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Israelmore Ayivor

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“Staring into the naked orange flames of the firepit, naked flesh, naked Carrie Donaldson on the bare rug in exhausted, sated semi-sleep beside him, Jack Barron felt a carapace of image-history-skin encysting him like steel walls of a TV set, a creature imprisoned in the electronic circuitry of his own head perceiving through promptboard vidphone fleshless electronic speed of light ersatz senses, separated from the girl beside him by the phosphor-dot impenetrable glass TV screen Great Wall of China of his own image. First time I remember being blown feeling like wet put-down ugliness, he brooded. Ugly, he told himself, is a thing you feel — truth is ugly when it's a weapon, lie is beautiful when an act of love ugly when it's one-sided fuck is beautiful when it's simple, mutual, nobullshit balling, ugly when chick gets her kicks off you that really isn't there, is why you feel like a rotten lump of shit, man. Getting blown Sara go down being dug by woman's a pure gas; being sucked off, image-statue living lie, someone else's lie being eaten (Let me eat you, let me eat you, baby!) is a dirty act of plastic cannibalism, her dirtiness, not mine. Whole world's full of plastic cannibals feeding their own little bags off meals of my goddamned image-flesh, eating Jack Barron ghost that isn't there. And now Morris and my so-called friend Luke are hot to package my living-color bod into TV dinners, sell to hundred million viewer-voter cannibals for thirty pieces of power silver.”

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Book:Bug Jack Barron
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“Export Credit Guarantees.‘After all, Madame Nhu is asking a thousand dollars an interview, in this case we can insist on five and get it. Damn it, this is The Man . . . ’ The brain dulls. An exhibition of atrocity photographs rouses a flicker of interest. Meanwhile, the quasars burn dimly from the dark peaks of the universe. Standing across the room from Catherine Austin, who watches him with guarded eyes, he hears himself addressed as ‘Paul’, as if waiting for clandestine messages from the resistance headquarters of World War III. Five Hundred Feet High. The Madonnas move across London like immense clouds. Painted on clapboard in the Mantegna style, their composed faces gaze down on the crowds watching from the streets below. Several hundred pass by, vanishing into the haze over the Queen Mary Reservoir, Staines, like a procession of marine deities. Some remarkable entrepreneur has arranged this tour de force; in advertising circles everyone is talking about the mysterious international agency that now has the Vatican account. At the Institute Dr Nathan is trying to sidestep the Late Renaissance. ‘Mannerism bores me. Whatever happens,’ he confides to Catherine Austin, ‘we must keep him off Dali and Ernst.’ Gioconda. As the slides moved through the projector the women’s photographs, in profile and full face, jerked one by one across the screen. ‘A characteristic of the criminally insane,’ Dr Nathan remarked, ‘is the lack of tone and rigidity of the facial mask.’ The audience fell silent. An extraordinary woman had appeared on the screen. The planes of her face seemed to lead towards some invisible focus, projecting an image that lingered on the walls, as if they were inhabiting her skull. In her eyes glowed the forms of archangels. ‘That one?’ Dr Nathan asked quietly. ‘Your mother? I see.”

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Book:The Atrocity Exhibition
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“Apoi, într-o zi, când ea crescuse mai mare şi cuvântul acela urât din înjurăturile băieţilor n-o mai speria ca altădată de câte ori îl vedea scris pe vreun gard, Leontina a descoperit că şi tăietura ascunsă între picioare era o cale prin care se putea intra în trupul ei până în miezul fiinţei. Ce era acolo, în acest miez, sau mai precis cine era acolo, ce animal preistoric, ce creatură oarbă şi nesătulă, cu bot umed de cârtiţă şi gâtlej de rechin? Va încerca toată viaţa să-şi răspundă la întrebarea asta şi nu va reuşi.”

Women S Sexuality
Book:Pupa russa
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“Or, femeia nu poate decât să se deschidă şi să primească... E ceva împotriva legilor firii, înţelegi tu?... E o adevărată tragedie... Existenţa nu e doar un fenomen de înghiţire a lumii, ci şi un fenomen de asimilare... Noi trăim ca să mâncăm lumea şi ceea ce mâncăm se face una cu noi, nu se mai întoarce afară, sau se întoarce, da, intri în budă şi se întoarce, dar asta nu contează... Ce vreau să spun e că sexualitatea femeii constă într-o permanentă frustrare şi că frustrarea asta cuprinde tot, pielea, părul, ochii, unghiile, oasele... N-ai observat că femeile îmbătrânesc mai repede decât bărbaţii? Când o primeşti în tine şi apoi eşti obligată s-o dai afară e ca şi cum existenţa ţi-ar da cu tifla...”

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Book:Pupa russa
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