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TERSE
AMYGDALA FEROX:
the puppet mouth of your face heavily wrapped in tape says more than a jilted tirade when its crackling / when we first met it was like i had found what i'll be wearing when they find me dead and bloated / you were more waifish / gloved in brain stem / with sparks instead of hair / netted cables slivered to the bones of your legs / a neglige of flayed pork hide cupping your nicotine deposit breasts / in the dream you said your cunt ached for his cock / when i asked what mine did you said it felt like finding a lump / you've been in my life so long that i can't remember anything else / i need to see the eyeball hanging from the splattered head of an etching you loved more than me / to be maced and raped into pure life /
of all Scapelli's unrealized projects, it is IMPALE HER; a grime-goth post-porn take on Bram Stoker's DRACULA, that has garned the most curiousity. Scapelli referred to the project as an 'Ambient Splatter Film', inviting speculative comparisons to Herzog's NOSFERATU, Schrader's CAT PEOPLE, and the filmographies of Jess Franco and Jean Rollin. the New French Extremity wave of the late 90s-early 00s (particularly Claire Denis' TROUBLE EVERY DAY) also suggests what IMPALE HER might have been.
as with the case of many of Scapelli's more ambitious undertakings, his vision was irrevecably at odds with his investors, and IMPALE HER never made it beyond its rather involved conceptual stage, which found Scapelli surveying seemingly hundreds of iterations of Dracula across literature, film, comics, and television, as well as immersing himself in various post modern art movements, avant garde music scenes, transgressive writings, serial killer confessions, and fringe pornography.
the Dracula of IMPALE HER (given the name "Davad Lucar" by Scapelli) was envisioned by Scapelli as possessing the blended temperamental intensities of Antonin Artaud and Jaimie Gillis, with no small devotion to the visceral hermeticism of Vienna Aktionist Rudolph Schwartzkolger and the prescribed charms of lust killer Ted Bundy. All this amounted to less of a Hammer Horror (albiet more deliberately gory and gratutiously sexual) that the studio was expecting and more of an extensive meditation on the anatomy of lust, the nature of aggression, and the futility of youth maintenance... hardly what the producers wanted from the director of HEADGEAR.
A little more than dejected, Scapelli gave in to the demands of the financiers and delivered SOW; a quasi-sequel/borderline-remake of HEADGEAR, with that film's enigmatic FIGURE swapped out for a character named GREASETRAP, a corpulant, castrated, junk-food addicted, child murdering cannibal who cracked wise as he cracked skulls. While no where near an ideal project for Scapelli, SOW became a massive success, with GREASETRAP becoming a bona-fide slasher icon, reappearing in sequels, spin-offs, comics, novels, toys, video games, Halloween costumes, etc. the film barely disguises its mean-spirited contempt for the US Slasher Boom and the audiences Scapelli felt he was being forced to cater toward, with Greasetrap's mask being the most on-the-nose dig at all who were thristy for such product. stiched together from the flesh of a pig's severed head, the mask is painted like a vertically hanging American flag; white and red stripes running down to the snout, with a star-pocked blue block pasted across the left eye and left ear.
Scapelli reaped much of the finacial rewards due to his creator credit, but he expressed no interest in the further adventures of GREASETRAP, and never returned to the franchise, deciding to devote his attentions to traveling, writing, art collecting, and family obligations.
there were numerous attempts at a HEADGEAR / SOW crossover, where THE FIGURE and GREASETRAP would collide in a monster-mash, but Scapelli, owning the rights to HEADGEAR and THE FIGURE, was emphatically against such a colloboration (even though SOW has cameos, easter eggs, and references to the events of HEADGEAR, it doesn't depend on that film's narrative, and can be taken in on its own). Scapelli was never too attached to GREASETRAP, so he displayed no objections to the character becoming commodified (he was a touch alarmed that this child eating misanthropic grotesque was on bubblegum cards and lunch boxes, but a part of Scapelli found it quite amusing as well), but THE FIGURE had a much different hold on him, and thus he remained unshakably protective of the character, to the point of never revealing the actor or actress who played the role. Scapelli said the only way he would consider being involved with the crossover was if he could follow it up with IMPALE HER, retaining full creative control of both projects. The studio wouldn't bite (as he perhaps assumed they wouldn't), so Scapelli politely declined, and put IMPALE HER back in the coffin.
