I stared down at this dusty necklace, the debris of a thousand automobile accidents. Within fifty years, as more and more cars collided here, the glass fragments would form a sizable bar, within thirty years a beach of sharp crystal. A new race of beachcombers might appear, squatting on these heaps of fractured windshields, sifting them for cigarette butts, spent condoms, and loose coins. Buried beneath this new geological layer laid down by the age of the automobile accident would be my own small death, as anonymous as a vitrified scar in a fossil tree.
Eroticism is in time what the tiger is in space.
The now decomposed cadaver becomes a host to Acaridae, which absorb the last traces of moisture. Desiccated and mummified, the corpse still harbors parasites, the larvae of beetles, Aglossa cuprealis and Tineola baiselliella maggots, which complete the cycle.
Bruno could still see the beautiful deep black coffin with a silver cross. It was a soothing, even happy image: he knew his grandfather would be at peace in such a magnificent coffin. He did not learn about Acaridae and the host of parasites with names like Italian film stars until later. But even now the image of his grandfather’s coffin remained a happy one.
“
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a lovely little image in a storm of fat people sex and anti-free love by Michel Houellebecq, in The Elementary Particles; or, Atomized
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In my heart
a white mouse
snuggled.
“
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georges bataille
(the cutest poem ever written ever. by: the most depraved person who has ever lived.)
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I stretched out in the grass, my skull on a large, flat rock and my eyes staring straight up at the Milky Way, the strange breath of astral sperm and heavenly urine across the cranial vault formed by the ring of constellations: that open crack at the summit of the sky, apparently made of ammoniac vapors shining in the immensity (in empty space, where they burst forth absurdity like a rooster’s crow in total silence), a broken egg, a broken eye, or my own dazzled skull weighing down the rock, bouncing symmetrical images back to infinity.
“
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Georges Bataille, Story of the Eye
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