You see, down here, everyone becomes a pillar of salt, eventually. I am simply idling at a perversity that need not be sexual. I like to cower, but I like to cower in the profundity of political infraction and a safety of self.
By Brad Feuerhelm, ASX, February 2015
This is a new gutter from which I kneel to speak with you. I turn my body east and orient its position towards a geo-specific point of spirituality from which my own culture and upbringing shares nothing. I sit idly from this terrain picking up bits of sovereign matter, bits of fallout from the maelstrom of a psycho-political and over-consumptive practice in an age of never-ending war. You see, down here everyone becomes a pillar of salt, eventually. I am simply idling at a perversity that need not be sexual. I like to cower, but I like to cower in the profundity of political infraction and a safety of self. I wear a Burqa, but I am clearly an English man. A man surrounded by English things in a small English flat with a small English dick. I have the world at my fingertips and I have decided to employ a fashion at the core of my perversity, which does cast insult to the invaders of my little island.
This book and its protagonist should be filed under propaganda and regression.
Here I manufacture a diversion of intent for those who follow my feed. And here I feed them offal and hate. Everyone these days is caught up in a genital panic, a subsumable discourse of what their own desires are and what the desires of the other, ideally unseen before, can share with them. Because nothing is ever fucking enough is it? In dire need of pushing the boundaries of my fabricated perversion, I have accrued substantial interest in my fabricated behavior. I am at the heart of this, very lonely. I am also a coward preying upon the fears of a public led astray by the unattractive notion that what I peddle has any sort of sincerity. It simply bears consistency. I create this filth with regularity and I am conscious of its effect. The feeblest of minds will meet me here on this operating table of culture, gender, and political discourse and we will cower together under Freudian concepts of irrational obsessions and sexual need in lieu of a political dialogue. They will come to the gutter and worship the insincere matter I pander under the guise of a fetish I secretly abhor in favor of simply attracting the attention that I need in my life by consummately flaying the black sheep of the world alive. This is in fact Islamophobia taken a step further. Somewhere between Julius Streicher and Hugo Boss, you will find a seat reserved for me at a dinner in hell.
This book and its protagonist should be filed under propaganda and regression. That is not to say it should not exist.
(All rights reserved. Text @ Brad Feuerhelm. Images @ Here Press.)