Lydia Lunch
SHORT HISTORY OF DECAY
PART 2- excerpt
We are injected into this world like dirty like mummies... the roads are slippery with blood, but no one seems to notice... born bathed in blood... to die the same... everyone is travelling at their own speed toaward the exit sign, down a blind alley at the end of which waits a scaffold. We are all suffereing from collective induced fiction, bundles of conditioned reflexes, victims of an ambushed memory, suffering from a historical lobotomy. Comsumed by junk culture in a third world country. I know that the only minds which seduce are those who have destroyed themselves trying to give their life meaning.
After all there is no one more logical than the lunatic. No one more concerned with cause & effect. Madmen & women are the greatest reasoners of all, attempting to make sense out of a demonic rage which litters the playpen of their demented fantasies, where life is a thief, it steals everything. Creation but a nightmare spectacle, a trembling accident, we are all just germinating on this hothouse planet which has been soaked with the blood of all of its creatures for hundreds of thousands of years now. Everywhere you turn. Ambulatory schizophrenics trying to diffuse their instinct to die by fantasizing about killing others... all struck wallowing in Orwell's memory hole.
This country like so many others lays testament to a civilization which teeters on the brink of collapse. Disaster lurks behind every shadow. No one can be trusted. Nothing is certain, except the end. No one knows how long we have left. I don't even care. The future is obvious. Obliteration. And besides, only the immediate has any impact left, what with our 20-second sound bite remote controlled imaginations.
And the past... we haven't learned anything from it. The past is just a resurrection of emotions... memory running backwards, toward the vaults of eternity, that red pyramid of death whose accumulated catastrophes just keep billowing on forever & ever toward the edge of the earth. This world being just the stopover point between heaven and hell or another endless limbo where we're all stuck... all stuck in this inquisitorial prison cell, attracted to the novelty of the spectacle, where the roar of a beast whose throat has been slit breaks the silence... all invalids of duration, crucified by our own desires, clutching of bibles of disallusion... fearful souls, doomed to corrupted forms of wisdom, always unable to say no to that imaginary demon who just might seduce.
Interview with Lydia
Matrikamantra
Paradoxia