Es tu piel quien llama a la puerta,
y mis ojos quien la siguen,
puesto que tuyo mi cuerpo es,
y mio el tuyo,
no poseemos alma ya que hace tiempo nos la han quitado
y ni nos importa.
Ambos tirados estamos
y nuestros cuerpos rechinan de pasion y ganas.
La cama húmeda está
y nuestra sed insesante, quejosa y alarmante.
Renacemos y luego morimos, esto es lo que hacemos,
el amor, para el amor.
Y la paz para la guerra.
Tus manos van y vienen, como si de movimientos en todo se basaran,
o como si mi cuerpo desapareciera, vos lo detenes.
domingo, 1 de febrero de 2009
what you are after
There were many things life could understand,
but my friends and family they couldn't.
Because it didn't matter,
they could never feel how i feel.
What he made me feel, loose and remember forever and ever,
he's garbage, they all say.
He is a sick man who doesn't give a crap about anything but himself, i think.
And so it was. And so it is.
I am damaged, broken and twisted inside
like a slipknot swimming in an empty lake.
You can fear nothing, the old man in my dreams says.
Fear will eat you up inside like your father did the day before,
they will hunt you down till your hope breaks down.
But you'll know when the time gets right,
when your house stops breathing, and the warm of the tears become fire,
you will know that there is no devil you cannot defeat.
This is the bussines, this is what you are after.
but my friends and family they couldn't.
Because it didn't matter,
they could never feel how i feel.
What he made me feel, loose and remember forever and ever,
he's garbage, they all say.
He is a sick man who doesn't give a crap about anything but himself, i think.
And so it was. And so it is.
I am damaged, broken and twisted inside
like a slipknot swimming in an empty lake.
You can fear nothing, the old man in my dreams says.
Fear will eat you up inside like your father did the day before,
they will hunt you down till your hope breaks down.
But you'll know when the time gets right,
when your house stops breathing, and the warm of the tears become fire,
you will know that there is no devil you cannot defeat.
This is the bussines, this is what you are after.
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baby, please don't go
why dont you CARRY ME HOME
you know Johnny he always wore black
HIT HIT HIT the road Jackie !
Joan Jett -
so cute
lets get married
Soul Stripper
AC DC
Love me two times
bon Scott
Jolene
The Doors - The endThe Doors - The end
one bourbon, one scotch one beer
Tripas, de la novela 'Fantasmas' de Chuck Palahniuk
Tomen aire.
Tomen tanto aire como puedan. Esta historia debería durar el tiempo que logren retener el aliento, y después un poco más. Así que escuchen tan rápido como les sea posible.
Cuando tenía trece años, un amigo mío escuchó hablar del “pegging”. Esto es cuando a un tipo le meten un pito por el culo. Si se estimula la próstata lo suficientemente fuerte, el rumor dice que se logran explosivos orgasmos sin manos. A esa edad, este amigo es un pequeño maníaco sexual. Siempre está buscando una manera mejor de estar al palo. Se va a comprar una zanahoria y un poco de jalea para llevar a cabo una pequeña investigación personal. Después se imagina cómo se va a ver la situación en la caja del supermercado, la zanahoria solitaria y la jalea moviéndose sobre la cinta de goma. Todos los empleados en fila, observando. Todos viendo la gran noche que ha planeado.
Entonces mi amigo compra leche y huevos y azúcar y una zanahoria, todos los ingredientes para una tarta de zanahorias. Y vaselina.
Como si se fuera a casa a meterse una tarta de zanahorias por el culo.
En casa, talla la zanahoria hasta convertirla en una contundente herramienta. La unta con grasa y se la mete en el culo. Entonces, nada. Ningún orgasmo. Nada pasa, salvo que duele.
Entonces la madre del chico grita que es hora de la cena. Le dice que baje inmediatamente.
El se saca la zanahoria y entierra esa cosa resbaladiza y mugrienta entre la ropa sucia debajo de su cama.
Después de la cena va a buscar la zanahoria, pero ya no está allí. Mientras cenaba, su madre juntó toda la ropa sucia para lavarla. De ninguna manera podía encontrar la zanahoria, cuidadosamente tallada con un cuchillo de su cocina, todavía brillante de lubricante y apestosa.
Mi amigo espera meses bajo una nube oscura, esperando que sus padres lo confronten. Y nunca lo hacen. Nunca. Incluso ahora, que ha crecido, esa zanahoria invisible cuelga sobre cada cena de Navidad, cada fiesta de cumpleaños. Cada búsqueda de huevos de Pascua con sus hijos, los nietos de sus padres, esa zanahoria fantasma se cierne sobre ellos. Ese algo demasiado espantoso para ser nombrado.
Los franceses tienen una frase: “ingenio de escalera”. En francés, esprit de l’escalier. Se refiere a ese momento en que uno encuentra la respuesta, pero es demasiado tarde. Digamos que usted está en una fiesta y alguien lo insulta. Bajo presión, con todos mirando, usted dice algo tonto. Pero cuando se va de la fiesta, cuando baja la escalera, entonces, la magia. A usted se le ocurre la frase perfecta que debería haber dicho. La perfecta réplica humillante. Ese es el espíritu de la escalera.
