{"id":245,"date":"2016-03-24T18:38:08","date_gmt":"2016-03-24T22:38:08","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sewerlid.com\/?p=245"},"modified":"2016-03-24T19:11:52","modified_gmt":"2016-03-24T23:11:52","slug":"revelations-donald-trump","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/sewerlid.com\/index.php\/2016\/03\/24\/revelations-donald-trump\/","title":{"rendered":"The Revelations of Donald Trump"},"content":{"rendered":"

I am living vicariously through my own lives,
\nall of them, all at once, learning, living, loving,
\nprojecting myself and being projected,
\nbroadcasting for the End of Times,
\nsetting things in motion,
\nputting myself out there via
\nsuper-high frequency radio waves and
\nmobile broadband, broadcasting from
\nthe tallest buildings \u2014
\nBurj Khalifa
\nMakkah Royal Clock Tower Hotel
\nOne World Trade Centre
\nTaipei 101 \u2014
\nto everyone, everywhere, all at once,
\never-vital, like a spider, youthy, open to all possibilities,
\nyoungish, because fifty is the new thirty, somber as a book,
\nI connect through devices hardwired into coffee shop countertops and
\nkindergarten desks, America,
\nthrough devices mounted on bus station walls, beside ads for
\ninstant cash loans and pre-approved life insurance, America, no questions
\nasked; I project my visage onto billboards in Decatur and Baton Rouge
\nand Inuvik and Kuwait City,
\nonto billboards in Johannesburg and Baden-Baden,
\nbillboards shining down on the Battlefield of\u00a0Kuruk\u1e63etra, where the ghosts
\nof warriors shiver under the mute moon, and the Plains of
\nAbraham, where the ghosts of warriors shiver under the mute
\nmoon, and the Field of Blackbirds, where the ghosts of warriors drink
\nplum wine and shiver under the mute moon, electronic billboards shining
\ndown on the fields of Choeung Ek, where there are no warriors, only silence and the
\npromise of flowers, billboards \u2014 digital, pixilated, like quiet stars \u2014 shining
\ndown on mud huts and cardboard shelters in Washington, DC, and Mexico
\nCity, on frozen bus shelters in Ottawa, Ontario, on clapboard
\nshanties in Shanghai and high-occupancy dumpsters in every corner of this
\ncornerless globe, because there are no corners in America;
\nI connect through microchips implanted in the cerebral cortex
\nof wild dogs and homeless men, who howl at the freezing air and
\nbark at Jesus Christ Himself (infected, like the rest of us,
\nby His own glory, shining down, like the rest of us, self-illuminated,
\nfive million pixels at a time),
\nI connect through digital receptors, America, injected into the cerebellum of
\nwhite rats, caged in cosmetics labs, drunk on Revlon ColorStay
\nEye Liner, tripping on Est\u00e9e Lauder Pure Color Envy
\nSculpting Lipstick, receptors implanted into the pituitary glands of Guantanamo
\ndetainees, old men now, undressed of youth and loaned out to The Body
\nShop, lululemon and a rash of pharmaceutical companies, to test facial
\nscrubs and infused teas and penile implants and stain-resistant yoga mats;
\nconnecting through digital receptors surgically inserted into the spinal cords of
\nuntouchables \u2014 Dalits and Burakumin; Cagots and Ragyabpa; wetbacks and the
\nworking poor and minimum wage earners, homo sacers and homo
\nsexuals and unemployed homunculi <\/em>and anyone else who is
\nharshing my buzz \u2026<\/p>\n

