Genesis in a Post-mortem Society

by R. A. Harris

In a society based on an arborescent image of thought, our narrator possesses bizarre concepts of sexuality, politics, and metaphysical purpose in life.

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R E T U R N  T O  S T  O N L I N E



ACT I—The Artificial Insemination, Institutionalisation & Propagation Of Imaginary Binary Codes In The Confused Self Via Traditional Generational Influence, Itself Steeped In An Arborescent Image Of Thought



I always knew life was unfair. It was the one constant, my mother used to say, that I could rely on. No matter what those leftist tarts did, she'd intone, life would always find a way to fuck the little ones over.


That's why you gotta make yourself big. The biggest even. Bigger than all the other fish. So big in fact, that life isn't about living no more. So big that it becomes about spending. Spending time, money, whatever. The important thing is that you had surplus to spend. That's the only way life doesn't fuck you.”


Though, in her more candid moments she had also imparted to me that she was thankful those leftist tarts did exist, because without them she'd have been dead and cold long before now. I'd have been a non-existent entity, two halves of a whole separated by time and space and flesh and social injustice never to be complete. She'd tell me that as she squeezed me so hard I nearly became two halves in her arms again.


Humans are always in two halves. I mean as a species. Like, you got your male and your female, an inny bit and an outy bit. And even on each individual human, you got your two sides. Even when you get a group of us together you get division. Like Mother used to say, “You got your leftist tarts and your righty cunts and ain't no room for any other side.”


That's why I wouldn't have minded if she had split me in two when she used to hug me so tight. Because I didn't have what the others had. I tried ripping chunks of my flesh out to give myself an inny; when that didn't work I stretched other parts out, trying to give myself an outy. Neither which way I pulled and twisted and tore and scraped produced a sense of sidedness in me though. I desperately wanted a defining feature. Just anything that would put me on one side or the other. Being unstratified was a constant source of worry for me. Like, I wondered if maybe that when Mother said I could have been a non-existent entity that maybe she was wrong and maybe I was actually already a non-existent entity. But I got to think that maybe that was wrong too; maybe it was that to even be non-existent you got to be on one side of the line, you know, what you got either is or isn't, no way it can't be neither.


Despite my ambiguous ontological, sexual, and political status, I grew. I got myself to be big because I didn't want to have to live anymore; I wanted to get to be the size where I could just spend and not ever worry about living. That way I didn't need to be stratified, I didn't need to be an inny or an outy, I could just spend and that way I would definitely exist because to spend you have to be able to be alive without living, and to be alive without living you didn't need to be an inny or an outy, a leftist tart or a righty cunt, you just needed to be big.


So there I was, being all big and spending and not living and not worrying no more about not having an inny or an outy, a lefty or a righty. I was pouring money, time, energy, whatever, into the world about me, either side, it didn't matter, and I was content doing it. I didn't get fucked and I didn't do any fucking. I didn't have the definition to be able to fuck. I didn't have the political prerequisite to need to fuck. Fucking is about living, about recreating, about power. It's about everything that was nothing to do with me because I was big, far too big to fuck. Fucking is an inny and an outy thing, a symbolic thing. I only had the imaginary versions.




ACT II—Binary Systems Of Thought & Their Application In Real World Social Dynamics



But to get to exist and not fuck is to be like, dead or something, maybe not so drastic, but without diverging counterparts life feels so sterile, so unbecoming. Like, why grow to be so huge if you got nothing to live for?


I like to think I'm a leftist tart, spreading myself into others because they are the same as me. I pin them down beneath my weight, an endless blob of raw potential number crunching reaching to the skies, and shift myself so I slowly squeeze into their innies, the deepest tenderest part I can get to. I've enough storage space to be a trunk ready for the end of the world and the voyage in outer-space afterwards.


I like to think I'm a righty cunt, spreading myself over others because they are less than me. I pin them down beneath my weight, a limitless blob of raw cancer growth drilling to the centre of the Earth. I shift my weight so I slowly squeeze out their innies, the deepest tenderest parts I can get. I've enough storage space to be a trunk ready for the end of the world and the voyage into outer-space afterwards.


Really I'm a middleman, a grotesque matter splatter imaginary in concept and in praxis. Imaginary rape from an imaginary vantage point, I'm spread along an axis with no evil, no left or right. I get so huge I absorb the Sun, sky rocket fuel delight. I am life, wider than life, more alive than life. I fuck the little ones because they need to be fucked, so they can feel alive. Because life fucks the little ones; that's how they know they aren't dead yet. I slide into their innies suckered in like a lemon got stuffed up them. I cradle their outties jutting out like dry putrid bones. No need to fear, I say, I'll be sure to help you stay alive. That's what I like to spend my time, money, energy or whatever on. It's the imaginary leftist tart in me.




