Phallic penetration into a physical dimension

_{Wrap your legs around him like he’s wearing a noose.}

The impermanence of life is grief is gratitude is debt is anabolism is alchemy is energy is genesis is homeostasis is boundary is penetration is void is potential is creation is digestion is surplus is entropy is polymerization is crystallization is vibration is radiation is energy is inertia and on and on and on and on. Infinite recursion begins with openness. Before there was something there was nothing. “Before” there “was” there “was” nothing. Time is an act upon material. I feel like throwing up from the fear and excitement.

Today I’m thinking about openness and yesterday I was thinking about hardness. Hardness is the erection, softness is the openness. Openness is the formless is the rot is the decay is the emptiness is the limitless is the potential-ness is the soil is the fertile is the nebulous is the indefinite. Erection is the boundary is the thing is the closest thing to thing in itself in existence. Hardness is the limit is the measurement is the definitive is the knowable is the sensorial is the perceptible is the material is the instrument is the sheathe is the swarm of electrons surrounding the nucleus is the electricity is the wave is the ejaculation is the erection. And life was so beautiful because it came inside of something where it could blossom and grow and die and disappear and come again and again and again and again. It’s not one or the other, it’s because we are together.

Erection is the extension of time. Saturnian sperm sacrifice. On 7th day of the 7th week, a gene elongates (recursion, erection, reflection, copy) and upon termination, the protein begins to differentiate the development of testes and gonads rather than remain inside, in the formless, in the hidden, in the ovaries, and thus, externalized, there, evident, does a male sign appear.

_{And what was the exact information I was channeling when I read word from him?}

Blowjobs are a Saturnian rite, I decided because of the teeth and the swallowing. Saturn tells me everything and he just told me this. I listen to him all the time, as he speaks through the chemical compounds floating in the air. I’m not a vessel, I’m a medium.

Blowjobs are “satanic child sacrifice,” “blasphemous sperm sacrifice,” hence their interdiction in Catholicism and censorship on the other two heads of the the pro-child labor paternal land right ownership demon. You can suck the erection in preparation for reproduction, you can manipulate the thing, so long as in the end, it is used for its own replication.

Rather than use sperm for procreation, deposit it into the nothing, where it was made to enter, and polymerize into something, it is ingested and partially preserved before being excreted, not very much unlike the story of Cronos-Saturn, swallowing his children before they could replicate and mimic him, before they could grow and develop into better versions of him.

During the blasphemous blowjob, rather than letting hardness enter softness, hardness presses against hard: the bone, the internal structure of the formless. The hardness comes into (even minimal) contact with what is to meant to remain hidden unto death: the skeleton. The heresy of the blowjob unfolds: not only is it against replication and recursion, turning liquid life into surplus urine, and whereas the erection is made to penetrate through space and give the infinite definition, it now enters the mouth, by way of the teeth, intercoursing with the obscured, absolute and brutal infrastructure of the lifeless. The phallus is made to nourish life, illuminate and warm it, in that vast, indistinct darkness. Perversely, the blowjob inverts this: the phallus is devoured, the sperm is consumed, the potential of life is digested and excreted as a wasted excess. The blowjob is pure immorality. To say nothing of the face, the mouth. Because, as mentioned, the phallus refers to itself. The cavity exists, the phallus gives a name to it. Everything is about the erection, projection, extension, elongation, penetration.

To swallow semen is to send sperm to the infernal world of digestion, rather than to the paradise of incubation. Digestion is the filth, ending with the “fecal anarchy” of the microbial pile of living shit. Digestion is the process by which the world of differentiation and permutation is broken down and absorbed, not unlike the way surface absorbs radiation. Digestion ends with defecation, with the creation of “garbage”, with the creation of the seemingly “unconscious” disease ridden putrid sign of all things ugly and useless. The shit is seemingly homogeneous, too. Homogeneity is the antithesis of life, and nothing, except ejaculating directly into the anal cavity, could be more blasphemous, than to take the light of life and dump into the machine of excrement.

By swallowing semen, it is preserved, for a moment, in stasis. It poses no threat. It disappears into the warm sharp mouth of whoever is sucking it. Null risk of replication, no threat of patricide, the absolute elimination of a potential Oedipus. Blowjobs are a Saturnian sex magic rite.

As the semen is digested, it reveals itself in another way besides the physical excrement: it replicates in an immaterial way, in the formlessness of symbols and thought and abstract “things.” And the abstract is where truest necrophilia lies. Not in the world of rot, decay, and microbial anarchy, but in the cold, calculating, reflective world of ideas, thoughts, and prayers. Though someday, the military hopes to use surveillance and microchip mind reading to clear away this densest fog of the psyche. Nevertheless, the semen ends: in shit and piss, and in the mind of the one who has swallowed it. The ideas embedded in the protein of sperm are expressed through communication, through chemical interactions, diffused into the communal spiritual and electromagnetic atmospheres, where they lie in wait for a phallus—a solid object, an erection of space—to penetrate it, resurrect it, give it a simulation of life, anew.

Ideas are dead, asexual, inert. They do not replicate, the way some people view them as viruses, I think, is wrong. Ideas have always existed, and are only rediscovered, again and again and again. Ideas are tombs, to think is to die. I’ve died because I’ve thought. I am not because I think. Thoughtlessness is alive. You’re most alive when you’re not thinking. Life is between your thighs, life is what you feel when you hold the plastic that renders the screen in which you read this, life is the body, the eyes that take these words and turn them into the disordered, private and criminal inner world. Thought is the shit of the spirit. In order to do anything with abstract thought, one must shift through the latrine of ideas, configure and arrange them, then ejaculate them once again into the communal urinal.

