Damon Bonari

Damon Bonari is a fictional writer. He currently researches about chaotic imagination from Lovecraft and Ligotti to Hedayat and Farokhzad. His literary experimentation includes topics such as mysticism, occultism, demonology, sci-fi and supernatural horror. During the day he works as a process engineer in the energy section and at nights as a writer working on his novel.

Diabolical Prosetry

A dark flux of thick gloppy fluid floated down the walls and devoured the furniture of the long abandoned house like a hideous python sending its prey down into the depths of the abyss. Although its progress was silent, the other objects in the room made a fuss out of it by dropping and breaking apart as if they had some will of their own to reject the compelling doom being imposed upon them, as if they mimicked their previous owners, who had also made a big deal out of it. They refused to let go for quite long even though they knew somehow there was no escaping it. The dark flux of thick gloppy fluid folded layer after layer of shadiness all over the room, binding the roof to the floor and weaving different objects to one another in a spectacular foreign assimilation. Drops of mercury then started raining outside, staining the window glass, first in incoherent shapes, but slowly magnifying one another--as slow as the formation of the dark flux of thick gloppy fluid--and turning the windows into reflecting mirrors. On each side was a window, a mirror in which the dark flux of thick gloppy fluid would be demonstrated immediately darker and gloppier to the power of infinity.

There was a rumor going on in the city that a lot of houses met the same contagious destiny. That their inhabitants were being replaced, and no beam of light goes out or gets in. Maybe that explained the bleak sight of up-hills in the night time, where the houses form a blister-shape black cluster of siege from which the borders of our city are now defined, lying boldly close to the moon, denying its authenticity and depriving it of its lunar authority. The very moon to whom our cult had pledged its abidance, our night-sun of deliverance. I noticed that the colors lost slowly their solar radiance, as if a fluorescent silhouette glow had replaced the whole spectrum of light. Furthermore strange unknown shadowy shapes started appearing in public places, where our children would have roamed freely, where we practiced our daily prayers, imposing their uncanny presence on us all. That, notwithstanding, the invasion of the dark flux of thick gloppy fluid had defused way beyond my comprehension since the odious noise of its creep plagued every minute of my reality, occupying every space of the city without being present there at all. So it was time to take action, to restore the stolen order of our nocturnal prayers, to eradicate the infected houses of the dark flux of thick gloppy fluid and uproot this ominous monstrosity once and for all. So I put the mask of the high priestess on, grabbed the hatchet from the backyard and embarked upon the mission of cleansing.

How could one bypass the multi-dimensional simulacra of so called “reality” with all its meta narratives and entrapping tentacles? To what end should one set such goals upon herself? How could one ever rise above the myth of “self” in the sense of “the given”? How could one ever come to terms that “All is illusion, thus all is permitted”? How could one suspend her “self” and the prison of “here and now”? Don’t we find our “selves” over and over on the barren battlefield of possibilities we call Nature? Insofar, isn’t the whole cosmos a foreign objekt, distorted beneath our “given” suppositions? So isn’t the great “outside” right behind that “self” we so anxiously clench to?

Mastery of the art of illusion might be a possible approach. Against the demolishing tempest of time one burns the whole temporal experience down, and for sure herself buried deep underneath the ruins. My literary experimentation is nothing but a series of practices with regards to suspension of self and reality. To craft the artifact of madness through disciplinary delirium. And to do so I have found no better medium than the most horrific one, words. My ongoing experimentation, “Diabolic Prosetry” entails a series of prose, which revolve around the theme of annihilation of the horrific experience of time, to accelerate the ex-ploding force of extraction of the inside into the outside, even further to the point where the very distinction between interiority and exteriority vaporizes amid the exothermic situation of catastrophe. My proses lose their narrative in every corner, fall into the abysmal traps of foreign objekts and lead to derangement of the psyche (“self”?) in an apocalyptic ambient of defeating silent soundscapes, which de-legitimize the spectacular solar tyranny, and perform under sectarian/occult conditions of re-ciphering. In that sense, this collection is not about un-deterritorialization of the objects to the objekts (a de-infusive process), but to proliferate the ongoing nomadic fatality (destiny in Nietzscheian sense) under which the very distinction of object (the real) and objekt (the phantom) is overthrown (an annihilative process).

