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This eruptive force accumulates in those who are necessarily situated below.
Communist workers appear to the bourgeois to be as ugly and dirty as hairy sexual organs, or lower parts; sooner or later there will be a scandalous eruption in the course of which the asexual noble heads of the bourgeois will be chopped off.
The erotic revolutionary and volcanic deflagrations antagonize the heavens.
As in the case of violent love, they take place beyond the constraints of fecundity.
In opposition to celestial fertility there are terrestrial disasters, the image of terrestrial love without condition, erection without escape and without rule, scandal, and terror.
Love then screams in my own throat; I am the Jesuve, the filthy parody of the torrid and blinding sun.
I want to have my throat slashed while violating the girl to whom I will have been able to say: you are the night.
The Sun exclusively loves the Night and directs its luminous violence, its ignoble shaft, toward the earth, but finds itself incapable of reaching the gaze or the night, even though the nocturnal terrestrial expanses head continuously toward the indecency of the solar ray.
The solar annulus is the intact anus of her body at eighteen years to which nothing sufficiently blinding can be compared except the sun, even though the anus is night.
this translation first appeared on the web on greylodge.org
african noise foundation
in association with
grymhetens teater dekadens
present
“qualis artifex pereo”
(“oh what an artist the world loses in me” emperor nero’s dying words upon committing suicide)
an acéphale performance
by
bo i. cavefors, johanna rosenqvist, erica li lundqvist & martin bladh
text by Georges Bataille and Martin Bladh
music composed by martin bladh
sound engineer mikael oretofts
film aryan kaganof
(40min, HDV, Sweden, june 2008)
When my face is flushed with blood, it becomes red and obscene. It betrays at the same time, through morbid reflexes, a bloody erection and a demanding thirst for indecency and criminal debauchery. For that reason I am not afraid to affirm that my face is a scandal and that my passions are expressed only by the JESUVE.
The terrestrial globe is covered with volcanoes, which serve as its anus. Although this globe eats nothing, it often violently ejects the contents of its entrails. Those contents shoot out with a racket and fall back, streaming down the sides of the Jesuve, spreading death and terror everywhere.
Animal life comes entirely from the movement of the seas and, inside bodies, life continues to come from salt water. The sea, then, has played the female organ that liquefies under the excitation of the penis. The sea continuously jerks off.
Solid elements, contained and brewed in water animated by erotic movement, shoot out in the form of flying fish. The erection and the sun scandalize, in the same way as the cadaver and the darkness of cellars.
Vegetation is uniformly directed towards the sun; human beings, on the other hand, even though phalloid like trees, in opposition to the other animals, necessarily avert their eyes.
Human eyes tolerate neither sun, coitus, cadavers, nor obscurity, but with different reactions.
To be conscious of the world; the organic rhythm between limbs. Always present in the flesh: blood, marrow, phlegm. The belly down; thrash of naked earth. Back and target left out, at your mercy: jackals, vultures.
MOTHERVULTURE
MOTHERJACKAL
Your cruelty nourished me: fruit of Thy womb.
What’s on trial in front of me; my flesh and life-work?
Your faeces?
Fruit of the womb?
The war of free limbs;
the anarchy of the organs – the roar for retribution to ejaculate?
MOTHERVULTURE
MOTHERJACKAL
I’m holding the edges.
I point them at you.
I’m forcing them back up through you.
I meet the resistance inside you,
back through the cruelty;
the plague that nourished me.
The sun, situated at the bottom of the sky like a cadaver at the bottom of a pit, answers this inhuman cry with the spectral attraction of decomposition. Immense nature breaks its chain and collapses into the limitless void. A severed penis, soft and bloody, is substituted for the habitual order of things. In its folds, where painful jaws still bite, pus, spittle, and larva accumulate, deposited by enormous flies: fecal like the eye painted at the bottom of a vase, this Sun, now borrowing its brilliance from death, has buried existence in the stench of the night.
The terrestrial globe has retained its enormity like a bald head, in the middle of which the eye that opens on the void is both volcanic and lacustrine. It extends its disastrous countryside into the deep folds of hairy flesh, and the hairs that form its bush are inundated with tears. But the troubled feelings of a degradation even stranger than death do not have their source in a typical brain: heavy intestines alone press under this nude flesh, as charged with obscenity as a rear end – one that is just as satanic as the equally nude bottom a young sorceress raises to the black sky at the moment her fundament opens, to admit a flaming torch.
The love-cry torn from this comic crater is a feverish sob and a rattling blast of thunder.
The fecal eye of the sun has also torn itself from these volcanic entrails, and the pain of man who tears out his own eyes with his fingers is no more absurd than this anal maternity of the sun.
Love, then screams in my own throat; I am the Jesuve, the filthy parody of the torrid and blinding sun. I want to have my throat slashed while violating the girl to whom I will have been able to say: you are the night. The Sun exclusively loves the Night and directs its luminous violence, its ignoble shaft, towards the earth, but it finds itself incapable of reaching the gaze or the night, even though the nocturnal terrestrial expanses head continuously toward the indecency of the solar ray.
The solar annulus is the intact anus of her body at eighteen years to which nothing sufficiently blinding can be compared except the sun, even though the anus is the night.
I soil myself in the sun tomorrow – naked with regret.
Then futility, further loos – triumph or despair?
Is this what it all comes down to;
negation? inversion? fascination? terror? delight and torture?
A guilty economy?
Profit/loss?
Spending/receiving?
Charge/discharge?
Why are these photographs and videotapes my mirror?
Why these glossy cover; intact wall of flesh and words?
Broken vessels, unfinished sentences still visible beneath the skin surface.
So what make these words come true?
So what exactly is sensation?
An altar; edifice of death raised in my bathroom?
A hidden compartment behind my living room bookshelf?
The outlines of my face, thighs, hands and groin?
On the fringe of…burn out, disintegrate the same way these photographs were conceived.
On the fringe of…fade out, live these words; take them upon me, literarily.
What I do is final; a stumbling block; a private implosion of surplus words, of repeated images.
The sun vomited like a sick drunk above the mouths full of cosmic screams, in the void of an absurd sky… And thus an unparalleled heat and stupor formed an alliance – as excessive as torture: like a severed nose, like a torn-out tongue – and celebrated a wedding (celebrated it with the blade of a razor on petty, insolent rear ends), the little copulation of the stinking hole with the sun…
Like predators you rip my exposed muscles to shreds,
grind them between your razor teeth,
suck nutritive from marrow and blood,
to finally swallow me down into your jagging innards.
Open your universe of red implosions,