Domestic Punk

Domestic Punk

Collins has said that he “improvised” the lyric. Collins was just playing around with a drum machine, and the lyric “su-sussudio” was what came out of his mouth. (Wikipedia)


I’m a little fond of loathsome historical aberrations. No thing holds me quicker than a wonderful cop. I’ve got the floor now pay attention. I’ve listened for years to the people who sing. I’m a bit of a corpse you see, you see it yes? Put this word here and then include a word which would end the sentence. I’m ending the sentences for you. I’ll end this sentence just as soon as I started it. Goodlooking men and women shopping for saws. My son is named Garold and he’s an avid fan of milk. Welcome to the park I’ve gotta steal your car. Listen up dipshit I’m going to steal your brand new car. Good boy I say to the fish I’ve picked up. Noxious plume of your dogshit personage happened upon by an evening walking spy. I can see the cows upon the hill from where I sit in Walmart’s lot. The red car breathes a snotty smell. The blue car dipped its nose into the small mound of shit upon the ground. I’ve mixed two doubled cups of tea within the large Nalgene bottle with its Yeti sticker. I bought a shirt and two books. The smell of piss adorns my every cloth. I have on my Adidas hat. Good weepy eyes upon the lover’s gnarling dimple. One side of their face is subdued, a palsy, like Conway the Machine. I saw upon the slew a bit of rock I longed to tongue. I filled my cheeks with salty rocks from along the ocean’s side. I have no teeth and so the rocks were comforts. Every gnawing made me better in my standing. My living thus enhanced I went in for a swim. The shore was gray like the water. The air was gray like the sand. My body went out into the waters there in dim light. My anxiety went out of me like the moors. My body didn’t stop its churning within the icy waves until I’d shat and slowly ambled back to find my clothing. I went for soup within the village and heard an old man playing his guitar. I do not think I had my bicycle. Every morning I wake up and bury my face in a mound of mold I’ve kept in the corner of my bathroom. It’s black. I inhale deeply through nose and mouth then urinate out the window onto my neighbor’s deck. I see the bodies of runners slowly fucking their ways up the stupid streets. I go into the local thing. I buy a local piece of shit. I take it outside into the lot and crawl under the van. I open up the oil and let it empty onto my body. I walk down the street while it goes away. People are always behaving like such gigantic piles of filth. How high can the blood sugar go. How much more of your spit can I borrow. Cut the lingual shit with your magnificent caterwauling you insufferable politician. Cut it. Quiet it. Address the reader. Mere pseudo mag ed. Another quiet morning atop the sea of shit within the bustling world of the Americans. Hello Phil, good morning. Welcome home Phil you’re home here. Good day. Rest up. Eat a filet upon the buffet. Quiet down. Long have I wished to plug in my fist through my own wiry eye socket and see what pops out. I’m a glutton for big meandering idiots. I’m so grateful to see you all father it. I’m so grateful to see you all gathered there in Dallas. For someone somewhere it was the greatest day of their life. For someone it was the end of a long path, a simple conclusion on top of a big fat cake. Mine eyes have big dusty polyps when I go to the top of their ladders and prepare myself to die. I’m so grateful to the city of Phoenix. I’m so glad I’m dead now. What a wonderful weeping morning on Washington. Upon the Washington. Upon the river. Pete Seeger upon the river going there. His body there. Welcome to the bubbling river idiot. Welcome to all idiots upon the river. It’s the day on which the bodies will be buoys in their tubes. I like to go beneath them to look at the disease they leak out upon the oils. Now now, we won’t have that now now. Moocow nope not now. Good dog upon the now now. Good whispering  dog illiterate on the now now. I embody a husk upon the ground with the corn. Shuck me and cut my head off. Good idea you insufferable idiot. Good welcome idea on the morning of your idiot. I can’t wait to see you get married to the police. I just can’t wait any longer. I wanted you to understand. I reached back into the guts of time and tried to pull an apple out. Why would anyone deny Eve her apple. You’re a piece of shit if you want a person not to eat an apple. Unless they’re your allergic child. Kiss a stump upon the dumb ground and feed your head through a sleeve of lambskin. Great. Another dumb idea from a dumb asshole. A wonderful