I am time grown old, America,
\nI am creating world destruction, America,
\nliving vicariously through my own lives,
\nprojecting myself in Mobius selfies,
\nthe image of the image of the image of me,
\na small god with big hair,
\nas I rend my vestments and turn in on myself,
\nyinning my yang,
\nautosarcophagic,
\ndevouring myself a cell at a time,
\nthen shitting myself out in great magic heaps
\nthat digitalize and disperse,
\nthat collect and reconnect and leave an imprint in my mind
\nof the image of the image of the image of the image;
\nI am reproducing strategically, America,
\nheterogamously,
\nas the mood suits me,
\nspraying my seed casually, like insecticide, as the mood
\nsuits me, polysexual, not at all binary, lascivious as Solomon’s
\npomegranate, fucking without
\nissue, just for the pleasure of pleasing
\nmyself as you
\nwatch me please you,
\nand then, at once,
\nsplitting myself into a thousand fragments,
\neach cluster of gemma
\nis potential,
\neach cluster
\nbroadcasting my gene code,
\ndividing myself into a thousand new selves,
\never youthful,
\nall of them, learning, living, loving,
\nall of them projecting and being projected,
\nputting themselves out there
\nas I stand to the side of the frame,
\nstaring into the bathroom mirror \u2014 five million pixels worth, five million
\npoints of light \u2014 underwear to my knees, cock, hard and photo
\nready, fist pumping, one more selfie, one more
\ndick pic for the road; and I listen through my headphones,
\nas I sing a song to myself, my almost naked
\nself,
\nsing a song
\ncelebrating myself,
\na song
\nin praise of
\nmyself,
\nhosanna, to me
\nas Whitman hugs his bedfellow
\nand deciphers the poetry of the stars,
\nI sing myself into being,
\na hymn to me \u2014 Oh praise be to me on high! \u2014
\nand I say unto me, as certain as the Prophets \u2014 Ezekiel, Ibrahim,
\nSamuel, Hubbard \u2014 sang the songs of themselves,
\nlamented themselves into being,
\nI too sing, America,
\nbecause, like you, America, I am everywhere and all things, and
\nlike you, I have come to set things in motion,
\nI too sing because I am meter and rhythm and rhyme, America,
\nand I too sing because I am melody, Auto-Tuned, sung by me, about me, to me,
\nin perfect pitch
\ncounterpoint to my counterpoint,
\ncontradictory, harmonious yet unresolved,
\never modulating:
\nmy song is available on iTunes and Amazon the moment
\nI intone it;
\nOprah has it on her iPod,
\nand \u2014 man! \u2014 she can\u2019t get enough \u2026<\/p>\n

I am dazzled by the sun, America,
\nas it rises,
\ncountless pixels, America,
\nI am strapped to the ground by the sun as it
\nscrapes across the morning
\nI am chained every morning to the ground by the sun
\nit hurts my teeth as it squeaks across the sky
\nbroadcasting itself,
\nthe arrogant sun,
\nthe cancerous sun,
\nten thousand degrees Fahrenheit,
\ncasting shadows across the Book of the Dead
\nand the Book for the End of Times and the other books all unopened, un-
\ncut, unread, still writing themselves in reverse, a kind of unwriting that is in
\nitself a kind of writing, the cancerous
\nsun, melting the icecaps,
\nmelting the wax sealings \u2014 on more time \u2014 burning my eyes, until I am
\nblind anew, allowing me to see for the first time, again, the unseeable
\nthings, illuminated by the cancerous sun, the annihilating sun,
\na future no longer protected, unsealed,
\nthe End of Times, a vision that causes me to rend my vestments,
\nrend my skinny jeans, rend my cotton t-shirt, my cardigan,
\ncareful rending, focused, tearing the fabric in casual lines, that speak of my casual
\nanguish, and the measured suffering that comes from being a small
\ngod with big problems, a casual god, a nine-to-five god, a god that works weekends,
\nif required, career-minded \u2014 that kind of god;\u00a0 jealous, small-minded, in it for himself,
\nbecause I am younger than I seem, and conscious, not of fashion, but
\nof not-fashion, and aware that twenty\u2019s the new thirty and thirty\u2019s the new
\nfifty; I am time grown old, and I am young and very, very old and I
\nam seeing the future for the first time, again, and it is a vision of me, projecting
\nand being projected putting myself out there via super-high frequency radio
\nwaves and mobile broadband, broadcasting from
\nthe tallest buildings \u2014
\nthe Shanghai Tower,
\nCTF Finance Centre,
\nthe Empire State Building,
\nthe Trump International Hotel and Tower \u2014
\nto everyone, everywhere, all at once,
\never-vital, like a virus.<\/p>\n

