DELIRIUM 1.0

It's six a.m., and the alarm clock rings—the working man’s church bell. Those face down in the dirt understand the history within such noise. For me, I do not work the working man’s work. I write. He did produce this bed for me and that aged balcony I see. He is good for gathering and preaching the kind of muddy waters you find somewhere, in some prominent eastern, apocalyptic civil war-hard-done by nation. We're all filth, but as the ones born from the soil claim, ‘The white man is the king’. There’s not a creature compatible with him, is there? Nonsense. Either way, no creature is compatible with any other creature; animals are animals, and we are all together. I suppose that answers the first struggling delirium of the day.

Out I rose, stained with the filth of one of those fairy-tale angels of the night in my same old Parisian apartment. This time not with any woman, this time alone. Well, always alone, even amongst the ones that slide along the pavements stains and place them without knowing into their walk, their social stroll. Totally laughable. Sirens are singing by; inside the noise, I see an orchestra that relates to me! A symphony, played for the entirety of all the vermin like me that has found themselves stretched out along a medical bed, with some feral obese nurse staring into your swollen distant eyes, fragile enough to blink looking into your absence, with your record in her hand. Or the other brothers and sisters attending, overdoses, crime, theft, rape, street fights—the good old stuff. But is it really the good stuff?

That simple siren delivered me my identity, well, at least for the minute, maybe even the morning. I have lost the will to bear common theoretic reflection anymore. Life drifts if you let it, if you stand by and see a room as an empty room, it will stay empty, and that is man's position within the world. Of course, he may get up and out and go up against the strings of nature. But the reality of man is that he is static in his surroundings. But those sirens, the warm early morning sirens, the crime in the underworld of the city beneath the foundations of those tall fancy rich folk buildings, ah! The noise of the criminals gives me a reason to breathe, a reason to walk. The city of Paris is a dual, she will take you to the heavens, and she most certainly all the time, will bring you down to the groin of the beast people of my kind know only too well.

I successfully climbed out of bed after hearing those beautiful conductors that I too like Paris, walk towards an eternal dual. Even the so-called good policemen in little suits are not good. It does not take a sociologist to see the grown men in their small little toddler suits are mere infantile boys playing dress-up, and we, the members of this so-called society, are their spectators, cheerers, faithful followers, and believers.

Nonsense, let there be no laws, no rules, no order, let there be the freedom of the animal.

DELIRIUM 1.1

I am naked at my desk. I prefer to reign at this chair, embroiled in the stench of that dirtbag midnight monster’s perfume, whilst looking out onto the opened window, where those sweet long curtains prevail along the floorboards, clean of course. I am not that filthy. I am an avid cleaner. I value cleaning, and I value filth, a wonderful combination if you ask me, maybe ask those little boys playing fantasy games the same question, beware of their metal cuffs, those kids are a little rough around the wrists at times.

I do write, yes, not exactly writing through the awareness of my own state of being. I write because my hands and body are possessed to something, like I said, this city offers the dual, and with it, I fight, and with it, I fly. My head is too worn out and drained for analysis, I am inside the abyss, the great abyss philosophers talk of, the myths of man, the gods, the ancient texts, the whole history of consciousness written down before us all talking of this topic. Well, I am inside the abyss and let me speak here on it, famous holy abyss. If I were a large cock, but with the brain and consciousness of a normal body, and I, as a cock, was claiming to be in this abyss, then I would squirt out my precious life-creating juice across this imaginary abyss, so that then I may reinvent the understanding of how this abyss came to be the thing that swallows man up and leaves him to dwell at his own peril. How is that for you Nietzsche? But the thing that brings the abyss to life is the special golden-brown sand resting on my desk. Fuck rambling about the apartment.

I am at the desk.

The desk.

I am about to go through the first gate, my Armor - the golden eye dust of the queen of Paris. I shall shoot her right into my veins to pump the words of the page into the city’s soul, and again, to Paris, I welcome either fight.

Ah! I am twisting recklessly to the radio, it's in a foreign language, my stomach knows the broadcaster’s words, but my eyes and ears know nothing else. I dream a war, a civil war, in hope that some raging mad activist collective would storm these offices uptown.

