better because of it.”

“I am in pain without it. Please love me.”

“You are a whore. There is no love in the world for you. Go to church and try to reclaim what you can never sew back on. You will never find your skin again.”

Joan wept. She was free, never having to serve her master again. She was a feminist now. She decided, after drinking booze in church, that she should buy a mule and go into show business. Christ was a super star fuck, why couldn’t she be as he in his image? After all, it was her birthright to be nothing other than an image of the shadow of herself as envisioned in the eyes of another. She was only as beautiful as those in church allowed her to be. Her pimp had been right. There was nothing of skin in the church of her soul—it was lost in the rotting participle of her clitoris. If she were to be free, truly saved, she would have to find her clitoris again and make it spring forth in stigmata revisionistic frenzy of reconstructed texts. This was her tattoo.

Joan took all her money, which was a debt to a loan shark named Mary, and bought herself a donkey. With what little bit of money she had left over, instead of food, clothing, shelter, water she bought herself her first tattoo.

Joan’s first tattoo: The degradation of the animal

It was better than being in church, having the life of her flesh revitalized with the stabbing pain of another flesh. The art inscribed on her barren belly was the face of her loan shark, Mary, so she could only not forget that it was but for her and by her that she should have the grace to look up and out and into the face of the artist before her now inscribing his signature, event, context into her belly. Joan wept at beauty for the first time since her clitoris had been removed at the order of the Pimp.

After weeks of healing and no work, the scabs fell away to reveal some shoddy work. Mary was after her to pay her, and all she had was this donkey, who was starving for her gain, and an empty belly. It would take a miracle now.

Soon thereafter, Joan found herself to be pregnant. As the seed inside of her grew, this tattoo stretched out further and further in the shape of a nocturne. It became music and flew away from her as fast as she could push into the arms of the Pimp this child of god. The pimp said, “Your baby will be mine because there is no other man in this whole world who would rear such a filthy thing.”

Joan said, “You are right to question me because I am a woman. I am secretly hated by many because I am but the test tube of your sperm.”

The pimp said, “You deserve no more than that mule who you haven’t fed in three months and is dead now.”

Joan said, “He has been reincarnated. Look!” Joan points to the sky and her mule flies on wings of gossamer and lace to descend into her womb. Joan is again pregnant with conception. The pimp is angry at the sight of such irreverence of him and, with a switchblade in symphonic reverberation, cuts out the heart of the newborn. The pimp eats the child and forces Joan to smear it’s heart into her vagina so that the mule and the human become one within her vessel. Joan is grateful to the pimp for ridding her of such waste.

Joan says, “thank you.”

The Pimp says nothing.

Several months later, after eating nothing but raw sewage in order to survive, Joan was infected. The infection rest in both her eyes blind. In order to see, Joan has a tattoo embroidered on the inside of her eyelids.

Joan’s Second tattoo: The worm-hole of her Vagina

Because she has no flesh with which to trade, Joan has to lick Mary’s pussy for ten hours before she is given money to get another tattoo. Even pregnant, her belly is full of goodness and love. Mary is disgusted with the bloated caricature that was once her face (although shoddy at best), and beats Joan’s pregnant belly with a baseball bat until, several months before it is time, the mule falls out behind Joan as she lifts her legs to squat.

“The mule is mine,” Mary says.

“I need the mule to be on television,” Joan cries.

“I will be your pimp and you will owe me not money but flesh as our contract.”

“I will be your whore and I will owe you not flesh but my skin as our contract.”

“Where is your clitoris?”

“I will find it on television.”

Joan loved Mary because only two women can love each other in the safety of politics. Mary came with Joan to the tattoo parlor and watched the creation of sex. In side her eyes, Joan’s infection was blinding. She was near to a dead stop until the tattooist regained consciousness after looking at her ugly face and delivered his shame unto her. Mary rest assured. Joan was bandaged with leather and kept in a dungeon for three days. The mule ate of her afterbirth to live.

When Joan emerged from her tattoo, Mary was gone. It was alone again, this emptiness. It was afraid. Joan closed her eyes to see the art of shame. She could see the caricature of the tattooist behind her eyes sodomizing her dead, eaten newborn. Joan remembered her Pimp and wept. Mary returned to her, scolding: “Why are you crying?”

“I thought of you as myself and I wept.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Mary commanded, “I could never love you. Your Pimp is gone. I can read your mind now. You are close to dying. We must train you to the mule and get you on television. Otherwise, your clitoris will be gone forever if not too soon betrayed.”

“You are wise.”

“I am your master.”

Joan’s third tattoo: The snake of the skin

When an artist hates you, they make your skin suffer. When an artist hates themselves, they make your skin suffer. Mary made Joan suffer. Joan no longer loved Mary because she was obsessed. Mary loathed Joan. Joan became more obsessed. She returned to her former pimp and inquired: “If you beat me, will my bruises turn into stars?”

