Read Online Will Work for Drugs by Lydia Lunch - Free Book Online Page B

someplace deep inside that would germinate like a generator, sucked into life, sucked into death.
    And kill yourself already! … All you who are desperate and you who are tortured in body and soul. Lose all hope! There is no more relief for you in this world. The world dances on your graves. All you lucid madmen, the consumptives, the cancer-ridden and plague-stricken, you will be forever misunderstood. There is a point in you that no doctor will ever understand and that is the point which, for me, saves you and makes you majestic. Pure. Marvelous. You are outside of life. Above life. You have pains which the ordinary man will never know. You go beyond and then beyond again and this is why other men are against you. You are poisoning their quietude. You are dissolvers of their stability. You have irrepressible pains, un-resolvable agonies, pains beyond thought which are neither in the body nor in the soul, but which belong to both. The essence of which makes you unadaptable to any known state.
    And as for me … I participate in your ills and ask you—who dares to measure the tranquilizer for me? In the name of what superior light soul to soul can you ever understand me—or expect me to understand you? You who are at the very root of knowledge and clarity—all on account of your insistence … our persistence in suffering. We whose pain forces a journey into our souls in search of a calm place to cling to. In search of stability in evil, as others search for it in good. We aren’t crazy. We know the necessary doses to calm the insatiable sensibilities of the ruptured soul. The trial and error of terror as tranquilizer from which lesser mortals would flee screaming. But still we are not committing suicide—why?
    And two weeks later he was dead and they held some stinking lousy memorial that none of his real friends went to. That I didn’t go to either because I don’t get along very well with professional mourners, being one myself. I’m always getting into fights at funerals. No one wants to hear that none of us expected to see thirty anyway and now that a lot of us aren’t, everybody’s whining and crying about those who were the first to go. AND FUCK IT! If you aren’t ready to die every other second of every third day, then you aren’t really living. Because to know about LIFE we have surrounded ourselves with DEATH. With the dead and dying. With the dope fiends, drug addicts, sex fanatics, alcoholic under-achievers, the thieves and prostitutes, the dropouts and deadbeats, and all the misfits who didn’t belong, didn’t want to belong to any clique or coven or cult. Who by no accident or freak of nature got chosen to be called up … like they always knew they would. Which is why they glutinized and devoured and eventually choked to death on a life that raced forward faster than a speeding bullet.
    By simply suppressing drugs or sex you won’t suppress the need for crime, the cancers of the body or of the soul, the propensity for despair, inborn stupidity, the frailty of the instincts. You won’t be able to stop souls from being predestined for poison, whatever kind that may be. The poison of isolation, of onanism, of deep-rooted weakness. The poison of alcohol, of an antisocial nature. There are souls that are incurable and lost to the rest of society. If you take away from them one means of madness, they will invent ten thousand others. They will create means more insidious, more furious, absolutely desperate. Nature herself is antisocial. Let the lost get lost. They are lost by nature. And all the ideas of moral regeneration won’t do anything about it. There is an innate determinism, an indisputable incurability about suicide, crime, idiocy, madness. There is an invincible cuckoldom of man, a fallout of character. There is castration of the mind. Hell is already of this world and there are men who are unhappy runaways destined to repeat