TRY AGAIN LATER

She speaks in loaded fragments, plucked from the minds of those who possess her. The psychological whore. Eat or be eaten.

Her favorite mind magicians are women, brash and boisterous, altogether manic femmes too carcinogenic for the central sphere of celebrated face and time. When she figures herself inferior to her company, she softens her speech, awe-bitten and childlike.

Who is she? Who is me? I have no acrid satin delivery. No, my train seems the stuff of the simple, impressionably dimpled by the dykes and dames that sweeten my saliva. I mirror madness, not because I have been corrupted by chemicals, but because I have been systematically severed by the sane. Therefore, I do not adhere to your dualistic organization of selves. Neither here nor there, I am adrift in cerebral spatial confusion.

Eyes drop in discomfort.

OOps. MALFUNCTIONING ERROR. We have only agreed to speak on the following topics: scandal, social media vomit, the good/evil in all things, objects that are subject to be consumed, human relations of concern, pop culture piss, the state of appearances, significant figures in history, regurgitated cliche, athletics, signifiers of social and economic status, bodily concerns, misplaced paranoia, religious indoctrination, the immediate sensory experience, and the ever-compelling state of the weather. TRY AGAIN LATER.

The realm of the sane is managed by those that do social pretty very well. They are steely-eyed and mealy-brained, specifically when it comes to the salutary refuge of filth. Filth, in this case, is understood as the horrific rot attributed to unvarnished thought. That is, the diction that has not been aptly tailored to the exchange within which it is being delivered. That is, “Fuck this//You reek//I must go home and masturbate NOW.”

How could Poe have anticipated the loner? There is no greater orchestrator of horror than one’s own reeling mind, bent on reliving time and mangling the memory. Her greatest fear was herself, and the limitations of that precarious personhood.

by Lydia Sviatoslavsky

Lydia Sviatoslavsky is a San Francisco-based writer, zine-maker, and purveyor of THOUGHT ROT.