Sex and Murder Magazine

By Joseph Cooper

A. Your voice was always welcoming only hinting at shadows. Unholy battered exploding from a Polaroid photograph. I’m missing. It is winter and I am gripped and undone by these very relations. Your underwear is an armed madhouse. Have you seen me anywhere? I had a moment of clarity: I could kill you at any time. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t care what you want and don’t want. Destroy you like a rough draft constructed from testimony. I’m afraid to lie beside you touching the bed. Horrors are very intimate. Blood is lubricant. Their only lead is a purple glove. After removing the teeth the jaw remains a friendly fuck for several hours. What you take from me is trophy. You know all about my body because you held it in your hands. Mutilate without laughing or speaking. Smile.

B. Afraid that I will feel you rush through me gripping my face for answers until my arms and legs have fallen off. I want to love you. I only want to love you. Hostility is detachment. You blindfold us before speaking. Fondle obtuse morals in need of reassurance. If you were a demon, smooth and elegant, in a sick mouth, the absolute abstraction is venerable striptease. All these parts coalesce in a fragile shudder. Fuck-kill, open our flanks until obscene strains alternative. Stubbornly deny most sensitive flesh. Your autobiography was to touch me. Tenderly sickened disembowel them. One wanted to confess. One wanted only to cry to scream to piss to shit to vomit to masturbate. We wanted it. We wanted to be horror. What will God say when I come to heaven in pieces?

C. Cruelty is articulated. A bone saw replaces the rose. Surrender to suspicion coalescing to such longing. I always suspected the upsurge of applause. Bow. Place your head inside the vice. Bite down. Read aloud recipes for tenderloin. I always envisioned the reception. Loosen the throat. Slice sideways. Get inside. I love you. You do not love me. I always suspected you were damaged beauty. I am willing to become reach. I am afraid of myself. I’m going to fuck your corpse and keep your skull on the mantel. Your skull is always smiling. Claim location trapped. I was at the corner of Cleveland and Genesee when I was taken. I saw someone watching but they did nothing. Concentrate on body as occurrence.

D. Ritualize defilement. What attracts the protagonist is death and words. Imprints within us speak through horror. I was just outside the Laundromat. Plot directed against cleanliness. You want to know what putrefaction is. Please God this can’t be happening. A subject who remembers is allusive in intonation. Find a sudden break in continuity and omit syntactic structure. You sick fuck. Why would you do this to me? You fuck. Embrace it beyond words. Threaten vigorously. Honor with recognition, the action of lips. You are a nameless frustration. I’m hungry. Laugh increasingly anguished. Let fear take the place of love. All I have in front of me is wretched.

E. On the edge of a grin is a symphony of bones. I am only the fossil of a murderer. The agony did not diminish as guts frayed gangrenous and stank. They walked into ambush wound howling vomit all in their rotten bodies. Even after life among the bones is the modality of power. The rubbish heap of laughter eyes failed to connect. Disgorge the dreadful; I too am a ghost. Brains shuttered and eyes became featureless monsters. Death is an everlasting indemnity. Each sat still with fear and had everything to lose. They gripped and clawed but their fingers failed to catch. Oh blood, oh wounded leaking shadow, the ghost was all you knew, burned and weeping back wet maggots and rottenness. I sang into their bellies cut open against mourning. Blood poured from them in buckets and went straight to God with tears on their faces. Eyeless and mouthless running gashed against the rime of cemetery earth. Speechlessness is instantly substituted with splinters.

F. The cold die with claw marks. Their eyelids have finished telling stories. This is biography, a maniacal subjectivity of bodies with time and force. Tongue is excavated quickly from the mouth. Make them cry out without spilling a single drop of blood. Despair has come to gnaw at their nipples and fingertips. Each is a phantom of my unregulated imagination. That is to say, they are my servants, my disciples, the criminal offense and cause of rupture. This confrontation is crammed with putrefying laughter. Plagues, victims, properties of power, screaming and condemning I pounded and hacked at them. Suppress a contrary emotion. Hunting humans is a balance of potentialities achieved. The body is a vile and slavish thing. We are all animals anyway.

G. Delirium is the consciousness of beasts. The body a brooding and terrible heaven. Distribute error. Cut. The climax must be postponed. Their mouths are separate pieces of several hells. I am content’s dream. I am the everlasting thing. I have rescued them and blemished their skin entering the body directly. Mending everything is beauty, embodiment, and singing capsized to a squeal. Horrified, they fell. A body is describable and woundable. Having a body means there is an end. These hunted beasts are an orgy of disorder and doubt. The natural urge acts alone. The opposition collapses at this romantic conjecture. They call to their mothers, they call for help, and body in pain is recognizable as fictitious and unreal before the deeply hostile. Torture is the extension of boundaries in the body.

H. Pain is inhabitation. In a senseless trial of strength their faces endure the siege of lost courage. Mystify, mislead and ultimately surprise. Power is cautious and vulnerable in the end. The prolonged brutality of torture is the soul not waking. All my incertitude is embodied in the participation in endless days. All that has changed between body and belief dedicates itself to habit. This same form of substitution occurs and this was mistaken for orthodoxy. Determine winner and loser as only cities one has left. Nevertheless, isolation is a delicate parody rotating on doubt. The first two paths of injury and entrapment sprout wings of chickens. Occurring on that path at any given moment are the branches of trees, an abundance of bones. Injury is indicated by recycled body parts. The fluidity of the injured body is a hand trembling. Outlawed hormones become a fabric of wordlessness. I am a swelling sense of causality. I am the body in pain, content’s dream, an empty footbridge. Like I have always said, I am crack proof. It may be for this reason, that the human scream is narcotic.