Forget it. The end zone is here; what a life a life is. How is it that the room swallows you whole when even your own name's a lie? Are you here with me? What is inside my body, what on god's earth do I taste like? Surely pride's highest value should be carried around and worn on our sleeves, like we like to say, total bullshit. Pride isn’t an emblem because pride’s sister is death, who with the greatest pride kills or dies each day, scrap the soldiers fighting the old suited and booted master fella’s agendas, there’s no pride in war in the modern day.

War of the modern day is the cowardice of the past’s masterpiece, and he who fights the wars today dies in history, and he who fights no war today lives on in the great history of the violent past of man. What we should be assigning as pride is what we as individuals taste like, then all the political bollocks between the rats and cats, toads and bones, could produce actual, relative genuine reasons for modern protests. Not one captures me; I snigger in my sleep at them, shivering corpses that are how I see them.

If I were someone who wasn’t a ghost, a spectral sight unseen when seen, riddled with complexity longer than the sphinx’s conscious theoretic diabolical garbage. Then I would see man as his skeleton and not in his flesh. His corpse is the truth and death his life. Dearest death, you are life and life you are death. Which way do we go? The afterlife is already answered following that scene, their Christianity, one scummy wretched soul of mine has answered your unknowing faith, well, fuck me.

In the Parisian morning surrounded by the good old Parisian architecture, with plants from unknown areas of the world, curtains made of soft linen, cheaply forged, probably by a craftsman who sleeps lob-sided and wakes with an aching neck, poor man. I see him, if only I could reach out my hands into his neck and just massage that inauthenticity out of his being, he could produce good quality linen for me and for everyone else jeopardizing our own homes. Huts, barracks from the military landlords. Everything is about power; the more power you have, the more desperate you make everyone. Genius. But boy, this world is useless. I liked it in the other place, the place before my womb cave.

DELIRIUM 1.2

Silence. Parisian Silence.

These kids with private tuition fees paid by mummy and daddy, deducting class systems in youth simply from the statement ‘What’s next’, appear related to this room I am in. I remember once reading about the unconscious; it's entirely unknowable only approachable, yet those who walk asleep are guided by it always, this is where society, politics, social conversations with strangers of this edge are led by the shepherd and his stick forced into the sheep fields. Shepherds, that is, dressed in royal attire, uniforms with national colors and flag stamps, black smart suits. Even the men on the street who are tarnished in the grime of the population's air, that carries past them as they walk by, our street survivors. Gives the inclination that there are no leaders, and there are no owners; class systems are conceptual, acted out by the identities that perceive the advertisements and objects of good production, good quality. Strip it all away and we are naked. What is it that leads you then, you scum? Nothing. Life is nothingness followed by absolute imagery.

Dawn has whispered in. The symbol for me to open my balcony doors; I imagine the richest of the rich forget, to even notice the craftsmanship that is inside the very items they lay their hands upon or even stare at. The balcony is old, Victorian perhaps. French scribes are along the old wooden frame, and sadly a sort of modern metallic handrail, such sadness when the sun shines through and I think of the rich ignoring the sweat, the aching limbs, the boiling brains of the struggling working men’s families. The men who made this very balcony for me; I drop too my knees and weep, dawn is made for weeping. Modern life is no such concept. Life is permanently modern since the future is eternal.

I rest my hand on the ledge, still naked, overlooking the city, it's quiet - Silent. I see gutter folk, stray cats and dogs once probably big named businessmen. I can tell by their silly fucking head shapes. Now, see them alone, the pavement their mattress, their fragrance the industrial stench of the sidewalks, what beautiful people! They bridge primal action eradicating the told truth to self-preserve, which is the founding cycles of today’s great dissociation. Compelling writing this is, since tomorrow I may be gone. Vanished from life, disappeared on the route of the only quest. At that sudden moment that death grants you your final few minutes to look around, be overwhelmed with the answer, and do whatever feels necessary. I wonder what the great writers, intellectuals, the great men and women of history thought before they died? Did they find any truth within their removal? Why am I writing? I cannot speak in life, but in these pages, I am alive. Clean paper is like a new minute, every second that passes I am no longer present, I am in the future, every single little word whether it's mumbo-jumbo or decent, I am doing something fantastic! I am moving through the future and leaving the present behind me, I’m being guided by anything and everything. Maybe, I am not so vile after all. I once understood the meaning of being a problem child. I know the difficulty the children have, their parents, the enemies I know them as, should be wiped out, along with the rich, the poor, the media, the bus drivers, everything should stop. Simply end, then we could hear that silence of Paris. I live in no other world but the pages, there is no world but the page. If I stop now, I fear I will return to what I was earlier, a chair, a room, a noise, an open public garden.

