Savoured

The exquisiteness of our fucked-upness. The way we’re fucked up. It should be savoured, Cicero said. Enjoyed. Like a very particular bouquet. A complex taste on the palate.

Cicero savoured our torturedness. Our chasms, as well as our heights. Our depressions. Our hatreds. It was all to be enjoyed. Tasted. As though we produced a very particular kind of adrenocrome. As though she could crack our skulls open and drink from our brains …

We were rich with affects. And Cicero was an affect-harvester.

 

Nothing content about us. Always rattled. Either manic or depressive. Either wildly up or hyperbolically down. And at each other. Attacking each other. Rats in a sack.

 

Her own pet snakes. Her private vipers’ nest. Gnawing at everything, like rats. Even at each other, like rats. Even at ourselves, like rats.

 

The will to power, as a department. Everyone at war with everyone. And at war with ourselves. Clambering over each other. And over ourselves. Tearing each other apart. And tearing ourselves apart.

Unsparing … cruel, even. And cruel to ourselves. Unsparing of ourselves.