El problema es que los franceses no tienen una definición para las cosas estúpidas que uno realmente dice cuando está bajo presión. Esas cosas estúpidas y desesperadas que uno en verdad piensa o hace.
Algunas bajezas no tienen nombre. De algunas bajezas ni siquiera se puede hablar.
Mirando atrás, muchos psiquiatras expertos en jóvenes y psicopedagogos ahora dicen que el último pico en la ola de suicidios adolescentes era de chicos que trataban de asfixiarse mientras se masturbaban. Sus padres los encontraban, una toalla alrededor del cuello, atada al ropero de la habitación, el chico muerto. Esperma por todas partes. Por supuesto, los padres limpiaban todo. Le ponían pantalones al chico. Hacían que se viera… mejor. Intencional, al menos. Un típico triste suicidio adolescente.
Otro amigo mío, un chico de la escuela con su hermano mayor en la Marina, contaba que los tipos en Medio Oriente se masturban distinto a como lo hacemos nosotros. Su hermano estaba estacionado en un país de camellos donde los mercados públicos venden lo que podrían ser elegantes cortapapeles. Cada herramienta es una delgada vara de plata lustrada o latón, quizá tan larga como una mano, con una gran punta, a veces una gran bola de metal o el tipo de mango refinado que se puede encontrar en una espada. Este hermano en la Marina decía que los árabes se ponen al palo y después se insertan esta vara de metal dentro de todo el largo de su erección. Y se masturban con la vara adentro, y eso hace que masturbarse sea mucho mejor. Más intenso.
Es el tipo de hermano mayor que viaja por el mundo y manda a casa dichos franceses, dichos rusos, útiles sugerencias para masturbarse. Después de esto, un día el hermano menor falta a la escuela. Esa noche llama para pedirme que le lleve los deberes de las próximas semanas. Porque está en el hospital.
Tiene que compartir la habitación con viejos que se atienden por sus tripas. Dice que todos tienen que compartir la misma televisión. Su única privacidad es una cortina. Sus padres no lo visitan. Por teléfono, dice que sus padres ahora mismo podrían matar al hermano mayor que está en la Marina.
También dice que el día anterior estaba un poco drogado. En casa, en su habitación, estaba tirado en la cama, con una vela encendida y hojeando revistas porno, preparado para masturbarse. Todo esto después de escuchar la historia del hermano en la Marina. Esa referencia útil acerca de cómo se masturban los árabes. El chico mira alrededor para encontrar algo que podría ayudarlo. Un bolígrafo es demasiado grande. Un lápiz, demasiado grande y duro. Pero cuando la punta de la vela gotea, se logra una delgada y suave arista de cera. La frota y la moldea entre las palmas de sus manos. Larga y suave y delgada.
Drogado y caliente, se la introduce dentro, más y más profundo en la uretra. Con un gran resto de cera todavía asomándose, se pone a trabajar.
Aun ahora, dice que los árabes son muy astutos. Que reinventaron por completo la masturbación. Acostado en la cama, la cosa se pone tan buena que el chico no puede controlar el camino de la cera. Está a punto de lograrlo cuando la cera ya no se asoma fuera de su erección.
La delgada vara de cera se ha quedado dentro. Por completo. Tan adentro que no puede sentir su presencia en la uretra.
Desde abajo, su madre grita que es hora de la cena. Dice que tiene que bajar de inmediato. El chico de la cera y el chico de la zanahoria son personas diferentes, pero tienen vidas muy parecidas.
Después de la cena, al chico le empiezan a doler las tripas. Es cera, así que se imagina que se derretirá adentro y la meará. Ahora le duele la espalda. Los riñones. No puede pararse derecho.
El chico está hablando por teléfono desde su cama de hospital, y de fondo se pueden escuchar campanadas y gente gritando. Programas de juegos en televisión.
Las radiografías muestran la verdad, algo largo y delgado, doblado dentro de su vejiga. Esta larga y delgada V dentro suyo está almacenando todos los minerales de su orina. Se está poniendo más grande y dura, cubierta con cristales de calcio, golpea y desgarra las suaves paredes de su vejiga, obturando la salida de su orina. Sus riñones están trabados. Lo poco que gotea de su pene está rojo de sangre.
El chico y sus padres, toda la familia mirando las radiografías con el médico y las enfermeras parados allí, la gran V de cera brillando para que todos la vean: tiene que decir la verdad. La forma en que se masturban los árabes. Lo que le escribió su hermano en la Marina. En el teléfono, ahora, se pone a llorar.
Pagaron la operación de vejiga con el dinero ahorrado para la universidad. Un error estúpido, y ahora jamás será abogado. Meterse cosas adentro. Meterse dentro de cosas. Una vela en la pija o la cabeza en una horca, sabíamos que serían problemas grandes.