God that whore last night was wise. I should talk about how I got to the bed and how I got to describe whatever it is I have been saying. I am not even from Paris, I moved here a few months ago looking for work as a writer. I did a few street working jobs and gathered enough money after working my ass off for those foolish cunts, to stick in this house I rent now for six months. But whatever its twaddle displaying my personal life, I am here and that is all.

Now, the night before. I was wandering around the streets of Paris at midnight with the intention to find myself a person of relation. I myself am living downtown, if you know downtown you know that is where the best of the best is, if your bright enough. I was walking down the silent street alleys, under the holy lights of the streetlights, where I noticed a lady in fishnet stockings and a thick leather skirt, a purple coat and a frizzy blonde head of hair, a mannequin.

I approached the lady as she had already approached me with her eyes, and said, ‘Would you like to live a night with me, goddess of the dirt’ She was clearly taken back by my poetical dialect, natural to myself, phony maybe, god knows.

She amazed me with her response, I knew I had found exactly what was a concept of people of my kind to be true,

‘I would live a thousand nights in a thousand different lands of soil with you, you got a place handsome?’ To which I responded, ‘Yes muddy queen, I have a land not far from here we can walk, but please we must remain in silence, this city speaking worries me’

The whore, responded with ‘You’re not from this city are you, still stuck between the two worlds?’

‘Yes, it never leaves’ I said.

‘The fight is forever its inside this city she is alive, and she curses and loves you, we will listen to her together?’ She replied manipulatively.

The filthy whore understood exactly what I had found in this city, together we strolled down a few streets in silence, with nothing but echoes of casual hoodlum conversation, a few bar ruffles and the boots of both of our shoes clicking and tapping along the mattresses of the once well-off folk. I wished it would ease them when they rest, the tapping I hoped, would be a rhythm vibrating through their pavement pillows making them sleep all the brighter. We eventually arrived at the door of my apartment block; it was a dark red door with the number fifty-three on.

We walked up the stairs sniggering and flirting silently. The whore, first took off her boots, and sat at my desk, she pulled out a bag of golden-brown powder, which I now know to be the sleep from the eye of Paris herself. She had a small box of medical syringes and a spoon with her in her large expensive coat. She picked up the lighter resting on my desk and poured some of the powder onto the spoon and heated the metal up. The smell reminded me of old England, London, not that I had ever visited London, but I knew something was aligned in its smell. The lady began retracting the melted powder from the spoon into the needle and strapped up her arm with a piece of fabric I left on the desk. Sometimes jeans and clothing needs editing, parts need to come off and the identity understands the reasoning, she was forceful, but had a gentle state to her.

She injected the needle into the vein of her forearm and once it was finished, she fell back and looked up at the ceiling, ‘You know the heavens and the hells of this place, I know the gates you can walk through, you get to choose which one you want to roam in, this little thing here is the powder that comes from the spirit of Paris, Mother Paris’s eye dust, you want to travel through the gates with me honey?’ she said.

I was still stood watching over her and completely dressed my boots still on. I was watching her with the eye of a film director, I looked at her almost through the lens of a camera she did not seem like a real person, she appeared as an actor. I knew exactly the division she knew of, and was in shock, and I demand of myself at all costs discovering unknown titles, but this was not unknown. I did know of the dual, but I did not know of the way through the gates. I took of my trench coat and hung it on the door.

In my vest I approached her as she was gently combed in a sense of comfort and warm vibrating tranquillity. This goddess was like the demon you meet at the gate of hell, inviting and luring. I gave her my forearm and she began doing her work, she poked in me the liquid dust and the voice of Paris herself spoke through my entire body and soul.

I fell backwards and the whore as a mother figure, climbed on top of me, ‘Now baby, you want to close your eyes and walk without walking, walk with your eyes, stroll with your ears’ she said softly.

I understood, I was forced to keep my eyes closed, she began undressing me from my trousers and took of my boots like a wife does for her husband. The precious mother angel massaged my body and stroked my cock so finely. Not only did I have a long-lost mother giving me her celestial affection. I had Paris whispering the singing melodies of her soul through each artery of mine. She began to make love to me, and all I could dream of in the presence of two goddess’s, was that nothing is nothing and everything is everything. When you gain understanding of another creature that is a stranger like you, from the dirt, living out on the streets you walk too, genuine understanding, reality unfolds, and everything is seen.