time to be alive and to witness yourself becoming a corpse. I will leave a heaving corpse. I will leave behind me a Nascar driver corpse. I will get one of those jackets. Like Dave Hickey, I will get one of those jackets. I will smoke cigarettes in Las Vegas, like Dave Hickey. I will someday be in the arms of Dave Hickey, dead by the pool. He never had kids. Why couldn’t Dave Hickey have had kids? If he’d had kids I could’ve been more like him. Now I’m not like him and I’m not the same as him so I can’t have anything to do with anything adjacent to him. That’s literally insane. That’s stupid. It’s stupid, and yet. There it is stupid and yet. The reader wants a break… The reader wants a break… Give them the Céline break… Take a rest alongside that stupid anti-Semite. The racist moron. The dumb bubbling moron… He knew how to layer his clothes though… He knew how to dress himself… There is the world at dumb war with itself… A middling world commingled in its own shit with its smiley dipshit teeth. Ah yes he’s stopped the ellipses once and for all… Not yet. Wait… Not yet… Yes. How hoary is your rasp. How ugly is your album. How great can your album be. How great can the albums of time be. I sat there playing their piano. I took the piano apart on the lawn with an ax. Is it ax or axe. I won’t look. I refuse to look. I refused and I refuse. I can’t wait to fuck off. I can’t wait to fuck off of earth. The girl who’s been on my mind. All the time. She don’t even know my name. This is not an entrance. These are not entreaties. The heater won’t shut itself the fuck up. The heater won’t stop clanging. No it’s a radiator. Whatever it is it won’t shut the fuck up. I can’t wait for it to shut the fuck up. Do I hear twenty-one, twenty-one. I’ll give you twenty-one. Willem Dafoe there dead upon the ground. Abel Ferrara being interviewed by Conan O’Brien seemingly drunk out of his skull. The forest. The forest is burning is Satan’s church. Is it Dafoe or Defoe. I’ll not be looking. I woke up inside the sun. I went out onto the surface of the sun to celebrate its perpetual rising. I felt lucky. I felt very lucky. My eyes were curled teeth. I wasn’t burned because I was within a thing. My body waffled, hither and yon. I welcomed a good god. I walked through a forest of burning material. My flesh was touched. One step, another. One step upon the sun, another. I woke up inside my body. My body therein wherein the sun, or son. My world peopled with burning. A humanity composed of shoulders. A hand upon the neighbor’s shoulder. I quickly whittled a stick to knife. I split the root to hold my neck. Pissant hand on pissant hand. Take her to the movies. She hasn’t seen this one before. It’s German, or Russian, or both. A query to the person sat within the theater’s edge. A question. More of a comment than a question. A human question. A human document. A human rotting upon the floor within the church. I felt as though plopped upon the wood with splinters stuck into my flesh. I welcome the discomfort of meetings, of gatherings. Cool. It’s very cool of you to recognize that. It’s very cool to remember the crimes I’ve committed. A human personage within the bondage of an age of guilt. Everybody was facing their executioner. Thank god. Thank the good lord Ethan Hawke has written another novel. Thank god Tom Hanks wrote a story collection. Thank Jesus Christ B.J. Novak wrote a story collection. Thank Jesus Christ Sean Penn wrote a novel. Thank you for interviewing them on your podcast. Thank you for caring so much about literature. It’s so wonderful. You’re doing such a service. Thank goodness for New York City. For actors. For artists who get their footing then fuck off into some other tradition they have nothing to do with and take the place of every scream of every desperate artist there and pinch them off, rendering them mute. I’m just so grateful Matthew McConeghey wrote a book called Greenlights, as I have no question this person holds the secret for all the rest of us. That’s not how you spell his name. I don’t care. I can’t be bothered to care. I’m too busy reading his book about “greenlights.” I’m too busy. People are too reductive about the notion of hatred. Being someone who hates is probably a good thing. Love is an overrated thing. The world is full of love. Love has funded this world. Hatred is the belief that love has failed this world. People are too reductive about love. I’m embarrassed to have the misspelled name, however, I believe I have come too far to turn back now. The little idiot sits upon the stool and paints a picture of his home. His limbs skirt and dawdled upon the paper. The paper covers the