A lo que me metió en problemas a mí lo llamo “Bucear por perlas”. Esto significaba masturbarse bajo el agua, sentado en el fondo de la profunda piscina de mis padres. Respiraba hondo, con una patada me iba al fondo y me deshacía de mis shorts. Me quedaba sentado en el fondo dos, tres, cuatro minutos.
Sólo por masturbarme tenía una gran capacidad pulmonar. Si hubiera tenido una casa para mí solo, lo habría hecho durante tardes enteras.
Cuando finalmente terminaba de bombear, el esperma colgaba sobre mí en grandes gordos globos lechosos.
Después había más buceo, para recolectarla y limpiar cada resto con una toalla. Por eso se llamaba “bucear por perlas”. Aun con el cloro, me preocupaba mi hermana. O, por Dios, mi madre.
Ese solía ser mi mayor miedo en el mundo: que mi hermana adolescente virgen pensara que estaba engordando y diera a luz a un bebé de dos cabezas retardado. Las dos cabezas me mirarían a mí. A mí, el padre y el tío. Pero al final, lo que te preocupa nunca es lo que te atrapa.
La mejor parte de bucear por perlas era el tubo para el filtro de la pileta y la bomba de circulación. La mejor parte era desnudarse y sentarse allí.
Como dicen los franceses, ¿a quién no le gusta que le chupen el culo? De todos modos, en un minuto se pasa de ser un chico masturbándose a un chico que nunca será abogado.
En un minuto estoy acomodado en el fondo de la piscina, y el cielo ondula, celeste, através de un metro y medio de agua sobre mi cabeza. El mundo está silencioso salvo por el latido del corazón en mis oídos. Los shorts amarillos están alrededor de mi cuello por seguridad, por si aparece un amigo, un vecino o cualquiera preguntando por qué falté al entrenamiento de fútbol. Siento la continua chupada del tubo de la pileta, y estoy meneando mi culo blanco y flaco sobre esa sensación. Tengo aire suficiente y la pija en la mano. Mis padres se fueron a trabajar y mi hermana tiene clase de ballet. Se supone que no habrá nadie en casa durante horas.
Mi mano me lleva casi al punto de acabar, y paro. Nado hacia la superficie para tomar aire. Vuelvo a bajar y me siento en el fondo. Hago esto una y otra vez.
Debe ser por esto que las chicas quieren sentarse sobre tu cara. La succión es como una descarga que nunca se detiene. Con la pija dura, mientras me chupan el culo, no necesito aire. El corazón late en los oídos, me quedo abajo hasta que brillantes estrellas de luz se deslizan alrededor de mis ojos. Mis piernas estiradas, la parte de atrás de las rodillas rozando fuerte el fondo de concreto. Los dedos de los pies se vuelven azules, los dedos de los pies y las manos arrugados por estar tanto tiempo en el agua.
Y después dejo que suceda. Los grandes globos blancos se sueltan. Las perlas. Entonces necesito aire. Pero cuando intento dar una patada para elevarme, no puedo. No puedo sacar los pies. Mi culo está atrapado.
Los paramédicos de emergencias dirán que cada año cerca de 150 personas se quedan atascadas de este modo, chupadas por la bomba de circulación. Queda atrapado el pelo largo, o el culo, y se ahoga. Cada año, cantidad de gente se ahoga. La mayoría en Florida.
Sólo que la gente no habla del tema. Ni siquiera los franceses hablan acerca de todo. Con una rodilla arriba y un pie debajo de mi cuerpo, logro medio incorporarme cuando siento el tirón en mi culo. Con el pie pateo el fondo. Me estoy liberando pero al no tocar el concreto tampoco llego al aire. Todavía pateando bajo el agua, revoleando los brazos, estoy a medio camino de la superficie pero no llego más arriba. Los latidos en mi cabeza son fuertes y rápidos.
Con chispas de luz brillante cruzando ante mis ojos me doy vuelta para mirar… pero no tiene sentido. Esta soga gruesa, una especie de serpiente azul blancuzca trenzada con venas, ha salido del desagüe y está agarrada a mi culo. Algunas de las venas gotean rojo, sangre roja que parece negra bajo el agua y se desprende de pequeños rasguños en la pálida piel de la serpiente. La sangre se disemina, desaparece en el agua, y bajo la piel delgada azul blancuzca de la serpiente se pueden ver restos de una comida a medio digerir.
Esa es la única forma en que tiene sentido. Algún horrible monstruo marino, una serpiente del mar, algo que nunca vio la luz del día, se ha estado escondido en el oscuro fondo del desagüe de la pileta, y quiere comerme.
Así que la pateo, pateo su piel resbalosa y gomosa y llena de venas, pero cada vez sale más del desagüe. Ahora quizá sea tan larga como mi pierna, pero aún me retiene el culo. Con otra patada estoy a unos dos centímetros de lograr tomar aire. Todavía sintiendo que la serpiente tira de mi culo, estoy a un centímetro de escapar.