“I will nail you down and force my way inside you and you will be naked under the belly of my flesh”

“If you beat me, will I explode into scars?”

Mary interjects in this battle scene: “I will force your flesh to regurgitate its meaning into my belly.”

The pimp smiles at Mary, “If you regurgitate your pleasure into my mouth, I will give you Joan for the small price of her soul.”

Mary interjects in this battle scene: “I will own her flesh, but you will own her soul?”

The pimp smiles at Mary, “Unless you want to argue about it, I will own the force of her flesh and you will own its transport. In this way, I will be even with her, Joan, and you will control her explosion with grace.”

Mary interjects in this battle scene: “I will own her body, but you will control her heart?”

The pimp smiles at Mary, “This has nothing to do with you and me, it has something to do with Joan and how she sees herself.”

Mary interjects in this battle scene: “So you get the lake-front property and I am left with the tenement housing projects called good times?”

The pimp smiles at Mary, “You are selfish. I offer you salvation, and you choose to starvation.”

Mary interjects in this battle scene: “This has nothing to do with Joan, but it is about how you and myself come to be best friends. I will do your work.”

Mary delivers Joan unto the pimp for one final blow. Joan’s lips suffer a breakout of hepatitis. She is useless to Mary for months. During this time, the pimp laughs. Mary sees Joan as a dog now and puts her in a kennel. Indonesian businessmen pay top dollar to watch the dog girl masturbate. Joan feels that she is a productive member of society until she is released. Joan feels that she is soiled linen now that she is free. Mary reminds her that she is neither hers nor his, but belongs to whoever has the most money. Joan is discontented out of her agitation and feels better at one without herself. This time, that tattooist rendered her self-portrait in her most private of spaces.

As Joan’s skin became more and more a tapestry of stains and failures, her body became older and older. Since she was now twelve, it was almost as if she were dead because the profit margins for her wholesale value fell on the black market like stone. Her eyes weren’t even blue, they were magenta. Because of the hospital, Joan had to stay young forever. Mary and the pimp agreed it was in everybody’s best interest if she did, so she tried to find love, Joan.

When Joan first wanted love she found obsession. Mary humiliated her because it was pleasurable to do so. When Joan first wanted love, she found emptiness. In this emptiness, Joan rocked and rocked until it was no longer empty but lonely. Each of these a tattoo, she became increasingly more and more scarred with the stories of her. Each of these a tattoo, she became increasingly less and less the scars of her own story. In this emptiness, Joan rocked until it was lonely, and pleasure dug its way into her flesh. Here, as she learned the value of herself, she found weeping. Joan wept for days, weeks, months, years. She was almost 14 before she stopped weeping. At the tender age of 14, Joan found regret for the last 2 years of weeping and Mary found her a time portal in the shape of a worm-hole and so with 2 years experience plus some, Joan was forced to plummet back into time and return to the age of 5.

“You must start again, all over.”

“I want to remember that I am nothing.”

“You know you know nothing, and with that grace will come your final tattoo when you transcend into the final letting go, a return to your flesh-god-self.”

“I will always be obsessed with you.”

“Meet me at Hollywood and Vine when you return.”

Mary shoved her with a first into her pregnancy (Joan was always getting fucking pregnant, stupid bitch) and pushed her into the mule of existence. The worm hole sucked her up like a Hoover to a dust bunny. Joan scream as she returned to the age of her past. It was here that she blacked out.

When the worm-hole spit her out, Joan found herself a scattered seed on the landscape of the abyss. Her tattoos were intact, her skin was no longer fresh. Oh the devil of this trickery that debauched the lie she believed! That her past would relinquish its familiar safety and security would find her again young and desirable to Russian immigrants who hated the socialist party. Alas, the devil of this trickery forced her to tattoo herself to the vessel in which she was denied and it was still she, only around her the abyss had broken a new with the blood of its cycle. She was no more than young in her aged vessel—experience still plagued her mind not green. Joan furied at the darkness. She tore at her limbs and regurgitated her bowels. The pimp laughed at her plague.

“Fool.”

“I’m a fool.”

“Go to Hollywood and find Mary. She will lead you home.”

“Home is a lie that feels noncomplacent. I don’t know nothing about nothing, but I know everything about that.”

“Find Mary. You belong to her for now.”

Mary Seduces Joan: The art of the Whore

“You are the whore of my eye. Eat this.”

“Your pussy is spread like the sunset of my heart.”

“You are a whore—a splinter in my eye. Look: A snake.”

“I eat snakes for breakfast.”

“Eat this.”

“This snake is spotted and golden, like the knowledge of my body.”