sheet. The sheet covers the room. Their images cover the paint. My body there upon the floor. My dumb body upon the floor in the center of the living room. Hatred is purity. It said that somewhere, maybe on a church. A book can be a sacred item, at least I think in that video game. He’s had a rough go of things. I’m drinking from a 1 GAL jug of Arizona Diet Green Tea with Ginseng. I poured some sparkling water in there. Ice. And some Crystal Light with some Green Tea. I’m dieting. I’ve been dieting for months now. I’m the lowest I’ve been in years and I’m still pretty fat. I carry it all in my gut. I’ve only ever carried all of it in my gut. My body is putrid. My arms and my legs are skinny and not muscular. I carry all of my fat in my chest and gut. I look like a cartoon butler or something. I don’t look good. My facial hair is not attractive. I don’t brush my teeth enough. I don’t shower enough. I don’t bathe enough. I’m pretty gross. I’m an ugly woman. My body is an ugly vitamin thing. The vitamins smell bad. I’m freebasing vitamins. I’m an American. I’m a boy. One time. I’m watching Survivor. I love Jeff Probst. I carried the computer across the room. I picked it up on its side. A person is wearing a white outfit and they look like the leader of a cult. I’m listening to something in my right ear, and nothing in my left ear. I’m not listening to music. If I were listening to music I think this might be easier… I like to let the ellipses return… I have no idea whether a reader would feel grateful for them… It’s my belief that a writer should think about a reader, though this hasn’t always been my belief… I believe a lot of things… My teeth are silver… Every tooth in my stupid mouth is silver… My breasts are violent… My teeth are silvery violent… I got a copy of the book they’re talking about… You know the one… Whoever you are, wherever you are in your life, you know the one… What a gigantic piece of shit we’ve made of living… Isn’t it just wonderful? Isn’t it the most wonderful thing within the world? A body sits within a room. A person has that body. Someone has that body. It’s important. It’s so incredibly important. It’s obvious how incredibly important it is to every single person alive. The Oscars. People like to talk about the Oscars. Will Smith slapped Chris Rock across the face. Oh my gosh it is so good. I love the texture of it. Someone slapped someone. A famous millionaire slapped a famous millionaire. You can’t get enough of it. You love to see it all. Shave your head. Drive in your Subaru Crosstrek from 2014. Drive and get excited about the music that’s playing. A wonderful song. A wonderful whispery woeful song. A screaming song. Someone else is being told it’s what they are. Here are the young men. The world on their shoulders. Here is a hung neck of an Ian Curtis in his home. How long was he there before Deborah Curtis discovered him. How is it possible that his work was completed when he was just twenty-three years old. I mean, I know technically it wasn’t completed, probably. But that begs the question, if someone ends something with such finality, aren’t they sort of saying they’re done. They’re sort of saying they’re done, but only sort of. Lots of people choose to kill themselves. He was one. Apparently he was interested in doing more in the realm of Dub, of Reggae, of embracing his fondness for Genesis P-Orridge. I can see that. I can hear it. New Order doesn’t seem like it continued in that spirit. They did something else. I want to like them much more than I in fact do. Maybe The Pale King is sort of finished, right. I mean, in terms of the work that author felt capable of completing, it is sort of finished. It’s sad. Of course it’s sad. A person ends their life. There are sadder things, but that one’s up there. A person kills themselves. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for those people who kill themselves. I do think it’s possible to think of the works left when a person commits suicide as being finished. A lot of people don’t feel like that. I haven’t read what’s left behind. Not all of it anyway. We’re gonna play tennis soon. He’s a really good tennis player. That’s one of the things that’s amazing to me. He’s a wonderful athlete. You have to go to the top of a mountain with the big rock person. You have to help them hide as you scale the mountain. It’s nice to think of the ways in which this is exactly like the first example of it. Prior to this this document contained two-thousand-six-hundred-and-sixty-six words. Now it contains more. And more still. I’ve never finished that book. I liked The Savage Detectives more. I guess it’s O.K. to talk about