Dentro de la serpiente se pueden ver granos de maíz y maníes. Se puede ver una brillante bola anaranjada. Es la vitamina para caballos que mi padre me hace tomar para que gane peso. Para que consiga una beca gracias al fútbol. Con hierro extra y ácidos grasos omega tres. Ver esa pastilla me salva la vida.
No es una serpiente. Es mi largo intestino, mi colon, arrancado de mi cuerpo. Lo que los doctores llaman prolapso. Mis tripas chupadas por el desagüe.
Los paramédicos dirán que una bomba de agua de piscina larga 360 litros de agua por minuto. Eso son unos 200 kilos de presión. El gran problema es que por dentro estamos interconectados. Nuestro culo es sólo la parte final de nuestra boca. Si me suelto, la bomba sigue trabajando, desenredando mis entrañas hasta llegar a mi boca. Imaginen cagar 200 kilos de mierda y podrán apreciar cómo eso puede destrozarte.
Lo que puedo decir es que las entrañas no sienten mucho dolor. No de la misma manera que duele la piel. Los doctores llaman materia fecal a lo que uno digiere. Más arriba es chyme, bolsones de una mugre delgada y corrediza decorada con maíz, maníes y arvejas.
Eso es la sopa de sangre y maíz, mierda y esperma y maníes que flota a mi alrededor. Aún con mis tripas saliendo del culo, conmigo sosteniendo lo que queda, aún entonces mi prioridad era volver a ponerme el short. Dios no permita que mis padres me vean la pija.
Una de mis manos está apretada en un puño alrededor de mi culo, la otra arranca el short amarillo del cuello. Pero ponérmelos es imposible.
Si quieren saber cómo se sienten los intestinos, compren uno de esos condones de piel de cabra. Saquen y desenrrollen uno. Llénenlo con mantequilla de maní, cúbranlo con lubricante y sosténganlo bajo el agua. Después traten de rasgarlo. Traten de abrirlo en dos. Es demasiado duro y gomoso. Es tan resbaladizo que no se puede sostener. Un condón de piel de cabra, eso es un intestino común.
Ven contra lo que estoy luchando.
Si me dejo ir por un segundo, me destripo.
Si nado hacia la superficie para buscar una bocanada de aire, me destripo.
Si no nado, me ahogo.
Es una decisión entre morir ya mismo o dentro de un minuto. Lo que mis padres encontrarán cuando vuelvan del trabajo es un gran feto desnudo, acurrucado sobre sí mismo. Flotando en el agua sucia de la piscina del patio. Sostenido por atrás por una gruesa cuerda de venas y tripas retorcidas. El opuesto de un adolescente que se ahorca cuando se masturba. Este es el bebé que trajeron del hospital trece años atrás. Este es el chico para el que deseaban una beca deportiva y un título universitario. El que los cuidaría cuando fueran viejos. Aquí está el que encarnaba todas sus esperanzas y sueños. Flotando, desnudo y muerto. Todo alrededor, grandes lechosas perlas de esperma desperdiciada.
Eso, o mis padres me encontrarán envuelto en una toalla ensangrentada, desmayado a medio camino entre la piscina y el teléfono de la cocina, mis desgarradas entrañas todavía colgando de la pierna de mis shorts amarillos. Algo de lo que ni los franceses hablarían.
Ese hermano mayor en la Marina nos enseñó otra buena frase. Rusa. Cuando nosotros decimos: “Necesito eso como necesito un agujero en la cabeza”, los rusos dicen: “Necesito eso como necesito un diente en el culo”. Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse. Esas historias sobre cómo los animales capturados por una trampa se mastican su propia pierna; cualquier coyote puede decir que un par de mordiscos son mucho mejores que morir.
Mierda… aunque seas ruso, algún día podrías querer esos dientes. De otra manera, lo que tenés que hacer es retorcerte, dar vueltas. Enganchar un codo detrás de la rodilla y tirar de esa pierna hasta la cara. Morder tu propio culo. Uno se queda sin aire y mordería cualquier cosa con tal de volver a respirar.
No es algo que te gustaría contarle a una chica en la primera cita. No si querés besarla antes de ir a dormir. Si les cuento qué gusto tenía, nunca nunca volverían a comer calamares.
Es difícil decir qué les disgustó más a mis padres: cómo me metí en el problema o cómo me salvé. Después del hospital, mi madre dijo: “No sabías lo que hacías, amor. Estabas en shock”. Y aprendió a cocinar huevos pasados por agua.
Toda esa gente asqueada o que me tiene lástima… la necesito como necesito dientes en el culo.
Hoy en día, la gente me dice que soy demasiado delgado. En las cenas, la gente se queda silenciosa o se enoja cuando no como la carne asada que prepararon. La carne asada me mata. El jamón cocido. Todo lo que se queda en mis entrañas durante más de un par de horas sale siendo todavía comida. Chauchas o atún en lata, me levanto y me los encuentro allí en el inodoro.