ACT III—The Inevitable Destruction & Subsequent Replacement Of The Real With Distorted Concepts Of The Purpose & Nature Of Sex Told Via A Surreal, Symbolic Hyper-real Rape Of A Woman By A Man With Imaginary Genitalia



It's a pulsing gristle stick, clad in steel chain-mail laced through with fibre-optic cables filled with ultraviolet electric light. Static discharges as bright as Sirius crackle and snap, lashing her thighs and labia, scorching them, branding them. My brand.


The most she feels is the hair on her neck rise as if a ghost strokes her, faint phantasm flesh peeling back the layers of insulation that have built up over the years, mediated by cultural amphetamine, a thick shell suit hierarchy buffer built out of sound-bites, concepts and lies. She's lame and doesn't know it. Plastic reincarnated trees melted, deformed, and used as a crutch, an eye, a tongue. She talks in a language designed and marketed to her by economic growths and collapses, star systems burgeoning and waning before her cold senses. She sees imaginary animals bred in pens to be slaughtered, evolution halted, corroded. A new species: Homo-stasis.


It's a quasar, a proton dispenser. Electronic barcode disintegrates as white hot rods of light streak the void. Bi-chromatic twilight bursts between our thighs. She's a puppet and I'm the string, wireless sentience mimicry of all those voices etched into the cultural milieu like cave paintings resuscitated after a million years, regurgitated decade after decade.


All of us humans are split in two, the real and the imaginary, juxtaposition of the fluid and the static. Imaginary offspring replica model parts, come apart at the seams, glue free reassembly. Nothing holds us together but the symbolic phallus who art in heaven. Her viral screams echo in my skull like reverberations of a prayer. Her lips are moulded shut though, vice grip disseminates the sentence: silent treatment costs an arm and a leg.


Unaware of the real, immersion in a pool of antidepressant, anti-inflammatory, anti-psychotic, symbolic torpedoes funneled through a broadcast station hosted by satellites flaming in the sky. I detonate my imaginary hydrogen bomb; two tonnes of steel twists and flakes and bows and slowly becomes undone. Disintegrated transistors fall back to Earth, insulated fluid capsules splash land in the open sea, a capsized ship hull exposed, a rusted tanker bled oil shark fin predator dying in a bubble enema.


It's a planet sized potential, burst and spread like a thousand bees in a storm.


I'll have my seed become a warrior, a surgeon, a star. Scarified tissue blisters like a supernova, solar system gestation. A worm asleep inside a demon, burning in its core. She won't know that she's a mother; the digital output carrier signal saturates her world, discolouring blues before evaporating like morning dew before the Sun. I'll see it though, a violent oscillation carrying unheard whispers to the stars. Tiny pinprick eyes and fingernails bleeding illustrious ideas in candid private scenes. A warped skeleton made of corroded copper sentience and humble numbers floating in a cloud. Molten metal retarded instructions blending steel and flesh in an artificial religious eye glare inferno.


An army of imaginary I ams.




ACT IV—In Which Virtual Processes Birth Vengeful Assemblages Causing Strata To Collapse Into Multiplicity & Rhizomatic Images Of Thought



Soil birth a mountain tree, horizon blending grey to green. Stabbing branching out below, binary flux internal flow. Leaf to stem to branch to trunk to root to soil to death, imaginary origami paper folds envelope face, mouth closes sphincter winking shut, pinprick eyes paper cuts. A collapsing space filled with ash swarm, rubble and detritus cocktail borne from countless inverse volcanoes sucking air.


I ams swarm a hand-held hive of information, buzzing caltrops splintering heels, outties piercing flesh. Epidermis melt flames lick like weeping tongues, skin blister honeycomb gold oil. A thousand innies battle scars behind wizard valve, amorphous magic gut viscera secretly distilled, heterogeneous bit-part scenes project limelight onto bandage aided vacuum wounds, unwind like clockwork on a spring.


Friction muscle acid tore, puddling spectra shimmer sore, vacant depot travel core, minor major stutter flaw. Telegraphic consumption code, internal external corrupted node. Neither nor forever more life raft distant proto-spore.





Copyright © 2012 R. A. Harris

A B O U T   T H E   A U T H O R:

R. A. Harris writes bizarre fiction from his home in England. His flash and short fiction pieces have been published in a number of ezines, and he maintains a blog @ where you can discover more of his flash fiction.

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