this kind of thing in a project like this. This is a novel, if I say it is. I’m sorry to the reader as this paragraph isn’t going to stop until the book stops. The ellipses hopefully offer a bit of respite… Do they. I hope they do. I like to break up a sentence. I like to break it up. I’m too scared to break it up now. I’m just too frightened. People are talking about fucking on the podcast. Again and again the people are talking about their fucking on the podcast. Your body is wonderful. Your body is there upon the beach ball. You’re curled over the beach ball and you send a text to your grandmother. Your grandmother gives you a kiss and a Ludens or Luden’s or Ludens’ thing when she gives you a kiss just in case you get a cold from her kissing you. She doesn’t exist. That woman doesn’t exist. Maybe though you do, or your grandmother does. I can’t wait to move to Florida when I’m old. I’m going to watch so much television when I’m old. I completely understand why people move there when they’re old. What a wonderful way to live one’s life. I think if I’m able I might move there sooner. I’d like that quite a bit. I can’t wait to be old, except for the defecation. I can’t imagine the defecation for an older person is much in the way of pleasure. Now I’m probably about at my peak in terms of defecation. I don’t remember what it felt like to defecate when I was younger. I remember being anxious about it, though. I wonder a lot lately about how I don’t remember the first time I masturbated. It seems insane to me, that I could’ve done this thing, such a drastic thing, and then not remember it as this almost kind of traumatic event. Alright, I’ll stop. I don’t want to talk about that shit so much anymore. I just don’t want to. I think talking about it in books and novels and the like is sort of cliché. I just think there’s more stuff a person can write about. I think it’s important to try and write more about other things. You tell me it calms your nerves. You, just, think, it, looks, cool. The comma there I don’t enjoy so much. I was going to do full stop periods but that seemed dramatic. At least I’m fucking trying. People have to try. Man, so awful. So awful in that Fugazi documentary. The fans don’t even know what band they’re seeing. Just 90s people using it as an excuse to get high and fuck off. The band couldn’t be more sort of against that spirit. However therein lies a problem, of course. The band is of this spirit that they’re not against any spirit, but I do think that Jem Cohen is sort of making the case that they might be against that particular spirit, which is a negative, unhelpful spirit. It’s unhelpful to just fuck off out of life. I like that band though. Not Fugazi. The other band. I like that band Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats. That’s a spirit I can enjoy. Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats they say I was born a wicked man/No hopes or dreams/I get my kicks from torturing and screams. Something about it compels me. I’m not actually drawn to the reality of that lived violence, but the spirit of being sort of antinomian. At least it’s my belief that this sort of thing is antinomian. Antinomian being sort of against the every day, that sort of thing, the conventional, that sort of thing, sure. I didn’t much enjoy that one book that was very long and contained largely one sentence. I did however enjoy that other one book that was very long and contained largely one different sentence. This one will be shorter, which is probably a selling point, though I have to accept that I’ve never really written anything that could be sold. A night in Moscow, Idaho. A night when the sun is setting there. On the floor are Legos. Elsewhere is a podcast and a Nickelodeon TV show about monster trucks that turn into other things. I don’t think it’s the thing you immediately thought of when I said that, though. Piss upon the floor and run away. Drive a truck made of bones. Check your email. Write an email to your dead dad. Great. I love it. Incredibly stupid purple prose. Feeling so stupid. Feeling so incredibly stupid. Take a shower. Take a bath. Don’t listen to them. Don’t let the world go away. Or do. Great. Another book. Another godforsaken book. A godforsaken book printed there. A little room in hell, the glassy part. The frozen part of hell nobody talks about. In what capacity are the hostages housed. It’s difficult to think of the worst thing in the world. Whatever it is it has nothing to do with writers. Whatever it is has nothing to do with hair. Maybe not. It’s tough to know where to put one’s energy. We invest in lots of dumb endeavors. It is a