Después de sufrir una disección radical de los intestinos, la carne no se digiere muy bien. La mayoría de la gente tiene un metro y medio de intestino grueso. Yo tengo la suerte de conservar mis quince centímetros. Así que nunca obtuve una beca deportiva, ni un título. Mis dos amigos, el chico de la cera y el de la zanahoria, crecieron, se pusieron grandotes, pero yo nunca llegué a pesar un kilo más de lo que pesaba cuando tenía trece años. Otro gran problema es que mis padres pagaron un montón de dinero por esa piscina. Al final mi padre le dijo al tipo de la piscina que fue el perro. El perro de la familia se cayó al agua y se ahogó. El cuerpo muerto quedó atrapado en el desagüe. Aun cuando el tipo que vino a arreglar la piscina abrío el filtro y sacó un tubo gomoso, un aguachento resto de intestino con una gran píldora naranja de vitaminas aún dentro, mi padre sólo dijo: “Ese maldito perro estaba loco”. Desde la ventana de mi pieza en el primer piso podía escuchar a mi papá decir: “No se podía confiar un segundo en ese perro…”.
Después mi hermana tuvo un atraso en su período menstrual.
Aun cuando cambiaron el agua de la pileta, aun después de que vendieron la casa y nos mudamos a otro estado, aun después del aborto de mi hermana, ni siquiera entonces mis padres volvieron a mencionarlo.
Esa es nuestra zanahoria invisible.
Ustedes, tomen aire ahora.
Yo todavía no lo hice.
Guts from Chuck's novel 'Haunted'
Inhale.
Take in as much air as you can.
This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was thirteen years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkstand, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So, my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them.
That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "Spirit of the Stairway." In French: Esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party…
As you start down the stairway, then -- magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the Spirit of the Stairway.
The trouble is even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around the kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look… better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad, teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.
After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school. That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.
He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy.
On the phone, the kid says how -- the day before -- he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ball-point pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.
Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.
Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've totally re-invented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.
The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.
From downstairs, his mom shouts it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.
It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax so he figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight.
This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.
The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and more rough, coated with crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.
This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.
On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.
They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer.
Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.
What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four minutes.
Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.
After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my Mom.
That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father AND the uncle.
In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.
The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it.
As the French would say: Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked?
Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer.
One minute, I'm settling on the pool bottom, and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.
One minute, I've got enough air, and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be home for hours.
My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.
I do this again and again.
This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.
And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.
It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.
Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.
People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about EVERYTHING.
Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.
Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.
The bright sparks of light crossing and criss-crossing my eyes, I turn and look back… but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.
That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.
So… I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.
Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my Dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.
It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.
It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call, prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.
Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working - unraveling my insides -- until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit, and you can see how this might turn you inside out.
What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctor's call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.
That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out my ass, me holding onto what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on.
God forbid my folks see my dick.
My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.
You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lamb-skin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then, try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.
A lamb-skin condom, that's just plain old intestine.
You can see what I'm up against.
You let go for a second, and you're gutted.
You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.
You don't swim, and you drown.
It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.
What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital thirteen years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.
Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow-striped swim trunks.
What even the French won't talk about.
That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say: "I need that like I need a hole in my head…" Russian people say: "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole…"
Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse
Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.
Hell… even if you're Russian, some day you just might want those teeth.
Otherwise, what you have to do is -- you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air, and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.
It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night.
If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.
It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my Mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.
All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me…
I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.
Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.
After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was thirteen.
Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my Dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vitamin pill still inside, even then, my Dad just said, "That dog was fucking nuts."
Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my Dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second…"
Then my sister missed her period.
Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never mentioned it again.
Ever.
That is our invisible carrot.
You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.
I still have not.
E.E.Cummings
i carry your heart i carry your heart witi çççh me i carry it in my heart. i am never without it anywhere i go ou go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling i fear no fate for you are my fate,my sweet i want no world for beautiful you are my world,my true and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart i carry it in my heart |
i like my body when it is with your
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like,, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big Love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new
i have found what you are like
i have found what you are like
the rain,
(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields
easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike
the air in utterable coolness
deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned
newfragile yellows
lurch and.press
-in the woods
which
stutter
and
sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss
it is at moments after i have dreamed
it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed
with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds
the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;
moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:
one pierced moment whiter than the rest
-turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.
short stories
"There where good times and bad times, but in the beginning there were more good times. When i first met Candy: those were like de days of juice, when everything was bountiful. "
Luke Davies
heathcliff, desde el acantilado de salud, heathcliff.
Lo miro tan fijo como puedo. Y aunque el no pueda hacerlo, yo distingo tantos de sus movimientos que termino poseyendolos.
Sus mejillas se comprimen. Lo hacen muy fuerte, tanto que los huesos de su mandibula resaltan de entre su piel. Sus labios se relamen de vez en vez, calculando el tiempo y cómo éste lo reprime tan adentro.
Su mirada perdida me recuerda a la de aquel perro que nunca conoceré. Me recuerda a mi abuso, y las fuertes ganas que tuve y a veces tengo de morir.