When the 1997 Fantasia Film Festival showcased Scapelli's prefered cut of HEADGEAR, he was asked by the genre enthusiast crowd (and the more-than-grateful programmers) about IMPALE HER. His comments were sparse and cryptic, but he offered strong compliments with regards to the films that were programmed, saying that they were in line with his vision for the film, particularly Richard Stanley's DUST DEVIL, whose title character (played with chilling sensual anxiety by Robert Burke) faintly echoes Scapelli's outline of intent for IMPALE HER's Davad Lucar.
- from Atrocity Conduit: Mutant Reflections of Celluloid Derangement (Cammbua, D.W., Conjugal Apparition Press)
"SILLY GOOSE": the loud banging on the door of my room is meant for effect. if Valise just wanted to discuss something between us, she would have lightly scraped the door with her fingernails. when it's three hard open-palm knocks, this indicates that it's showtime, and i am to finish what she has started.
Valise ques up the album Crazy Clown Time by David Lynch, playing it through the speakers in her "suite", where a session has just wrapped up. i nudge the door of the suite all the way open. in the corner of the suite there is a woman, sweating through an ill-fitting nighty, flesh ribboned by whips. the shredded dermis hangs in flaps that she is attempting to re-adhere to the esposed meat of her torso and back, smooting out the air pockets to no avail.
outside the entrance to the suite is a metal garbage can full of syringes that i can remember once hung from the ceiling of the suite like a mobile. i grip the rim of the can and drag it across the cement floor, making a chorus of its scraping. i continue dragging it as i crawlingly advance toward her. she backs as deep into the corner of the suite as she can, hugging her legs, curtains of arm-flesh draping across her kneecaps. i cock my head, make a frowny face, and offer up my hand to her. she is momentarily cautious, but eventually begins to move her shaking fingers toward mine. just before they graze, i quickly withdraw, slicking my hand across invisible hair, breaking a grin that elogates along with the palm rounding the circumference of my scalp, making sure the gleam of my spiked braces cast shards of light across her dehyrdrated eyeholes.
i lift the garbage can over my head and quickly crash it down atop her skull. a spill of syringes explodes from the mouth of the can, showering the cement floor. i repeat this motion across her back and her ribs as she turns, rolling her body across the jagged bed of splintered plastic and metal spikes, which become stuck to her skin like oily thorns of flattened coin.
i throw the garbage can to the floor and pick her up by her left arm, dislocating it from the shoulder socket, before i slam her against the stucco wall. i jab-chop at her windpipe and scrape her against the stucco, grinding the needles into her skin, mimicking the sound of their crunching pop. i then grab her ears so i can hold her head in place. she wheezes a feeble repetition of "wha?".
i flash my spike-braced teeth, glowering and vibrating my skull. i rake the edge of the braces up and down her mid-section, cutting further hollows into her shock-wound body. when i get down to her stomach i release the grip on her ears and headbutt her navel, knocking the wind out of her. while she is doubled over, i turn my fist's attention to where i believe her liver to be, stabbing at it with my middle knuckle. this causes her to vomit all over her self.
while she is on her hands and knees, i clasp my thighs around her temples, wrap my arms around her waist, lift her up until her legs are over my shoulders, and i throw her down back first across the metal garbage can, keeping the grip locked so i can repeat this motion, rotating in cycles between the garbage can, the wall, and the carpet of broken dirty needles. i do this until the only sound she emits is the muddy squelching of pulverized bone being sloshed in liquified muscle... until i'm doing little more than thrashing around a cookie dough rag doll.