shawarma onto which a lot of lamb is put? Is that the word for that device? And what of the questions without question marks. I could easily get very interested in firearms. Of that I have no doubt. I think a lot about the second Indiana Jones film. Or Imbiamba Jombes. Combs. Too many combs. When I was young I tried to rap. There’s nothing as embarrassing as a person’s entire life. Here I am, naked in Manhattan, being flogged. Ah so you’ve finally made your way through The Mad Man; or, the Mysteries of Manhattan. Is that how the title goes? One is never sure. It’s Melvillian. Or Melvilleian. Is it Melvilleian to attend a sex club? A leather bar. That sort of thing. Was Melville’s house really filled up with young men to do his work. Who said that. Melville and Hawthorne rolling around on the floor of a barn while a cow sits there idly chewing its cud. Is it the cud it chews. One is never sure. A ferris wheel upon the scream. Personalize your screensaver. Did you know. Prime members have free unlimited photo storage with Amazon photos. Not now. Get started. A waterfall gives way to a field, possibly a moor. A moot moor. A moor run amok amorously mooting its physical body. The moors murders. Bataille writing on Wuthering Heights. Was that the work. The immorality of literature. On Immoral Literature. I get to sit in the room in my body again. I like to put a sound on. How mortifying it is to be young, to age, to be old. A person, just think of it. A welcome home. I’d like to live in a cemetery. I’m not being melodramatic. Doesn’t that seem like a peaceful prospect for a body. Graveyard clay. The dirty dust. Whatever it is. That Irishman. A violence undertaken by mankind. I like to watch the people making fun of one another. I like to billow out like a fat bloated cloud. Good morning, fuckface. Good afternoon fuckface! Good evening fuckface! Good night fuckface! I’m glad to hover around the counter with my friend whose grandparents’ kitchen looked like the one in the YouTube video that’s always being recommended to me. I’m looking forward to playing the song “Scapegoat” in a minute, again, for I think the fourth time today. Once your wife and your body or your family or a snow cone drove around that city where the people lived to try and see how they lived and it felt bad but your wife liked it and you felt it was this big secret you could be a part of and this meant something more to you than the little things you’ve sort of amassed as talismans around your living and there’s such warmth to that it’s difficult to think of anything better than that. Sometimes writers romanticize criminals, or being a certain way, or whatever else, and the only thing you can respond to it with is you’re right, but you’re a fucking calendar. When I shot Jesse James I was sixty-four years old on an island in the South Pacific and I had gout and he came into town and put a knife to the throat of a young girl there and I walked up to him and stuck my head under his arm so that the knife went to and through my own neck and I shot through the top of his skull from his underchin and both of us perished there upon the sand swept path. I can’t wait until they make Flamin’ Hot Diet Mountain Dew, perhaps it’s already been done. My wife and I did the One Chip Challenge and just felt like bad people for half an hour. For several days I’ve been trying pretty hard to figure out what to spend a small amount of money on. I’ll convince myself I’ve got the thing, but then convince myself I don’t need it. Over and over this happens, which is probably something, though I don’t have any interest in figuring out what it is, like when Bandini sits on the bed and eats a big bag of oranges, with no desire to go anywhere, with no desire to do anything. O.K. let me sit in the corner of the room and try to figure out where I hid my pliers. O.K. welcome to Hazelden good morning here’s a folder here’s some other shit here’s some other other shit. I need to take your phone. I need to eat a phone. A good morning phone. Good I’m holding onto the phone. Oh that’s wonderful another nine-hundred-page novel. Oh that’s wonderful a book that has nothing to do with the world. Oh that’s wonderful a novel that has nothing to do with Megan Thee Stallion. Oh that’s wonderful a book being published by a publisher that’s clearly paid for all of its reviews. Did anyone even write the reviews. I don’t like to see the men. Renditions of the theme music from Ocarina of Time is playing on Alexa. A phone on the couch.


About the Author

Grant Maierhofer is the author of Shame (FC2) The Compleat Lungfish (Apocalypse Party) and others. 


Photo by Steve Barker on Unsplash