“It is large, like the log in my eye.”

“It is a splinter in the apple of my well-being.

Joan Seduces Mary: The art of Lesbian Sex

Constant failure has me afraid to move. I live to die breathing for the fear of movement has held me cold in its clutch. If I wiggle, like I’m waiting for you to ejaculate, then I can feel the grasp of its tension around my heart—this weight of loneliness called myself. There is nothing that can be experienced alone without you, in my heart I feel your calling—terror. I know failure in my mind because I feel the grip of disappointment in my soul. It is a feeling of weightlessness, like flying. I am flying and have been soaring free since my birth. No one can catch me now because I am a rock on which, unknowingly, everyone stands. I am crushed by the weight of feet that push me into the mud of myself. This is terror, to be free…

Home of the brave is the land of the free, to be free… Let me corpuscle it this way: The things that happen to you in your life define you. Events and circumstances will determine your successes and failures in life. If you are successful, it is only because you are a good person and worthy of succeeding. If you fail, it is only because you are shameful and worthy of failing. Bad things do not happen to good people, they only happen to bad people. Good and bad are pre-determinants set by the supreme court. Once these pre-determinants have been groundworked, all our ethics are moralized by new-christians as a pagan outcry of injustice and intolerance. The homosexual agenda fills our heart with terror, and we are free once more.

Joan nods her head.

Do you understand?

Understanding is relative. What I bring with me is how I perceive the world. What you impose on me is how I understand it. I agree merely because I am frightened that if I do not agree, you will no longer wish to speak with me and thus my existence will be as meaningless as I already believe that it is. If you speak to me because I understand what you are imposing on me, then for a fleeting moment in time I can feel as though I am a normal human being and that in my world my perception of things is as I would have them and I am breathing, not floating.

When I fly, it is more like falling. As I start from a very high point in the sky that is almost imperceptible to the eye and the human consciousness of understanding that is perception gone awry, I am always falling—like walking. The only way to move is to fall. By falling, we create the future. By creating, we are destroying what has been done. By destruction, we are containing endless possibility within ourselves and for our children’s children. The homosexual agenda has caused us to fall, home of the brave.

Circumstances will trap you. They will contain you within them and reverse the incantation of life by entangling you in their web. Creation is a lower form of existence because of the illusion of the material world. This world, the one in which we can only create, is constantly destroyed by desire. Desire drives us, circumstances propel us. It is only our choice in the matter whether to be driven or propelled, like the utter of a cow. What will you choose?

Joan shuddered with her freedom. Should she choose life and risk the retro glam-rock fade away that was the circuit in lower manhattan in the early seventies, or should she just choose to be free and fall forever forward in the face of doom? Hers was a decision to be reckoned.

Remission: Joan visits the tattoo artist

Place upon my skin the story of all my choices, those imposed upon me like the shame of my circumstances and those that well up from inside and blister like a sickness in my bowels. I want all choice to remain free and democratic, like the republican war nation. I want pain to be my salvation as it guides my suffering through creation’s mist and into circumstances unknown. I want safety over life; I want to be forever free to be safe in my own home, knowing that they will never come for me because I have inscribed my being upon itself. Render me sexless, and let me be propelled no more through the universe. Render me ageless, and let me be driven only by the fact that my sex has been removed and I am free from my name that is this place called sanity.

“I can’t do all that for $50”

“What can you do?”

“I can tattoo an ISBN code on your left fore-arm so that you remember what kind of person you once were.”

“And the code will contain my DNA and all that it represents?”

“The code will be a hidden doorway.”

“Where will this doorway lead?”

“You must first find it, and then discover, for yourself, what delights the doorway can offer you.”

“Will I succeed?"

“Only if you fail at trying.”

“I understand.”

“I perceive you putting this knowledge into context.”

“The fabric of my consciousness pierces the dark cloud of this ink stain. Bring order into this chaos and create nothing but symmetrical lines down my forearm that will perplex me into mystery. I will be entranced.”

The ink welled like a hot glue gun, molten and lava flown; onto the yearning flesh, it burned its cinders and ashed cool into permanency. The tattoo erupted in completion without the suddenness of an attack.

“I am finished.”

“As are you.”

The Jackass: Mary and the Pimp

The Jackass is the story of sexual assault. The Jackass is a story of love making and pretense; rose hips and hibiscus. The Jackass is the beginning of the end, for which there is no other solution. Because of this….

Tattooed but tragic, Joan hopped on the back of her nearest and dearest friend—the donkey. It was on the Jackass that Joan, defeated by time’s mark, road into the heart of Hollywood. There, naked but the tattoos that remembered her, Joan pulled out a shotgun from the side saddle of her best friend, put the trigger in her mouth, and fired.

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