Johannes Göransson

some excerpts from the novel Haute Surveillance

My wife has been using my own sperm to keep my body from spazzing out. When I feel like I’m about to spazz out she ties me down to a bed and rubs the sperm out of my penis and then rubs it on my breastcage, where it can quickly reach the heart. Then she dabs my eyelids and the inside of my thighs. Then she places a raw flower on my belly until the attack passes.

The message I received from the Abortionists today began: “You have become theory’s effigy, you have become an inmate to your own mythologies, you are housed in your naive assertions about the birth of the clinic.” It went on from there. It was one of the most refined notes they have sent me and it came inside a condom. The spermicide caused my fingers to go slightly numb. Further, they want me to be part of a pervy new play about death. I would play the mascot. A fundamental pleasure. I would move in the arms of a wilding holding up headlights. I agreed. I was made for this role.


The victim is not like the body my nurse held like a beautiful but dying horse. He was more like a copy. He is more like genitals. He smells like spermicide and strawberry.

I have sun stroke.

I wear a gas mask for the finale.

The finale: My father’s mansion has many exit wounds.

Our Lady of the Strangest Victim: Nothing was fake.

The sun is especially venereal for the display case.

If the first half of this tale is a notebook on the Sensation, then this is the result, the Fiction about Foreign Bodies as Scorpions.

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