The hazy and incoherent atmosphere in which my stories take place provides an opportunity susceptible for sound recording. Since the very material from which the stories consist are nothing but low pitch noises of some unknown creature swimming in the depths of a shallow toxic swamp, a demonic killer gnawing at the bones of her victims, or the gust of wind on the desert of another planet.... That notwithstanding, silence is a repetitive protagonist in all my stories, thus the hunting of silence shall be set upon as the whole objective of this experimentation. For that matter, five stories will be selected to be recomposed as sound-play. The format in which these sound-plays will be presented in an exhibition is yet to be decided.  

SOUNDSAMPLES

Fragments

The dweller

A landscape covered with dead grass, colorless and desiccated, albeit dancing to the ceremony of worshiping the ruling nocturnal gaze of the dark moon, which hangs dangerously close to them, sucking every pulse of life out of them, only letting them dance in their delirious somnolence, indulging her silhouette illumination which ornaments their wicked ritual. The rugged surface of the dark moon dictates the ever changing patterns of wind through which the dead meadow fulfills her ominous prayer which lurks through the pores of the houses, lying dead at the borders of the wasteland. Shadow and mist, moonshine and stench maneuver the landscape at every corner, castrating all sensation. Shattered glass, furniture broken into pieces and other unrecognizable debris decorate the scenery here and there, each carefully posited to convey the sense of abandonment at its most horrible degree. Black moss covers the floor bedding the vegetation that which stitch all those scattered objects together, creating a chain of decadence, covering one end of sight to the other.

 

The hunter

“I have to reach the center of pyramids. There that gaping hole of civilization has housed thousands of survivors deep in its belly. That last hidden hole in earth, that gigantic round-shape vacant space. Deep enough to be safe to outlive the harsh environment of the surface, to attract a colony of survivors, like fungus spreading in the dark tight cracks of a ruin, vital but trivial to its totality.” He contemplated his plan and the amount of security risks he would bring upon those poor souls, since he had an army of the dead after him. Nevertheless his own survival instinct drove him further. He was finally there, at the center. He could feel the touch of air on his skin, which as a light breeze blew into an enormous valley, so deep that its magnetic attraction was inviting outside to enter it, to join it.

 

The beekeeper

There was a vast field of sunflowers ahead of us, down the skeptically curving roads leading down into the valley. After weeks of surveying the uncharted territories of this wasteland, the eyes play wicked games upon the mind. As we got tiresomely closer, the growing height of the sunflowers distorted the very scarce residual of our terrestrial common sense, our understandable apprehension of here and now. Our eyes Unwillingly followed these uncountable, gigantic vessels, each as thick as an oak tree, scratching the sky up high to perform their sun-worshiping. But which sun do they worship: the helium-base (like ours) or the other peculiar one, whith the visible fluorescent radiations hallowing around it. (These fucking mask filters, they must be exhausted. Strangely my wrist indicator shows no alarm!). Silenced in awe, mesmerized by the absurdity of the sight in front of us, intoxicated from the NOx saturated air of this damned planet, my first lieutenant points up at the flowers, as if a puppet master had drawn the string attached to his arm just to give us a hint. The wind played this unholy harmony in my ears again, the stink of sulfuric acid filling my head tank-; my senses are burned into each other since we landed here. I followed his gesture. There it saw the amputated parts decorating the sunflowers like Christmas trees, but not hanging from the branches, somehow glued to them, as if they had been grown out of the flowers. “Welcome strangers. The suns-set is due now. No human shall be outside the sunflower-shelter.” He stood under the shadows of the last flower, without mask or suit, beckoning at us with a warm smile. “Have no fear, we are only beekeepers, unarmed and peaceful.” He said as he turned around to show us his backside. “Troops proceed, but stay sharp.” I commanded.

 

Master of puppets

I had always suffered under the claustrophobic tension of merely existing, being trapped between threads of eternity on the carpet loom of disintegration, each thread a primordial constraining whispering attaching both ends of eternity to each other with me hanging in between like a trivial mass, being pinned through over and over by the blood dripping needle of destiny, sewing my face to the mortifying texture of decadence carpet. In this sense, eternity with all of its deities such as time, death, and even me, is a carpet of monstrosity covering the void of emptiness behind it. My story is nothing more than an attempt to draw the plot of my penetration through this carpet, for I am now beyond redemption, lost in depths of the abyss.

© 2019 Foreign Objekt