thoroughly and conscientiously to reveal
apocalyptic obligations.
My life is a dedication to some hot hallucinogenic
malaria, inextricably drawn to a fetid exudation
of stinking desolation. Some poor, pathetic,
gullible fool who seeks the Great Australian
Dream. He has interwoven his whole inner being
with an intricate mechanical hypnosis of great
thickness. But why did I see this? What must I do?
I saw sympathy, even pity, in Satan's gestures of
expiation. The savage poison of blurred illusions
was distributed widely by the profane howls that
rise in my sanity. It seethed with a tumbled
bundle of gross stupidity. Minds rotten with
perversions of market forces became swinish
rudimentary vestiges. Then suddenly the vulgar
commotion of relativism slid underneath the cult
of the primal darkness. My concepts, however, were
torn asunder by simply rearranging the ugliness
close at hand.
Dull mechanisms formed by past dealings with a
disembodied soul now press severely upon me. Once
it gets the pizza of nausea, the stomach attracts
allegories of fragile darkness from another Hell
on Earth. Pointless cruelties touch these bodies
of fragile decadence.
The Freud of my imagination was a huge, slavering
timber wolf with terrible powers, yet he could not
develop a solution to the cold nightmare of
progress. With diseased fingers he went groping
for revelation in a neighbourhood where these
initiatives were mocked by the complete absence of
decency. Never for one moment did he doubt that
this world of heartless illusions is an organized
coercion or tyranny of more elementary, subatomic
particles.
The boil will burst, the demons will revel in
their bestiality, and those with personal
ambitions will be disappointed. You may be
metaphorically stuck on an ugly and awful vision,
yet remain anatomically adequate. Neither science
nor technology can understand this largely
fictitious external world of senseless conformity.
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