Did I know this woman from a past life? Was she a goddess working the night because she sleeps herself through the day to treat men with the divine message of her secret divinity? That is what a whore is, she is an underground goddess, a queen serving the desolate men, coughed up from the throat of society with divine primal meaning.

Here I was, being given the promised pleasure of two goddesses. One physically before me and the other a city. Her body containing specimens that drive each day forth oblivious to their own lives. Blind to their own behavior, moved through the world by other forces that would be known to us as humans, as a stomach, intestines, veins, arteries, pulses, limbs, but this one woman I could not see, only in her silence. She was there but I was inside her like I was inside the Mother whore too.

Paris became silent, time had stopped, and the moonlight glistened along this vision before me. As a writer you want to see beyond, its an absolute truth that only the writer can agree on. At the climax of our sex the whore fell onto me and we held each other knowing that at that very moment in time, we had passed through a gate. We lay there covered in one another’s breath with our eyes closed, with our flesh trembling through the gate. I was not alone between the worlds, and neither was the whore. It did not matter if I was in the heavens and she was in hell, we understood without language that the fact we had now become one body, we were protected, and Paris knew we was worthy enough to be touched and noticed. No longer paranoid in the silence of her breath, unusually the city stopped as we lay there together between the gates. I didn’t once think of how she was feeling, and I am sure enough she didn’t think of me either. Thinking wasn’t even there, think of a time in your life when you find yourself frozen, with no thoughts, no images, no concerns of the past, present nor future. Dream of a time when you could become silence, where there is no body of yours, no sounds of your heart, take the idea of death. The end. It was the finale of a myth that lurks within every city. Paris has her own road, and that road if your adventurous is made for you, but if you like soft affairs and comfort in your world, then go along in the machine that is forever turning, that wheel that is forever spinning around with the weight of infinite bodies and souls on its cart.

DISTURBED 1.0

Once time had bathed the two of us, we rose from the floorboards and faced one another. We were outside the gates; the city was still silent. The lady looked directly into my soft sunken eyes, in a manner of cautious prognostication, "You see us, we from the soil of any beating city spirit, we have to walk the lines that the others on the inside don’t see. I knew from your first approach to me in that alley that you weren’t just looking for a good time; you were searching for the key to the silence of her wild, unpredictable spirit. It wasn’t a coincidence you and I met this night; you may see me as a creature with all these garments from my projection, to the night-time rollers, but honey, I have given you the route into this city. I guess for a man like you, you wish no longer for me to be here with you tonight. I will leave you the key on your desk, and maybe you could use this to write about. Perhaps I will see you between the worlds."

I was in innocent childlike awe, delirious, distorted yet whole. I had no words for this moment. She began to get dressed elegantly and looked back at me with an eye that looked as if she was hiding something. It was welcoming, and out she left my apartment door.

And here now I sit at this desk at dawn retelling the story of what lurks in between the silence of Paris. Vermin is the beauty that brings the world the glory, the wealth, and the richness of fabrics, clothing, self-preserved idols are if we reverse the structure of language, the true vermin of the earth. In complete caution, I advise any of you pure bastard seekers to walk the veins of Paris and welcome her in. There are two entries into her heart, and as man is split down his spirit, so is Paris. Her body is the city. Her heart is the division of downtown and uptown. Those condemned to downtown life carry the wisdom of the heavens within her heart. If you sway downtown with the rejects, the weird, the strange, the freakish creators, you will be protected by the brightness of her divinity. As for going uptown, you may already know what lurks over there. Those high-pitched, golden spoon-fed, born-into-wealth brats who operate and organize the division of her heart, do not disturb the nature behind her, but pay the price when confronted with the depth of the illusion, peeling from her silken skin each hour - in the city of love.

Beware wanderers, beware the free, the expanding horizon penetrates every fresh face wanting a life of freedom, a life of art, beware of the lies that lurk in every street sign. Stay alone at all costs, the less the noise, the louder the silence. Remember that nothing is nothing and everything is everything. The golden brown may serve you right along your road down here, this is if you have an ear for the words of a drifting soul.

Support independent philosophy and culture and get access to exclusive unique essays, events and workshops.

Join the movement - THELIFTEDVEIL Global Creative Media Institution

Join THELIFTEDVEIL