And then I saw them, the Four Horseman,
\nI watched them live vicariously through me,
\nwatched them watch me as I live vicariously through my
\nown lives, watched them watch me projecting myself and being projected
\nputting myself out there at the highest register, where even dogs are
\ndeaf, 5.8 gigahertz, where sound is no longer sound, and dolphins can’t
\ncommunicate and bats
\ncan’t hear themselves think,
\nwhere radar is useless and the fluids of the inner ear spin
\ncounter-clockwise, disorientating, watched the horsemen dismount and
\nwatch me live vicariously through my own lives, viciously,
\nwatched them watch me learning, living, loving, projecting myself and being
\nprojected, watched them watch me as I put myself out there and put
\nout in the bathhouses of America, in the public bathrooms of America,
\nput out in the bushes and backseats of America, the absent bedrooms of
\nAmerica, they watched them watch me go down on my knees and go
\ndown, the carnal supplicant, counting my blessings, one blowjob
\nat a time, America; watched them watch me lick the salt from
\nthe backs of your daughters, America, from the backs
\nof your sisters, your mother, America; watch me kiss each pretty one and bind
\ntheir hands behind their backs as I drag the cat-o-nine-tails ‘cross their bosom and tell
\nthem that love has never tasted this good;
\nI am the taste in the water,
\nI am the light in the moon and the sun, subject and
\nobject, my own pornographer, projecting myself, the
\nimage of the mirror, as the Horsemen
\ndismount and take stock:
\nHorseman One, who is Youth, the seven-headed serpent,
\nwho looks but never sees and sees but never observers, who observers
\nbut never remembers, he is taking stock;
\nHorseman Two, who is Competence, the blind aesthetic, peering
\nthrough me with black sockets, holding under one arm
\na small dog that sniffs the air as her master advances without
\nmoving, embraces without feeling; he is
\nembraced but never held, he is understood but never
\nexplained, America; he is created but never contained, he
\nis taking stock;
\nHorseman Three, Comfort, the emaciated virgin,
\ndeath grey, bulimic, who carries in one hand a plastic sceptre and
\nin the other, a worn down toothbrush, who shows me her brown smile
\nas her dry fingers scratch behind my ear, she is taking stock;
\nHorseman Four, who is Celebrity, who is void and without form, America,
\nwho breeds without issue, and promises to call but never does; he is
\ntaking stock.
\nI am the Fifth Horseman, and I have a name, like the god of the Jews, that can\u2019t
\nbe uttered, and a visage, like the god of the rest of us, that can never be
\nlooked upon, a compressed god with expanded ambition, a serious god who
\ngets it, who can laugh at himself, the Alpha and
\nthe Omega and Everything in Between, a god vast and
\nunseen, because size matters but visibility doesn’t, a god that takes
\nno shit, a jealous god, an unhappy god, the god of day-timers and missed
\nappointments, the god of receding hairlines and hormone
\nreplacement therapy, the god of Viagra, the god of all sexual love, the
\ngod of reality television and all things in this and every
\nAmerica: I am time grown
\nold, creating world destruction; you shall take
\nno other gods before me, because I am a jealous god and
\nvengeful and you must live
\nvicariously through me, as I live
\nvicariously through you
\none small lie
\nat a
\ntime.<\/p>\n

I am dazzled by the sun, America,
\nas it rises,
\ncountless pixels,
\nI am strapped to the ground by the opulent sun as it
\nscrapes across the morning sky,
\npinning me like a butterfly to a cardboard mat,
\nthe arrogant sun,
\ncasting shadows across the Book for the End
\nof Times until the wax sealings, melted, slide to the ground and the book
\nopens for the first time, a book but not a
\nbook, a book that can be held, but is not held, a book that
\ncan be read, but is not read, a book that can reveal, but conceals,
\nthis is the Book of the End of Times,
\na story with no beginning, America, just
\na middle and an end,
\na story that advances like a virus, through an exchange of fluid, from
\none mouth to another, or through casual contact with an unwashed hand,
\na story that is writ as we live it, a story that tells the secret of the End of Times,
\nthe worst kept secret, because we are living it at every moment and have
\nalways lived it; it is a story with no message or moral, a
\ncautionary tale that urges you to repent, but knows you
\nwon’t because these are now and have always been the End of Times,
\nand we are small gods with large intestines, and we have a taste for
\neverything and capacity for love that is only exceeded by our capacity
\nto ignore the obvious;<\/p>\n

The books says:
\nthere will be drought, but the waters will rise
\nthere will be feast, but the young will starve and eat themselves
\nthere will be laughter and music but there will be no joy
\nthere will be light in the darkness, but the light will be cold and the darkness will never
\nbe truly dark
\nthere will be righteous men, but they will do wrong,
\nthere will be trumpets, but they will herald nothing,
\nthere will be wisdom and false wisdom, and they will be the one and the same,
\nfires will scorch the earth, but nothing will burn,
\nthere will be medicine, but the people will grow sick,
\nthere will be peace, but only in the name of war,
\nand there will be men of peace, who will murder for their cause,
\nand there will be plenty in the midst of nothing,
\nand nothing in the midst of plenty
\nand the greatest among you shall be the least by far,
\nand the least among you shall be less than nothing,
\nand twenty will be the new fifty and fifty the new thirty and thirty
\nthe new dead;<\/p>\n

