Bill Drennan

an open letter to the sewer

i simply cannot find it anywhere in my evil rogue heart to bottle this message. i do not know the best way out of this hideous maze. maybe i will let this one drift. after all, moving & thinking in a straight line never did anyone’s guts any good. now, to the point of this floating missive: if it is true that you have become the openly acknowledged victim of evil, the world will surely be on your side & its latent pacifism might just explode in your favour. the question is: will it do so in the fa(es)ces (forgive the cheap gag) of those few who constipate the potential for nourishment? but even pacifism is not lasting & that which rots must eventually collapse into the geriatric decay of its own toothless digestive tract. maybe those who are evil will die of having black holes for anuses—& those vile & ugly old cons of Empire will be sucked into a large hadron collider of their own design. for it appears that there is enough rot to pick away at, & to expose, those deadly, blood-sucking ulcerations. when it appears that there are no stars to guide the night’s passage, remember that the scenery is engineered by well-qualified imbeciles who exchange ‘superior’ gusts of wind—the very same gang of thugs who would guide those apocalypse missiles too soon—were we to allow their lies to go undigested. indeed, they are worse than the crackheads who peruse our alleyways, rolling in already downtrodden shite. i, personally, would prefer to be shat out of evil rather than shat out with it. maybe i am giving off a scent of cowardice here, but i think that the rotten turds will do more damage when the body politic itself is stuffed to a state of total constipation before it explodes in a fit of dull-spattered glory. in other words, when the Empire finally snuffs itself out, i will not be going out with it—for i have never been with it, & could never be on the side of pestilence. which no doubt makes me as much a coward as the Empire itself—with its controlling symphony of farts airing the unrationed shadows of dollars & munitions programmes, the back-engineered wind of ‘protective’ armies & programmes of biocratic offense & greed. but i suppose being choked up with barbed-wire hairballs is not what you need at this moment. i too would soon regret permitting my so-called allies to go anywhere near my own private air corridor space. & what vile, cretinizing rumours they must discharge with all those undiluted depressants & negatively charged over-reactions. ach! if we are dealing with a race of superbastards who would spill the slaughtered meat of innocents into uncharted territories, i must surely resign from my post as scatoscopist to dead presidents.


access to the past lies, reveals & sinks information in a pool of code. back to the glans-flies & oil-mites, the war against viper guerillas & tree rat-droppings. back to bugs in every crack of any given fabric. those bugs affect everything. like someone else’s disease. even the dullest mind has the capacity to fantasize ailments of any order. if it is true that fantasy is only fantasy, it is also clear that fantasy exposes nothing that is not already understood. even the dumb gullible factualist must apprehend this ‘fact’. there are trails of enigma waiting quietly in a non-space between the provable & the unprovable, the abstract & the immediate. & although they exist, i refuse to prove anything. for there is nothing to prove. save the possibility that good old decent suffering will not return

Bill Drennan's writing has appeared in small-press publications, both on-line & on paper, since the mid 90s. Author of flightpath resistor (Spring, 2007) & the soon-to-be-published conspiracy machine. Further examples of his work can be found on his blog, Hypoetics.

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