James. A Vignette.
A work, by Morbid Luvxxx.
Preface
Crafted and scripted as a loose-running narrative free of artistic pretension or form, this work of avant literature attempts to assimilate the attitudes of such visionary artistionaires as Misters John Cage, Antonin Artaud, and other artists strictly unbound by commercial binding. I seek to portray the darkness of existence, for life is not all fun and games. I am only 13 years old, incredibly gifted in a smorgasbord of matters and quite find much of the work available on the website to be compromised, unintelligent and appealing to the absolute lowest common denominator. Piffling, childish nonsense masquerading as art. I, however, am here presenting a work that will, from this day forward, become widely known as a landmark in the history of contemporary fan literature, expounding on the ideas prevalent in the heartrendering TV show "Rugrats" and its beautiful so-called spin off, "All Grown Up".
A horrifying glimpse into the deepest reaches of inhumane perversion, "James. A Vignette" spares no time in self indulgence, instead viciously bludgeoning reader's mental voids with disgustingly confessional, truth-filled imagery, bleak and gritty in nature. It does this by eschewing convention and instead aiming for true verbal textures that directly hook into the reader and tear his or her soul apart. He/she will feel alienated, confused, penetrated, yet also liberated. They may cry, scream, rape or murder for the first time in their life, lest they leave their forbidden instincts forgotten for a billisecond longer. Life? laughs.
A game, is all. Just a game of dominance. Rape. Enjoy.
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She doesn't know what it's like.
To be me.
In this torrent of confusion and pain.
The world grows and subsides with each passing breath, slowly capsizing into an ominous void of cataclimatic self pity and wonderous magnitude. I slowly wipe my dry face, trying to clear away the pain and sadness coming from my upper lip.
It represents torment.
I, Billy Pickles, have a mission to accomplish. One of fun but also of menace. Being second cousin to the famous Dil Pickles I can only hope but to growl as loud as possible from beneath his shadow until somehow hears me, lifts the shadow and moves it somewhere out of the way. Then they'll see me growling and ask me why I'm growling, because I'm not a tiger or a bear or a wildebeast.
I will tell them that I am alive.
Kicking, and alive.
My heart beats and pummels with ritualistic brutality, calling to mind the rich bloody destructive rituals of Anton Lavey and the lack of hair of same, even though this hair is in relation to the top of my head and not my soul.
Life, how sweet it must be for the mummers.
How pretty is my face. I am not a girl, however, and need to strive in wholly greater and more masculine states of great wonderous minds. My forehead is a beacon of promise and glistens with beads of inspiration masquerading as perspiration.
Inperspiration. I like it.
Great times to be had. Angelica is on that settee. Being Angelica. All she can be is herself. What brimming heart! What happy turd. Growing finances are no matter to her soul of foot, mind and taste. One would reckon it so.
How the heart is brewing the alcohols of fun. My barley, is my barley. Hello Angelica.
She kisses me.
She is my aunty.
Mmm.
In come the police.
I am 3 years old.
Squelch.
Van holds meat.
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The words above are for your conjecture. Who is James? Up to you.
Morbid Luvxxx