Por sobre todas las cosas, nunca quise herir a nadie, y especialmente, nunca quise que me hieran.
El dolor no siempre es malo, yo pienso, me escucho. El dolor, a pesar de todas las cosas, es el motivo por el que tanto aprendo. Por el que tanto gestiono y manipulo.
Su muerte proclama de todo, menos jovialidad. Es un pesar tan grande, que de sólo pensar que pude conocerlo, las lágrimas brotan del árbol de mis ojos. Es como cuando uno transpira, no lo evita. Sólo ocurre.
Lo miro tan fijo como puedo. Y aunque el no pueda hacerlo, yo distingo tantos de sus movimientos que termino poseyendolos.
Sus mejillas se comprimen. Lo hacen muy fuerte, tanto que los huesos de su mandibula resaltan de entre su piel. Sus labios se relamen de vez en vez, calculando el tiempo y cómo éste lo reprime tan adentro.
Su mirada perdida me recuerda a la de aquel perro que nunca conoceré. Me recuerda a mi abuso, y las fuertes ganas que tuve y a veces tengo de morir.
Por sobre todas las cosas, nunca quise herir a nadie, y especialmente, nunca quise que me hieran.
El dolor no siempre es malo, yo pienso, me escucho. El dolor, a pesar de todas las cosas, es el motivo por el que tanto aprendo. Por el que tanto gestiono y manipulo.
Su muerte proclama de todo, menos jovialidad. Es un pesar tan grande, que de sólo pensar que pude conocerlo, las lágrimas brotan del árbol de mis ojos. Es como cuando uno transpira, no lo evita. Sólo ocurre.
El espesor de su reflejo me nublaba el camino de algunas corrientes eléctricas destinadas al corazón como punzadas incesantes. Interminables.
La diferencia entre lo que uno quiere tener, y lo que puede tener. La línea no es tan fina.
Lo cierto es que yo conjure el secreto que no debería permanecer, y sin embargo, aquellos detalles no se olvidan.
Como él duerme a mi lado, me dedico a observarle todas sus mañas, y sus movimientos no me aburren, porque de algo se traman.
La ilusión no es corta, de a momentos se intensifica, y en otras, simplemente no existe.
Al fin y al cabo, el buen rato desaparece como una cantidad de cuatrocientos mil seres humanos mueren en el alba. Y con esa cantidad, ¿ cómo es que vos seguis vivo ?
Supongo que en algún momento deseamos con pasión y honestidad conocer el uno al otro. Pero estos polos eran demasiado, muy opuestos.
El destino no debía controlar estas dos bestias salvajes, y a pesar de todo, ellas nadaron contra su corriente de témpanos intermitentes.
Su espalda es tan resbalosa como pasar uno de tus dedos por un hielo en una habitación calefaccionada. Se desliza mejor que una tabla. Se pasa de un lado al otro, y sin importar de que se trate, no puedo parar de tocarlo. Es como si el poseyera el iman que atrae, irrita y detona el mio. La pregunta y el miedo se basan en esa misma cuestion, pero de caracter contrario.
Y los minutos corren escapándose de mi alma, como si de tormentos se alejaran.
Estoy muy cansada de que los mismos capitulos se repitan de manera tan lasciva y repulsiva que me dan ganas de vomitarme encima una y otra vez.
El día es hoy, momento a momento. El amor se fue a la carretera para no volver por un tiempo.
i love you much(most beautiful darling)
i love you much(most beautiful darling)
more than anyone on the earth and i
like you better than everything in the sky
-sunlight and singing welcome your coming
although winter may be everywhere
with such a silence and such a darkness
noone can quite begin to guess
(except my life)the true time of year-
and if what calls itself a world should have
the luck to hear such singing(or glimpse such
sunlight as will leap higher than high
through gayer than gayest someone's heart at your each
nearness)everyone certainly would(my
most beautiful darling)believe in nothing but love
since feeling is first
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
Luke Davies
Poetry and Blood
The leaves are budding on the trees. The buds
are popping everywhere. Spring as in spring in the step
makes sense. In Paris there is the dead of winter
as in you think of death as in great boats
of the dead ploughing through oceans of sky.
And then one week, bang, there is spring
and it feels like summer. You can almost hear
that popping and the blood quickens in the turtles
you’re minding, in that they’re slightly less spaced out
than usual. I read once that’s how reptiles work.
But for us in sun the blood slows down to dream.
There’s a pulse in the world you’re beginning to take.
The blood too sails through the long repair.
Eyes closed in the quiet you hear both beats.
There is you, which is good, who you like, and
then the trees ready to explode into light.
are popping everywhere. Spring as in spring in the step
makes sense. In Paris there is the dead of winter
as in you think of death as in great boats
of the dead ploughing through oceans of sky.
And then one week, bang, there is spring
and it feels like summer. You can almost hear
that popping and the blood quickens in the turtles
you’re minding, in that they’re slightly less spaced out
than usual. I read once that’s how reptiles work.
But for us in sun the blood slows down to dream.