grin alone. snuff film needle drop. cut fuckers mentruate fire ants. due to these new laws prohibiting single men at movie screenings, it looks like the missing cheerleader i keep locked up in the shed with the purloined mannequin legs will be getting some air.
incompetent white female. garbage fire shit show. underground cellars floored with beachhead. obstinate displays of paranoid anger in the public sphere usually indicate voracious searches of decorum-cratering pleasures in the hermetic chamber. ever see a pig that could spit-roast you?
pink sweat. denim and dishwater bubbling dura mater. your indifference is a labyrinthine gorge. clothespin kidney stone. this is not the ideal medium for actualizing these passions. i'd prefer them in a form less cryptically sensate and more authoritatively corporeal. organs humidified by the breath of an opening. follicles crackling in a wind around the knuckles. not just these frustrated words bound to struggle in capturing the severity of the idea.
rent-free grow sore. defecate liquid to soothe their throats. cooling heads with red t-shirts that have been thoroughly soaked in deep evening panic urine. handcuffed to the steering wheel of a pedophile's rolling butcher shop; a white van that's been stripped down to the frame and left stranded on active railroad tracks.
i'm grateful for women who are ill at ease with ventilated emotions that aren't some variant of wearyingly vindictive paranoid hostility. civilization will not shift course from oblivion without ceaselessly unthinking brutality. the universe is the brain of creation and mankind are the derangement indicators blotting the grey matter on its cat-scan.
amplification spiral. i'm a stroker. i'm a choker. i'm a blackface joker. boiled autumn. jumping rope with chicken parts. spurts emerge in the traffic's piss. cadence quakes goose the fore-bone. lucid dream techniques applied to blood sugar levels. the person who is sick of having creepy baby imagery shoved in their face is me.
it almost seems as if many in my local "fetish community" use BDSM as a way out of fucking... and their gift for spin has made those who seek a release-chaser after extreme foreplay feel as if they are inauthentic... that they are somehow on some "higher level" than those who wish to cap off a session of intensity-ratcheting paces with a soul-excoriating screw.
vulval stalactites. ballast discharge. sweat halts the calm. plume of regurgitate suspended beneath chest. groaning excrement simmers through a rogue network of stifling cavities. crippled by a rushing want to articulate the brain attack's surprise.
Switch Rigger. Sadist Degrader. Primal Brat. Experimental Non-monogamist. Masochist Rope bunny. Primal Voyeur. deeply frustrated by lacking reciprocation but reluctant to open others up to the reality of this anxiousness because piss-shouting MRAs have monopolized hetero angst and turned it into a malignant sociopolitical ideology. Dominant Degradee. Submissive Exhibitionist. Slave Daddy. Mistress Owner. Pet Boy. Vanilla Ageplayer. pirouette with steak knives through the ruins of a shopping mall?
red light offense. strategic gapes. dopamine surf. severed head sex jelly. the sole instance of female attention in my day-to-day proclivities are among the playact-enthused avatars of the more telegenic examples of random societal debris,; their predetermined affections as reciprocal as a power struggle between a couch potato and a cathode ray.
[GANGERS]:
JULIA ANN FRANK. tree bark impetigo. dialation sower bled out in millimeters... huffing fingerprints that have been dried out by a bleach scrub across adhesive remnants on a dead laptop. omnivorous neglect urges cataleptic frenzy, lush in a soup of fungal clag. when they suck your cock with sunglasses on it makes the eye floaters across their carved nudity appear as motion tattoos of billowing jellyfish. cellulite portions charming half-shedded garden snake, head appearing as if hooded by the jaw of a zombified nest mate.