So, in other news, I’ve redesigned my site, with what I would call a major update. I’m going to implement some other features, eventually, though it takes me time to get around to doing everything I’d like.

Besides that, the dispossession, the gratitude. In the same way a dick fills, one’s life is filled by emotional experience, social interaction, duty and obligation. And everything that fulfills, must one day be pulled out, and, while, certainly, it’s necessary to grieve, but to be grateful that ever your life was so full, that ever once you had the sensation of what it means to “possess,” that ever once was there something external to complement and give definition to the “you” who remains occulted and internal— is worth every vacancy, every absence, every cavity, and most certainly worth the eternity of silence. Once you’ve been filled, you wait to give to birth to whatever it is you now incubate. 😌

So, I’m obsessed with penises, I think that’s totally normal. I think humanity is so traumatized, from centuries of catastrophe: escaping fires, floods, war. Enduring centuries of meteor showers, famine, disease. Surviving centuries of collapsed civilizations, tribal competition, viscous physical brutality. You’re delusional if you believe you don’t carry the billions of years of evolution in your genes. You’re basically pregnant with memory. And those memories and that inter-generational trauma has coalesced into the now, the infinite now, which is where to love the phallus is to love unrestrained power is to love the military is to love murder is to love oppression is to love sadistic violence, because, at the end of the night, it’s not that a phallus penetrated nothing out of love and desire and irresistible attraction, but instead, because the phallus cut through and severed the nothing as a weapon. Venus and Mars exist in our galaxy for a reason. In any case, heterosexuality is an esoteric science of genesis. Or whatever, you get it… Rhyming is how I weave the spell, it’s a song, it’s a 1,300 word password to decrypt and resurrect entombed knowledge.

I’ll be off for now.
XOXOXO

To add a little more, though it’s the night, now, and I’m sleepier.

The Saturnian Blowjob results in a mental “offspring,” resultant of digested sperm, the same way all subsistence augments the emotional, physical and spiritual state of the consumer. You can tell something about the erection by the mental processes of the swallower for a few days after. Some of the ideas are directly related to the generator of semen. In any case, the mental sphere is the zone of the dead, the inert, and the phantom. Less alien, more ghost. There is nothing in the abstract that is worth anything, until it is electrified by material, and even then, most of it is waste.

I realize that I discuss men quite often, and part of me thinks it isn’t a problem. My life has been determined and fundamentally shaped by men, in ways similar to most women, and in other ways, perhaps more extreme. I have not interacted face to face with another women outside of service exchanges (cashiers, the nanny, a doctor, etc.), in over a year. Further justifications aren’t necessary, this just what I think, but I notice it is a deficit in my worldview. Where do women belong? Are we just subject to men? The insentient surface on which they calculate and measure and pervade? Maybe, in some ways, that’s the world men have created for us.

In another sense, just as the erection elongates, the hole expands. It’s truly the genesis of spacetime, of cosmic material (Saturn). The hole takes, and it takes, and takes and takes and takes. Just as women have endured beatings, mutilations, rapes. We take what men inflict and we transmute. We weave from that liquid life, beauty, and grace. Women organize, assimilate, alchemize internally in ways men can only externalize. I guess for me, it’s a given: women simply are, whereas men have to try. Women receive, contain, bear. Women are spiders, women are foragers: in the collective imagination, women weave and collect, they coalesce, they take whatever they’re given and make the best of it. A man is constantly searching, women exist, and many men have a deep resentment of that.

Which is why it’s so important for women to talk, to fill up space in their own way. We are the space, to begin with, anyway. I was at dinner earlier with my husband, and we were discussing the way women typically lose respect when they speak of sex, when they enjoy sex, when they enjoy food, when they enjoy anything, really. But especially their own carnality. My typing of blowjobs takes the risk of losing respect, and I’m lucky to live in a Western, liberal society, where I’m even afforded such freedom, and the society itself is strong enough to support it. Women in other places are barely ever seen in public. Regardless of how dumb I am, how insular is my worldview, however deficit my perception, I feel morally obligated to express it. My words will haunt this earth.

Whereas the phallus penetrates, the space negates. The space negates itself in multiple ways. On a smaller scale, women, the embodiment of space, are made to negate themselves, by way of sexual or nutritional anorexias, by denial of desires, by self-erasure, disfigurements (surgeries, filters, makeup, etc). The negation of space is part of the emanation of the phallus, as it simultaneously affirms the emptiness and stretches it out. By definition, to invade a space is to negate its existence. To be a woman is to be automatically negated by your mere existence. You are space made form. Self-sacrifice is a virtue for space, for it must surrender its potential in order to be filled. It must surrender its abyss to being calculated and defined. Our society is deranged because rather than grateful for such a gift, this surrender is perceived contemptuously, as an act of defilement and degradation. “The world has fallen” is a lie. The world has been erected. All holes are sacred, truly, once you behead the tricephalic leviathan of Abrahamic religion.

In any case, on a larger scale, the space is negated, and that contradiction, as many philosophers already explained, is where life begins. Where the tension and synthesis occur, etc. etc.

I don’t mean to forget women, I guess it’s natural to me, and men are the mystery, so I focus on them. I don’t mean this post to be so sexual, either, even though it does read pornographically. Eternity leaks through every mundane detail of the present. And casual sex is important to me. Negate the idea of losing value. The blowjob is the altar of desire, it is a holy act to worship the emanation of form from space. Saturnian because you consume potential children; Saturnian because you put yourself beneath, hierarchically, at the mercy of sublime corporeality. Ugh… Once again, I’m too heterosexual for this homosexual fascist world.

Sweet dreams
XO