There’s a pulse in the world you’re beginning to take.
The blood too sails through the long repair.
Eyes closed in the quiet you hear both beats.
There is you, which is good, who you like, and
then the trees ready to explode into light.
Poetry and Flowers
Lark and rose go mad, even with winter
coming on, the garden beneath the verandah blooms,
the park is dense with sun and soccer balls.
By lark I mean generic bird, God knows
the names for all these things with wings. Ditto
the rose: the garden drooling colour and bloom.
Lavender I recognise, and jasmine climbing
the concrete wall, and a real rose in the corner,
red as blood. I meant to say: birds and flowers
go ballistic, even with winter coming on.
Carrying on their own life. The earth drowns
in the blooming. Even when there is no wind there is
the solar wind, whipping our bodies from the depths of space.
Ferocities of trees bent double. Playing soccer,
nobody notices this. The far park flutters in mirage.
The jasmine is awash with butterflies.
Body Surfing
Reading physics in the Charger
at North Bondi; after a while
it gets hard to concentrate.
All that sunlight.
Clouds moving just fast enough
to be boring if you watch them,
totally different the next time you look.
All that wind.
Two drunks sway down the ramp,
drinking white metho. They argue.
One punches the other in the face.
He falls on the sand.
Three boys, two frisbees: hypnotic
laws of flight and silhouette,
curvature and traceries of air.
All that aerodynamic stuff.
You think of Hebrew etymology.
Grace is God’s smile, or God smiling
on us. Mercy means running towards
someone in love.
So you go swimming. The wave looms
dark, you stroke twice and are launched
into fierce velocities of green.
First wave of spring.
Under the water the sunlight bends
when waiting for waves you practise
being weightless. Just you and the light
in a pale green world.
A westerly is blowing all the waves’
bellies hollow. You sweep
to the base and they burst in a silver
chaos of splintering;
and in this swollen place
of light and speed
you are beside yourself with happiness,
airborne, almost,
for an instant
on the inside of a wave.
at North Bondi; after a while
it gets hard to concentrate.
All that sunlight.
Clouds moving just fast enough
to be boring if you watch them,
totally different the next time you look.
All that wind.
Two drunks sway down the ramp,
drinking white metho. They argue.
One punches the other in the face.
He falls on the sand.
Three boys, two frisbees: hypnotic
laws of flight and silhouette,
curvature and traceries of air.
All that aerodynamic stuff.
You think of Hebrew etymology.
Grace is God’s smile, or God smiling
on us. Mercy means running towards
someone in love.
So you go swimming. The wave looms
dark, you stroke twice and are launched
into fierce velocities of green.
First wave of spring.
Under the water the sunlight bends
when waiting for waves you practise
being weightless. Just you and the light
in a pale green world.
A westerly is blowing all the waves’
bellies hollow. You sweep
to the base and they burst in a silver
chaos of splintering;
and in this swollen place
of light and speed
you are beside yourself with happiness,
airborne, almost,
for an instant
on the inside of a wave.
Nature Poem
But the fact
the tendril creeps around the tree
and might have been doing so for hundreds of years
is not important.
It is not important
that the forest floor is padded with pine needles
or that ferns suddenly proliferate
where sunlight reaches.
The thistles leak their foam at midday and this
is not important. In the time it takes
to write this it was sunny and now it has darkened.
Nor is rain important.
What remains then is the awkwardness
of being alive, the unshakeable awareness
of self as intrusion, and the ridiculousness
of consciousness.
Even the windhover
has no idea what tradition it’s in;
death not Romeo takes
its maidenhead.
Spastic At The Beach
Twisted body silhouetted
in a flood of summer light
he seems incongruous down here.
She leads him to the water’s edge
(sister, nurse or doubtless both):
he lurches under her loving grip.
Against the emerald waves his skin
the white that white can be. He tilts
his head to listen, he tenses as
his paper–thin monastic feet
touch the wet sand. The water sprays
his ankles then the surf engulfs
his legs. The sun beats like a jugular,
the heat of day descends. He cries
a primal howl of fear and joy,
he bellows like some dinosaur a long
foghorn of linkage, disbelief.
Escapes her grip, allows himself
to fall. The small waves throw
his body like a doll. He gasps
and screams again, and those immense
gut vowels reverberate,
cut through the noise of day,
resound along the beach. She takes
his wrist. He balances and sways,
a trail of saliva like a mad silver
pendulum flailing from the pivot
of his mouth. He howls again.
The moon would burst. He is
howling for a cup full of moon
and her love is the moon for his cup.
He turns to her uncertainly, he turns
away and shudders as he laughs.
He cannot stay still and the earth
moves too. His splayed fingers
stab at the air, at the sun,
the ocean continues to throb.
He has dented the day
with the hammer of body and voice.
She leads him away where the salt haze
enfolds them in fading, his frail figure
dims in the warp and mirage of the spray.
All is pulse. In the pulsing of blood
and of light he will stay, the immaculate
hammer of presence embedded in day.