having my lunch now; a can of smoked bacon flavor beans and a cup of hard shell pepper corns left in a pot on a barbecue until the contents burst and blacken into a cakey mash that is to be scraped from the pot and placed on a cinnamon sugar pretzel roll after having been formed into a quarter pound mock beef patty. biting down and my inner mouth becomes a transport for the scrambled innards of a king crab who exclusively subsists on slurping the tendril eggs of kodiak locusts that skim their under-abdomens across the surface of its territorial lakeside. washed it down with a SHUSH hard seltzer, which tastes like inside-out grubs flash-frozen in bricks of rendered lithium.
pith offensive. memory hole trash drip. edge of teeth air-scrape their root. snow angels in broken glass dotting lacerations to conjure a fanatical religious archetype... scabs like ant hills rain congealed. neck bones erupt waves of sewage in the immediate wake of a bullet train razor line quartet, the reverse-siphoning of snotty carotid gelatin actualizing the innate odiousness of the rage-receptor slime-licks. cuts of skin are tanned by solar flares at their peak disgrace; tatters imprinted with heel-grids like the trampled flags of a failed state. depressive robotic stripper routines are performed in one-piece bathing suits that have been encrusted with the micro-shards of a funhouse mirror, opiate limbs warily jerking to the pulverizing synthesizers of a grey market orchestra.
The figure laying cored in the splintered police boat compels me to dredge up a memory involving my baby sitter Shoshanna, whose malleable demeanors suggested someone who could oscillate between pixie, nerd, basket case, and criminal, and when she told me a ghost story about a monster hooded in rags and chained up in the basement dungeon of an abandoned administrative building not too far from the Star Rose Mall… a building of which the extreme haunt Deterrent now claims occupancy. I remember the cadence of her telling owing more to the tone of softcore pornography than the atmosphere of deranged urban myth… her increasingly low chords stoking emergent libidinal gears… coaxing and claiming the inaugural leakage of a crotch staining protein. a welcome shift in verbalized breaths from the drum-pulping tones of her everyday speech, which... much like many of the yenta-adjacent fairers of the species in the area... tended to make The Nanny sound like Sade.
later there is a dream whose details are retained enough to fill beyond the margins of a full page in an underground man murder journal; Shoshanna sitting up on a silver bed, fucked slow, deep, and hard by me, the spongy backs of her knees hooked into my inner elbows. there is a mirror behind her that stretches the length of the entire wall. In the reflection I am joined by a obscure pantheon of eldritch chimaeras, their forms waving and blaring like scrambled cable signals. one by one they enter my back through a spinal column vortex, tunneling toward my sack-viced testicles, their mass depleting in the process of transference, shaved down to the size of a wriggling cum-cell. I bust up her cunt, shellacking her intestines with the bear mace essence of pre-ancient dark gods, snarlingly anxious to be re-ushered as one into their old universe.
[DERACINATE]:
“Tonight on Channel Eleven’s Blue Market Block: Hangler’s Back in the Shade of The Grift Raiders followed by Fumetta meets Phantagnacht”.
Their clit appears insectoid when brushed against the felt.
The armageddon will manifest not as some prescribed instance of sudden blare, but as a piecemeal obliteration that carnivorously penetrates by the deliberate millimeter.
Found some choice cuts in the alley behind that new Rubherd Sandwich shop. Attempting to prolong the duration of their keep by disassembling the sandwiches and placing the separated breads, meats, and cheeses in a cooler that’s been lined with aluminum foil. No idea if this will work. Gotta be better than these Spamin pork pot pies… their maggoty inner texture suggesting they weren’t so much pre-cooked as they were post-rotten.
On the way back I nearly tripped over another Gauntlean Water Power barrel, its interior gritty with sparkling flecks of plume remainder. I suspect Gauntlean has been fertilizing the nearby grounds with excess containments for a few months now… the run-off baking the pond scum into floating stains of deathblow mercury.
KIRITSIS provides his services as the cryptocratic through line of dark suburban folklore with all the morose insouciance of a hurtcore content provider, spending the bulk of his inordinate amounts of free time blueprinting the latest iteration of his corporeal endgame, mining visual cues from a late term adolescent encounters with a oft mentioned local hermit.
