Feb 21 2007
Succubus
fiction by Brian Charles Clark
I feel as if my penis is channeling an alien consciousness. Something alive, but inhuman. Or maybe I’m the alien, the “all to human,” and my cock channels the music of the spheres; it hears yoni sighs of longing, and cannot help but rise at the call for touch. Am I a Self or a Medium?
Either/Or, telepathy must remain undecidable. Epistemologically, telepathy is like trying to catch a butterfly with a net of dew. The fingers of analysis must pry intuitively. And blindly. For any light I shed on the subject only sends it farther into the shadows.
The image of gossamer. Shy thing. Heisenberg’s petals.
The dark light is what I need to see the unseeable. Into the light of the dark black night. A tongue of light slips through the lips of darkness. Dark souls drinking light; the night doors are all closed. They eat the shades of each other; they suck each other’s wet rhythms, and as they slicken, they whisper irreplaceable names to one another.
They cradle the snake that awakens between them, basking as friction’s pressure draws them together, they start setting fires, and the snake feeds on the discourse between them, for the breath of fire is kundalini’s food.
And what the snake defecates is food enough for gods, for that is the very substance I call the intelligence of love. Humans survive on the transformed stuff that we ourselves supply, the literal symbols of cumshots and coprophilia. With erogenous friction we create a frictionless machine; we give ourselves a free lunch, we give ourselves our head.
There is an oroborus of sustenance to be found in the ejected; a stable, balanced—and therefore desirable, prized, suspected of the eternal—system of tropisms; a mandala in a wasteland. A lotus in a sewer, this should not surprise us: any water will reflect the moon. A spring emerges in an oasis; the water is bruised with sulfur. Semen is alchemically “yellowed” by its ejaculation through the urinary duct. Excrement reeks with the smell of Hades, where sulfur is psychologically mined. Just as human intelligence arose in an evolutionary waste space in the brain, human waste—night soil—grows the most delicate orchids.
The image of intelligence welling upward, like the spirit. Epistemologically, I know with a fisheye lens, and time swells toward me like a persistent erection. Semen is food, in the same sense as when I lift my open mouth to the sky for a taste of the sublime, a few drops of rain or snow. Often, long before the Erosion sets in, children instinctively recognize the jewel-like intelligence of shit; fascinated, holding in high esteem this contraction, this ultimate product of quotidian consciousness and signifier of the insistence of the mysterious. Quotidian, because shit’s reliability only adds to its charm: precious, and liable to slip through one’s fingers, it is also shamefully common. And shame, like any psychological vector, can be fetishized, become psychosis, or take one to a parallel universe, one where aliens use my penis to penetrate the world.
