Saturday, 31 July 2010


Door slowly opens, Johnny sits on his bed, lays down and dies.

That's just like the best unreleased lyrics of all times. They make sth happen in my heart.

Friday, 30 July 2010



Watching porn’s usually like watching a melancholy documentary to me, a documentary about sex as a failed utopia or something, I don’t know

Dennis Cooper

37. this is not a tweet (5)


out of shower.
smell of bamboo flavored soapy thing under armpits and balls
hopefully up butt too
this noon, i'm gonna play with myself.
maybe leave the cam open, too.
maybe not.
i hate metal heads.
i hate heavy metal music.
sorry, it's all a matter of taste but i just had a vision
lure a metal head up at my room
grab him by his stupid passe hairdo
and bang his slack-jawed, empty head into the wall
we're gonna do some serious headbanging now dude
and then i'm going too shave his head
and make his stuppid iron-maiden-and-manowar-singing mouth
eat my dick
and then i'm gonna make him
no, i'm gonna shove his boot up his arse
and strnagle him with the shoelace
Oh fuck, and i hate the grandberries too(cranberries?)
and Bono, boy do i hate Bono

no changes yet
just getting a little erratic here

of course you realize these are all fantasies
you do realize there's no shaved metal-head dude tied in my bed right now?
with a smelly sodden sock into his mouth
peace, man. "enter night, exit light, dude."

it's funny how
when you need your friends
they forget all about you
not even a phone call
or a text message
their big fucking words
cut their tongues out and feed it to them
i don't have any friends anyway
i forgot

now it's 13:20 and nothing has changed still.
so many zeros make me want to slit my throat.

i never had the chance to tell them i'm needy
and when i'm needy
i'm dangerous

rage: check
motivated: check
active: check
energy: up
fuck, seems like the fall is gonna be massive. I can feel it as we speak.


insanity fast approaching.
it's gonna be massive.
wonder if it's a side-effect?
fuck, people who like heavy metal must be retarded.
you realize, this is not me speaking now, right?

It's the drugs.
Drugs come with love.

Why are all my memories so cliched?


36. this is not a tweet (4)


I'm reading reset's blog.
this is dusty rose.
hey, dusty rose!
good stuff.
after shower i'm gonna come over to your blog and say hi.
but now i'm off to shower.

35. this is not a tweet (3)


keep sitting here.
keep strolling down my page.
nothing's there.
nothing's new.
i'm off to shower.

34. this is not a tweet(2)


still waiting for a change.
i need a change.
a dramatic one.
but it's not that kind of pill.
i think i'm gonna take a shower.
my armpits smell weird.
(there's always a vague hope i'll fall in the tub and break my neck)
i'm scared that i might fall in the tub and break my neck and my door will be locked and no-one will be able to come in and save me or collect my dead body until it starts to smell.
my door is a security door.
but two people have keys.
i have to be serious and careful and responsible about this.
lock the door but don't leave the key on.

nothing's happening.


(First of all, I'd like to note that I dislike the last part of this piece. I wanted to write something else, in a different manner; what's down there is the sincere sentiment i wanted to express but not in the way i would have expressed it if i had a smidgen of charisma or vision. Anyway, the last part was a sloppy incompetent way of trying to communicate my concerns, hopefully someday i will be able to say what i mean.)

The bo(d)y just lies there, on its back, the bed only wide enough to contain last night’s struggle, call it massacre. On this bo(d)y the white linen sheet is placed, not quite white anymore but besmeared with stains of big and stains of old, an accumulation of memories, bo(d)ies, midnight tremors and terrors, the evocation of and escape from -Death- on this white bo(d)y this white linen sheet is placed, as if to hide, as if to consecrate, as if to enshroud the vestal white bo(d)y.

Whose long white leg is dangled from the ratty edge of the formerly white linen sheet, not quite white anymore, but studded with holes of blood and holes of fire, a long stretch of skin peeled off, some inches below the hip, he stood by the frame of the door, leaned there in pounding headache and lit a cigarette and gazed at it, the long white leg from where, some inches below the hip, where the thigh gets a curve of flesh and is juicy, a long flap of skin is missing, skid marks engraved into the flesh, from the thigh down to just below the knee.

He notices the bo(d)y cannot bend the leg to the knee, the long enflamed wound cannot allow any movement, so the long white leg just hangs there from beneath the ratty edge of the formerly white linen sheet, sticks out like a piece of bleached wood (bone?) and dried blood has made a dried snail trail down to the ankle, and across the side of the shank.

He was looking for connection, he was looking for release. The bo(d)y was all fleshy lips, and big violet elf eyes and a wild tangle of honey-blond hair. The bo(d)y could barely ask any questions or answer any answers. The bo(d)y shrugged for drugs and shrugged for sex yet he was sure, somewhere beneath all the perfect white skin, lodged somewhere between all the intricate bone structure, hidden behind the big violet elf eyes was a diamond of wisdom, a secret language kept well, a treasure chest full of bo(d)ily delights.

