Brian Eckert

glahn hiss, it move through grass, very creepy into the rivulet he comes slithering but you do not see into the rivulet as he slithers up the bank bare limb all of the power of night to get him there to hang over and black skin nude in the sun, its light powering over him like cum that illuminates the morning.

What is cum?

The rays of the sun. Unlike the cum of the sun, the human cum (which is the same soul) has become defiled and lost its potency due to exposure. This positive potion is holy in the darkness of mystery. Looking at it is a slight to your soul.

Before writing White Dwarf, you worked at a factory. Is this story an allegory of the American worker?

No. I do not care about the American worker. Working at a factory is a degradation to the soul as well. You put your head down, do what you’re told, and if you do a good job your benefits will still continue to fade. Hopefully the stock market is good when you retire.

White Dwarf is a Looney Tunes cartoon. Milky is the milk in the tits of one of those girls that records her grandpa near to death saying something considered evil when it was perfectly fine in his time.

You should never think “who am I?” You should look at cloud. Maybe you walk some. Maybe you eat a corndog at the fair while looking at a white hog.

DH Lawrence once said that man created the universe, and not the other way around. What mean?

I don’t know, really. Maybe he means it was an unexperienced bunch of objects twirling through the ether until man’s eyes connected to his consciousness and ability to reflect. Just darkness without regard. Think of a world without eyes. What is it? The shrimp’s universe is the ocean. The virus’s universe is the body it inhabits. The primordial man’s universe didn’t know what all those blips were up in the sky at night. Probably thought the moon was some giant ghost head or something. In other words, the universe of Man has been extended into something else’s universe, far past what it was meant to experience, into an unfinished and useless place not designed for anything. It is a scrapyard.

Irony is a way of hedging one’s self-identity in order to maintain a protean personal brand. Agree or disagree? 

Irony is the evidence of the uselessness of an identity. I don’t think about identity but a lot of people now think about it alone which will always breed smart alecks that will bust their mentally created ideal of themselves. You should never think “who am I?” You should look at cloud. Maybe you walk some. Maybe you eat a corndog at the fair while looking at a white hog with a diagram painted onto it where the ham, bacon, loin, etc. comes from.

Lots of people go missing in the woods. Just what in the fuck?

Might be Nephilim. Might be demons. Possibly an unknown plant that pops from the ground at random and drags them down into hades. Could be some hell portal. It could be the Predator. Whatever it is I feel it in the woods watching me as I dilly dally and is considering making the worst mistake of its life.

An associate of mine had a gf who would aim ass to ass with her boyfriend – like perfectly ass to ass – hole to hole – and one would try to expel their turd into the other.

You can identify the striver; the upwardly mobile; the ambitious; because they actively work to denigrate standards in order to remove obstacles to their success. Has art been taken over by people who, a decade ago, would have been inventing shit to sell on late night infomercials? Is Alt Lit simply the Egg Wave for a semi-illiterate generation?

Art does not exist anymore. It is finished. Over. I am glad it is dead. Now is time for holy amateurs to create works for their grandkids and dead grandparents. The “literary audience” certainly does not deserve anything of value. They are worse than swine eating the neighbor’s ass. This audience should be punished psychically if you want to strive. Give them the worst you’ve got. Type out shit and piss and cum in every language. That is their deserved meal. They don’t even deserve De Sade. They deserve hell on earth. It is just as it should be.

What are the best and worst things about Lit right now?

I don’t know. That is the problem. I’m guessing there are some good things out there that cannot reach the light of day and is waiting for the readers 13 or 14 generations from now to appreciate. There will be a collapse and return to reading far into the future. We are not able.

Like every other dipshit, you’re writing a book. Does this make you ashamed?

I am ashamed that I will publish it and not just finish it, read it, and throw it in the attic (it is not worth the splendor of burning). Who knows, maybe I am still an optimist.

Really I am an optimist. I believe in the optimal. I believe in Robin Hood and his Merry Men.

Why is it that vice has become virtue? Mental illness is celebrated as individuality. Pain, even self-inflicted, is seen as heroic. The most wretched among us are elevated to cultural arbiters.  Is this simply the meek inheriting the earth? Or is something else going on?

An associate of mine (female) had a gf who would aim ass to ass with her boyfriend – like perfectly ass to ass – hole to hole – and one would try to expel their turd into the other. I try not to think about that but it comes to mind all the time. This is the same with “culture”. As the tech antichrist rises the cultural and artist aspects will degrade along with society.

This should not be dwelt on because none of us have the will to overcome it. Sometimes the back is turned on us and the creature walks away, abandoning us.

The Unabomber weirdo had it all backwards. You should welcome tech. If you do not your kids or their kids or those beyond will have to deal with it eventually. You tear it down the natural impetus will be to grow like a tree. I just assume to get it over with. You have to think what nature’s “final goal” is. Why does it wish to reproduce? For what means? Throwing out all those seeds. Is it trying to create perfection? I doubt that. It wants to create a machine that appears to be a man.

To cum simply by looking at cloud is a revolutionary act.

Your nephew recently bashed your head with a rock. Tell me about that.

I took little shit down to the creek to throw rocks. If it were up to him he’d stay down there throwing rocks until he collapsed. It is a pain in the ass to get him away. It is like throwing a stick for a lab. They do not know how to quit.

I found a fossilized coral horn that was the color of a peach. I handed it to him to look at. He took it and threw it as fast as it got into his hand. After every few throws he says “YAY!!” while clapping his hands like a monkey. He points at the creek and says, “Watey Watey.” If I mention water at any time he runs to the door saying “Watey” expecting to go throw rocks in the creek. The apocalypse could be happening and his response to that word would be the same.

We were down on the bank where all those rocks are and I saw this nice skipper. I was trying to pry it up and I felt this heavy object bounce off the side of my head. Now, this little shit is like an ant. He can pick up extremely heavy things already. This rock that bounced off my head would be a sure killer in the hand of an adult. I was surprised by it. I just looked back at him. He said, “YAY” while clapping his fat little hands like a monkey.

Is staring at cloud a revolutionary act against a fallen world? A type of self-abnegation rooted in God’s creation?

I wrote this in a story:

“I lit a cigarette, blew the smoke, and then took a breath, looking around for  table that was unduly neglected by that breed below me while bracing myself on the walking stick. What was it that they would see and make fun of? I saw a concrete cat, a stained glass window, a golden flower in a pot. No, none of those. Those could be photographed and celebrated easily as ART. There but forgotten is what I wanted. A thing. Some thing that would evoke sarcasm in these modern bastards.

And, there it was. Not a minute passed before I found what I wanted high above a two-story rectangular deserted building. Crowning that evicted building—a cloud.

I dropped the stick.

I blinked to wet my eye and stared at it as I sometimes stare at a woman. I walked over and captured her stare, the cloud’s stare. I was innocent as a lamb but the dog was behind that trembling, virginal mind trumped by that old juice. I realized then that I was beyond will and held captive by an ancient spunk that made me want to roll in the rotted stink of women—past their skeletons, past the spark, below the fire. The cigarette dropped from my mouth, my leg shivered, and I howled and came.”

So, yes, you are right. To cum simply by looking at cloud is a revolutionary act.

glahn pauses, black body gleaming in parted cloud light, the cum of ages coursing in a veinless body, an odor of things dead and yet living, breathing, the bioluminescence of god’s children, pitted sin vipers, glutted weavers and grievers and believers mourning the birth of a new CUM that will enjoin us in a pied-piper wisp of forgotten smoke.