The books says:
\nSeven Armies will rise on the Seven Continents
\nand at the head of each army, Seven Princes holding Seven Swords
\nSurrounded by Seven Generals astride Seven Horses
\nAnd the armies shall advance and not advance, moving forward and retreating as
\ncalm as glaciers, and on a herald’s signal, unheard, the armies will disperse,
\nthe Seven Princes will disperse, taking with them the Seven Swords, and
\nthe Seven Generals will disperse, astride the Seven Horses
\nAnd the Seven Battles will rage, America,
\neverywhere at once,
\nin the shopping malls and gallerias,
\nthe show homes and used car lots, in doctor’s waiting rooms and in school-
\nyards, in renovated town homes and homeless shelters and houses on either side of
\nany street, in Walmart washrooms and Costco checkout lines, and the International Food
\nCourts of the nation and fitting rooms of Old Navys and Baby Gaps and American
\nEagle Outfitters, America; and the enemy will advance and retreat, disguised as
\nfriends or as strangers, sisters \u2014 mingling, drawing
\nyou into conversation with questions about your health
\nand your family, everyone smiling, everyone concealing themselves, everyone a quiet
\nperfect lie, personalized terrorists;
\nand there will be men of peace, who will kill for their cause,
\nand there will be plenty in the midst of nothing,
\nand the greatest among you shall be the least by far,
\nand the least among you shall be less than nothing,
\nbecause I am time grown old
\nbecause I am young and very, very old
\nbecause I have set things in motion
\nbecause I am not the Redeemer
\nbecause I have come to annihilate worlds
\nbecause these are the End of Times:
\ndon’t worry, you’ll get used to it.<\/p>\n

And the hungry will eat dry soil and lick at the worlds around them
\nAnd the thirsty will drink fire and taste terrible fire that will scorch the universe
\nAnd the holiest will sleep naked in the beds of temptation
\nAnd fire will rain down from the Heavens
\nAnd ye shall thirst
\nAnd there will be no Righteous
\nOnly Clean and Unclean
\nprojecting Themselves and being projected, America,
\nputting Themselves out there via
\nsuper-high frequency radio waves and
\nmobile broadband, broadcasting from
\nthe tallest buildings \u2014
\nthe Jin Mao Tower
\nthe Guangzhou International Finance Centre
\nthe Great Ziggurat of Babylon \u2014
\nto everyone, everywhere, all at once,
\npersistent, like glaciers, innocent, like children burning ants with a
\nmagnifying glass, each of us our own Horseman, each of us an
\nimage of an image of an image,
\neach of us, singing a song to ourselves,
\ncelebrating ourselves,
\neach of us, singing muted songs of lamentation,
\nsinging atonal dirges,
\ntoo slow and vastly modern,
\ninscrutable songs with no discernable melody,
\neach of us, singing ourselves to sleep,
\nsinging a hymn to sleep,
\nas we live vicariously through our own lives,
\nsmall gods of infinite dominion, learning, living, loving,
\nreaching our vast hands out to adjust the stars:
\nthey are too bright,
\nthere are too many of them,
\nthey are too close,
\nthe arrogant stars,
\nthe selfish stars;
\nyou can hear them almost singing
\nwhen you close
\nyour eyes.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

CHRIS\u00a0GUDGEON<\/strong>\u00a0is an author, poet and screenwriter. He has written eighteen\u00a0books, from critically acclaimed fiction including\u00a0Greetings from the Vodka Sea <\/em><\/a>and Song of Kosovo<\/em><\/a>, to celebrated biographies of Milton Acorn and Stan Rogers, to a range of popular history on subjects as varied as sex, fishing and lotteries. His latest book, Assdeep in Wonder<\/em><\/a>,\u00a0is a collection of poems about love, sex and dynamite. Gudgeon, who is bisexual, has been in an open relationship with musician\/self-help guru Jasper Vander Voorde since 2009. They divide their time between the wilds of British Columbia and Los Angeles.<\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I am living vicariously through my own lives, all of them, all at once, learning, living, loving, projecting myself and being projected, broadcasting for the End of Times, setting things in motion, putting myself out there via super-high frequency radio… Continue Reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[6,9],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/sewerlid.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/245"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/sewerlid.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/sewerlid.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sewerlid.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sewerlid.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=245"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/sewerlid.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/245\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":311,"href":"https:\/\/sewerlid.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/245\/revisions\/311"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/sewerlid.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=245"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sewerlid.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=245"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sewerlid.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=245"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}