The answer to all the shit, anyway. If it wasn’t hidden in money and it wasn’t hidden in fame and ambition, if it wasn’t hidden inside books and history, then it must be hidden in the body. The more perfect a body seems, the more unknowable it looks. The absolute must contain the truth. Or maybe the truth lies in the human need to destroy and defile anything pure. Maybe the truth lies in this very instant: you open up a bo(d)y and it tells you no secrets. You cut into the flesh and the only fact it gives you is that the lower layers of flesh are whiter than the epidermis. White and defiant, you need the right sharp blade to cut through deeper, to excavate more truths. In aperfect world, the bo(d)y would spill its guts. But you pry under tendons and into veins and past that film of mucous surrounding the organs, and the bo(d)y remains mute, shut down, closed up, no secrets to whisper, no truths to reveal, no knowledge to disclose.

Except maybe: “You’re insane.”

[EDIT: okay, I guess what i really wanted to say is:
You've tasted the cum
You've showered in the piss
You've eaten the shit
You've drank the blood
You've chewed the flesh
You've smelt the bowels
You've punctured the stomach
You've worn the skin.
Now what?]

33. this is not a tweet (1)


happy news from pharmacist.
new pills.
pop one in.
the cold water makes it all dramatic.
i feel better becausei feel desperate.
and self-pitying.
self-pitying makes me feel good.
now i'm waiting for any changes.

Thursday, 29 July 2010


- Into movement, quick!

- his voice is drowned in inextinguishable childish grief, in saliva, snot, and tears. The smell intensifies with his disrobing, which he carries out to eye, his to mine.

- He writes, he draws, often with his own blood, at times, he scarifies his body. He offers me slashed, bloodied skin to caress, in the sweat of our embraces or our housework.

- Noureddine first appears, nineteen...the only one i do not touch, because, though i don't know it at the time, he will later become....the leading figure of my fictions...:a whore at first, who is set free, and then a whore again, escorted from one bordello to the next, although he himself leads the way.

- i let myself be led by whomever i encounter, where they will.

-i take more pleasure in discovering lives, in peering under roofs....than in consuming pleasure, which is close to nothing compared to my writing, and yet which is intensified by the circumstances, the places, the bodies, ludicrous, sometimes dangerous.

- drugs come with love.

-he is the one i would have liked to be, simple, subtle, and beautiful like Nature and commerce

-but the work is here, beneath my fingertips, the voices thast i must set free from my guts.

-all internal order is thrown into disarray.

-who?what/what shock will lift me from this mute terror?

                         Coma- pierre guyotat

30. role play

I'm gonna light a cigarette and pretend the smoke drowns the boredom.
I'm gonna watch some porn and pretend i'm the guy sandwisched between and jammed by the two big cocks of my costars.
I'm gonna come and pretend i'm not empty.
I'm gonna listen to a song and pretend i know the lyrics i'm screaming.
At night, in a dark room, one lamp shedding weak sick light, I'll kneel and pretend I love you.
At night, on the bed, you will whisper praying sobs up my ass and pretend you love me.
At night, your fingers tied, tautening, firming around my tracchea, your revenge throbbing inside me (pain or repentance), air leaving me in gasps, we can pretend we are in love.
And that love will save us.

Wednesday, 28 July 2010


He asked you, on the third night, 'what do you want'?
And you said, you said: I don't know.
You said: I want a mattress on a wall.
You said: I want books to read.
You said: I want to forget.
You said: I want to feel alive, cause I'm not.
You said: I want to be gutted by a bull.
You said: I want to be thrown to the lions.
You said: I want to be tied to a pole naked and have stones thrown at me, or arrows at my body.
You said: I want to be myself.
You said: I want to be someone else.
And he asked, laughing, he asked, 'you're kind of lost, aren't you?"
And you said, not knowing what this laughter meant, you said: But I want to be found.
And he patted your head,
And you leaned into the palm of it, his hand, nuzzled the lower part of your face in it, and you said: I want to be your dog. You almost had tears scrapng your throat as they swelled upwards.
And he remained silent.
You said: I want to look out of windows forever. I want to look in on other people's lives because I have none.
You said: I want to live in a garden.
You said: I want God to come down and take me by the hand.
You said: I want to cease existing. But every day i wake up it's just another struggle for existence.
He said,'there's not much we can do than survive."
He said, 'we're all monsters.'
You said: yes, yes.
Should we set the monster free?
He said, 'everyone i see in the street is part of me, or i'm part of them, but we don't know. This is part of the beauty in the world, eliminate the I. You and me and them and us, we are visions of ourselves, there are no words to make us true, the words just distort what we are, nothing.'
That night, you were standing under a big arch in some square, empty, but illuminated, it was raining and the rain formed clouds mingling with your cigarette smoke. He let you lean your head against his shoulder. You both wanted to be one with the arches and the walls and the statue and the rain and the nimbus around the street lights, one with the paved square. How strange to be born a human and not a stone staring into eternity or the non-existence of it.
You said: Things are funny.
He said: Things are serious.
You both thought: things are in-between. things are ghosts. words are ghosts. we are ghosts, made out of words.

