THE GREAT ANNIHILATOR, or, FRANCIS BACON’S MOUTH
星辰背后的黑暗，被远方的距离所掩盖，达到了一种难以穿透的浓密漆黑。光、思绪，乃至一切可能性，都被无助地吸入了死寂深渊的吸入口。深渊之内，正是宇宙对立面的中心。未来与过去，前后颠倒，化为乌有。历史倒转，在它开始之前就被扼杀。寂静被彻底毁灭。
大地漂浮在一片黑色的血海之中，如同无形之神手中捧着的余烬般闪闪发光。他腐烂的气息散布着毒气云雾，将各大洲笼罩在一种甜腻的空气之中。成群结队的爬行类捕食鸟类焦躁不安地迁徙穿越半球，目光呆滞地搜寻着猎物，在红色的土地上投下阴影，如同来自隐匿于苍穹背后的神祇的神秘信号。地底之下，液态火焰翻滚着，如同埋藏的仇恨之波。一声无意识的嚎叫回荡在暗无光亮的地下峡谷中，如同持续不断的无知与野蛮痛苦的音符。
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城市钢铁玻璃大厦倒映着过往车辆的灯光，锯齿状的地平线后，月光染红了云朵。一栋废弃建筑地下室发霉的水泥地面裂缝中，蒸汽升腾。一个街区之外，在一家时尚酒店里，工作人员都是演员和模特，你房间浴室的水槽是一个抛光的不锈钢漏斗。你被绑在马桶边的角落里，赤身裸体，遍体鳞伤，闪亮的白色瓷砖坚硬地摩擦着你裸露的膝盖，让你感到疼痛。你看着椭圆形镜子里的自己，等待着凶手进来，先用钳子剥掉你的皮肤，然后拔掉你的牙齿，最后操你温热血淋淋的嘴。你在色情杂志上登了一则广告，上面写着“魅力十足的职业选手寻求一位专家施虐者惩罚其傲慢”，而眼前的后果将是灾难性的。你现在确信自己必死无疑，而且结果不可逆转，也超出了你的掌控。你复杂的快感和欲望心理与你病态的自我价值感密不可分。除非你的神经同时被它的反面所浸透，否则你不可能获得狂喜。由于你沉迷于狂喜，将其作为抹去自我身份及其伴随的自我厌恶的唯一有效手段，你也沉迷于痛苦以及你为了将其转化为快感而构建的繁琐仪式。当凶手的影子透过镜子里的水晶反射，滑过淡紫色的卧室墙壁向你靠近时，一股温暖的充实感在你的双腿之间涌动。尽管恐惧，你却感受到了一种从未梦想过的完整感。
（1993）
原文
Hidden by distance, the darkness behind the stars reached an impenetrable black density. Light, thought, and possibility were sucked helplessly into the inhaling mouth of the dead hole. Inside the hole was the center of the heart of the opposite of space. The future and the past were nullified, backwards and forwards. History rewound, snubbed out before it began. Silence was exterminated.
The earth floated in a sea of black blood, glowing like an ember cupped in the hands of an invisible god. His corrupt breath spread clouds of poison gas, cloaking the continents in a sweet tasting atmosphere. Agitated hoards of reptilian predator birds migrated through the hemispheres in a stone-eyed search for prey, casting shadows on the red dirt like cryptic signals flashed down from the veiled deities that lived behind the sky. Beneath the ground, liquid fire rolled in waves of buried hatred. A mindless howl echoed through the lightless subterranean canyons in a single sustained note of ignorant and savage pain.
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The steel and glass towers of the city reflect the lights of passing cars, and behind the jagged horizon, the moon stains the clouds red. Steam rises from a crack in the mildewed concrete floor in the basement of an abandoned building. A block away, in a fashionable hotel where the staff are actors and models and the sink in the bathroom in your room is a polished stainless steel funnel, you crouch tied in the corner by the toilet, naked and bruised, the shining white tiles hard and painful against your bare knees, watching yourself in the oval mirror, waiting for the murderer to come in and first pull chunks of your skin away with pliers, then to remove your teeth, then to fuck your warm bloody mouth. You had placed an ad in a porn magazine reading “Attractive Professional Seeks Punishment For Arrogance From An Expert Torturer” with the present disastrous consequences. You’re now certain you’re going to die, and the outcome is irreversible and beyond your control. Your complicated psychology of pleasure and desire is inextricably interwoven with your diseased sense of self-worth. Ecstasy is impossible for you unless your nerves are simultaneously saturated with its opposite. Since you’re addicted to ecstasy as the only effective means of erasing your identity and its attendant self-loathing, you’re also addicted to pain and the elaborate rituals you construct in order to transform it into pleasure. When the shadow of the murderer moves toward you, seen sliding across the mauve bedroom wall through the crystal reflection in the mirror, a warm fullness gathers between your legs. Though terrified, you feel a sense of completeness you never dreamed possible.
(1993)