The Madness Of Need
I never knew that nerves were so geodesic;
the straightest line from A to B is North West
Africa (the coast: you need the rain, you need
all the water to feel that you're able to breathe.)
Take the money and run, the honeymoon.
You make love then it rains. Unholy Garden Dodsworth.
You make love. Huge fragments in the wilderness
where Melbourne, Sydney stood. Two headlights from
a Chevrolet — we were two travellers in an antique land.
We make love. Baby Doll. We fuck. It rains.
In sandy silence all alone there stands a giant Cadillac.
Change the flat. Fuck again. (God I love you, tear my back,
I love you forever, whatever we do.) The absolute clarity
of Station Seven Sahara : we want each other, strongly,
like we want the fanbelt fixed. The radiator (water, water again),
whatever it is. Look for rain. Smell it out. Lick your lips.
We make love. Two fragments in the wilderness are clouds — we fuck
to celebrate. You quiver sultry, violent in the sand. Then
that is peace. The making of love and the driving to rain,
to the coast! At last I think I can relax. Freetown
was not named by accident. So misery will always feed, so
slam that bonnet and foot to the floor and your sunglasses glint
in the Gold Coast sun. Don't look on it and don't despair,
I smell your sweetest infinitest body in the air.
Refraction
"(1) Of light. The change of direction
that a ray undergoes when it enters
another transparent medium."
Penguin Dictionary of Physics
There is more blue up here. This is good. There is
more light careening in the air. The haloes are in form.
Light floods the cerebral cortex all day long; the
toughest wildest physicists acknowledge this, agree with this.
And certainly the angels know and watch the light flood into
certain minds. This is something they do when they tire
of aetherial tag and aerial dogfights and general angel
larrikinism. They take their cortex watching seriously.
The brain is a cabbage with a bit of electrical wiring
and a few computer chips thrown in. But mainly it’s a cabbage.
That is to say a vegetable, a plant. So photosynthesis occurs, of course.
The Cortex Gate for chlorophyl is opened up to let in light:
the psyche glows a phosphorescent green, I walk the heat
down Pitt St and my glowing is like arsenic to the rats that nibble souls.
more light careening in the air. The haloes are in form.
Light floods the cerebral cortex all day long; the
toughest wildest physicists acknowledge this, agree with this.
And certainly the angels know and watch the light flood into
certain minds. This is something they do when they tire
of aetherial tag and aerial dogfights and general angel
larrikinism. They take their cortex watching seriously.
The brain is a cabbage with a bit of electrical wiring
and a few computer chips thrown in. But mainly it’s a cabbage.
That is to say a vegetable, a plant. So photosynthesis occurs, of course.
The Cortex Gate for chlorophyl is opened up to let in light:
the psyche glows a phosphorescent green, I walk the heat
down Pitt St and my glowing is like arsenic to the rats that nibble souls.
CANDY WENT MISSING
Once upon a time there was Candy and Dan.
Things were very hot that year,
all the wax was melting in the trees.
He would climb balconies,
climb everywhere,
do anything for her--
oh Danny boy.
Thousands of birds--
the tiniest birds--
adorned her hair.
Everything was GOLD.
One night the bed caught fire.
He was handsome and a very good criminal.
We lived on sunlight and chocolate bars.
It was the afternoon of extravagant delight--
DANNY THE DAREDEVIL.
Candy went missing...
The days' last rays of sunshine cruise like sharks.
I wanna try it your way this time.
You came into my life really fast and I liked it.
We squelched in the mud of our joy.
I was wet thighed with surrender.
Then there was a gap in things--
and the whole Earth tilted.
This is the business--
this is what we're after.
With you inside me comes the hatch of death;
and perhaps I'll simply never sleep again.
THE MONSTER IN THE POOL.
We are a proper family now--
with cats and chickens and runner beans
everywhere I looked--
AND SOMETIMES I HATE YOU.
Friday-
I didnt meant that mother of the blueness,
angel of the storm.
Remember me in my opaqueness--
you pointed at the sky--
that one called sirius or dog star,
but on earth,
fly away sun, ha ha
fuckin ha, you are so funny Danny.
A vase of flowers by the bed,
my bare blue knees at dawn--
these ruffled sheets--
and you are gone and i'm going too.
I broke your head on the back of the bed,
but the baby died in the morning.
I gave him a name,
his name was THOMAS.
Poor little god...
his heart pounds like a voodoo drum.
Alien 3 trailer
seven 1995
Se7en trailer
The Game. y o u d o n t p l a y i t i t p l a y s y o u 1997
under and behind everything this man took for granted ...
FIGHT CLUB PSA
FIGHT CLUB PSA Tyler
Fight Club 1999
Fight Club trailer
Panic Room trailer
Zodiac 2007
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Snatch
Datos personales
- samanta ivanna
- leonina, tyler, heathclif, chuck, david, quentin, heart, kill, birth, life, death, jim, brad, johnny, fucking useless information to write about, mistery indeed, friends, girls, fuck yeah, runaway, bastards,