Violence Is Not the New Sex

It’s been around as long as sex and is as seductive, energizing, rousing toward something bigger than ourselves which is always what we want—to get out of ourselves, the sickening uncertainty of our own worth, the face in the mirror never good enough, the things we feel always so equivocal. This is why we need god, and why we know if he lived he’d have to have died for us; we can’t live in the awful anxiety of a godless-creation. We paint on lips, suck out hips, have the largest cars, the ability to burn money, or water, or time, the violence to the earth our greatest triumph and thinnest cry—we need nothing, and if we can prove it by killing it, then maybe we’ll feel certainty... for once, but in the meantime, we discover sex, then pain, and like animals, we consume what we can’t imagine is anything but a last meal, leaving almost nothing for the vultures we say we despise, eyeing them as if they had a secret we don’t really want revealed.

Laura McCullough | Mudlark No. 32
Contents | La Petite Mort Is a Metaphor