KIRITSIS had first caught the hermit foraging through the dumpster behind a Rubherd Sandwiches; hooded rawhide jacket stained with ink from a typewriter ribbon… fur collar/liner ashy from accumulated grit… salt and pepper beard dreaded into fibrous braids of wiry intestines… split ends wound tight by fingertips into greasy razored points.
One soupy evening a little while later, returning from a late night double feature at the Magic Hour playhouse (Da Red Evil + Nylon Ninja), KIRITSIS again saw the hermit, this time standing over an old man who was sleeping on a bench at the Hawntag train station. KIRITSIS and the hermit locked eyes, the hermit seeing from under the mange-furred hood of the rawhide jacket. The hermit opened his coat, displaying a scab-chapped erection… bulbed pubic mound crusted with pus from ruptured ingrown hairs… rigid and weeping pre-cum onto oily black dress shoes… from beneath a bleach-stroked Scarcade concert tee (one from their “Experigressive” tour, with the band’s mascot… a taxidermic mutant collage of hammerhead shark / grizzly bear skeletal remains named “Zen Razorgut”… mutilating a crash test dummy with a pair of handsaws).
The hermit crawled on top of the old man. The hermit began to thrust his psoriatic flea-specked prick against the moistened seat of the old man’s pants. The old man feebly struggled, scream-crying “get off me! get off me!”, to which the hermit responded by whipping the shitlocked ropes of his jawbone tentacles against the sides of the old man’s face, likely sewing the gashes in his cheeks with galloping lice that carry undiscovered strains of vaccine-resistant viral infections.
Though he can’t be certain, KIRITSIS believes that he had been moved by the scene to rub his crotch and tits… lick, bite, smack, and suck his lips and teeth … while watching the hermit’s elevated dry-rape of an old man sleeping on a bench.
Consumer recognizes me from Screechrash Skirmish; a one-and-done reality show that I was a contestant on about thirteen years ago, revolving on a traveling outdoor music / “performance art” festival called (...wait for it...) Screechrash. The gimmick of the competition was that the winner would earn a substantial cash prize, a recording contract for their respective band (mine at the time being Stockholm Diva), and a spot on the following year’s Screechrash. I walked off the show on the third episode, after I refused to rip mice in half on stage during a set by Frog Mucus Ritual. This was a punishment doled out by the boss roadie “Rad Ronald”, after he felt his Scarcade vest was “disrespected” by one of the other plants (oops, I mean “contestants”). I told anyone who would listen that I wasn’t going to murder small animals in front of a rapehead crowd of dusters-in-August baby rock shit-shingles because some dill-weed the producers of this psy-op have anointed the villain of the show tried on a fucking jacket. The winner ended up being some thuggagoth jamoke in a dumbed down Sam Black Church knock off band or something. I did end up scoring a modeling gig with Underphale magazine out of the whole deal, though… oh yeah and a rimjob 69 sesh with Butchie Buckland; the smokeshow keytarist from Underground Wife.
/#/ 10 \#\
“PORN IS THE TRUTH, LOVE IS A LIE” has been scrawled with a paper clip into the fungus on the tiles of a public park bathroom. Transitional Stagnation. A flash flood of gruel. Here is the end result of forgetting to take off my identity card / key-fob when outside of work and having strangers refer to me as if we’re on a first name basis. “It’s pronounced ‘Gamulla’.” “The S. stands for Simon”. “Good to know you, Simon Gamulla.” “If you really knew me, you wouldn’t think it was good.” Hordes tearing at the scraps left behind in the wake of a raid. A lingering char taste like those sesame seeds that get burnt when you toast a hamburger bun. Do I have teeth in my piss or something? Are my carnivorous dissociative identity brain worms swelling again? I can’t “dO bEtTeR” if I don’t know what I’ve done wrong in the first place.
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