Tuesday, 27 July 2010


how mnay pillls can youtake to shut it out?
to sleep sleep it off sleep it away sleep forever
but i want to be alive
but i guess this is not possible anymore.
i'm asleep and i'm dead.
an dthe world around me the time around me the words around me they turn they swirl it makes nos sense
because i haven't been there
i haven't done that
Put a hammer to my head if necessary
make it all stop from turning.
I was a different me yesterday.


First of all, I'd like to apologize if yesterday's post offended anyone> It was not a matter of sensationalism but of anger, I guess. When I start writng i 've no idea where it's all gonna lead or how it'll evolve. It's not really writing in this perspective it's more of a way to get to know myself. A friend lats night said: and by putting it down on paper you will discover who you are. I'm not sure if I;bve made a fiction out of myself and my life, this is just extra confusion, and yet i fear the true fears and demons that play under my skin and slide down my veins. Are they there? have i put them there? are they gonna go away? do i wannt themt o go away?

second...seems no second thing for today. There's a murder or a suicide or just a plain death waiting to happen inside.celebrated randomness gets on my nerves, it's not that funny anymore either but it's kind of disappointing and fake. YEAH!let's go create ourselves from scratch.Next time you see me i will be a serial killer after your sons and daughters.I'm like a walking suicide now, mouth parched, eyes blurry.Dangerous?All the shit on tV, all the shit on the radio. piling up, stink up to the sky.what's the most lovely and romantic and nice thing you could do about me? wash my clothes/ cook my dinner/ tie my bicep and shoot it up/i could go find your dealer but i'm not in the mood/just knock my head against the wall or better the porcelain of the bath tub, i'll go out drooling blood and in style.That's romance, I'm telling you.

Btw, I saw a documentary yesterday that reminded me of you and all the shite around. In 1940-something Greece possessed by the nazis, unspeakable acts of violence and atrocity took place:
a) six-year-old boy and four-year-old sister step into the house: dad lying on a matress by the corner, other little brother on another mattress on opposite corner, mother stood up against wall. The siblings come in, calling to their mom. When they touch her, she collapses down wall, dead, skull caved in by blow, and red trails of red down the wall and from her back. The brother has been gutted out and has been repositioned on his stomach in his mother's feet. when the six-year old tries to wake him up and turn him over all the insides are being poured out of him. dad in corner already dead, troat slit or something. maybe he was even alive when all this happened.
b) nazis enter the priests house, the priest 's got five kids, among which an 18-year-old daughter. they stand them up. They cut daughter's breast off and put it in the father's mouth.They cut the father's penis off and put it in the daughter's mouth. they make a big fire like a furnace of sorts and push those other kids in there alive.
(However, when war is over, and communism seems to be the prevailant party or political belief in Greece, europe forgets all about Germany's compensations and asks Germany's help in order to suppress Communism rising across europe. Greece feeds its children to the lions -always has, always will. ((Too mnay questions arise. About drawing lines. About forgetting. About ehat can push a man into crossing the lines and becoming a mosnster. need? duty?or something inherent in humankind, in the human heart?)

"History doesnot repeat itself, man does"

Monday, 26 July 2010


Little johnny
Don’t go out playing naked
With the water hose
On your naked white
Little bubble butt
Cos there’s perverts out there, johnny
After your naked white
Little bubble butt
Someone you know and trust
Your good Samaritan neighbour
That your retarded momma knows and trusts
And he’s watching ya
Behind the fence
Or across the street, behind the curtain
He’s watching
Your naked white
Little bubble butt
And you playing
Naked and white
With the water hose
On such a hot day
And you bend in innocence to water the flowers
And he gasps in pleasure watering his desire
For naked white
Little bubble butts
It could be someone you call friend,
or Uncle,
Who buys you candy all the time
And wants you to sit on his lap
And stares as you take broad sweeps of the lollipop
With your tiny, lollipop-coloured tongue
The one who says “good boy johnny”
The one who pats your head and his touch lingers
The one who says
“you and me we’re best buddies, johnny”-

Little johnny,
Don’t you go sucking that lollipop too much
You don’t get the implications now
But you will
Cos you might end up
All naked on his lap
“let’s play a game, johhny”
“you’re gonna like it, johnny”
“this is a secret between best buddies, johnny”
And he’ll fiddle with your willy, johnny
And he’ll stand you in the middle of his room, johnny
“I promise you’ll like this game, johnny”
And he’ll open his mouth, johnny
And make a lollipop outta you, johnny
He’ll lick your lil willy and lil balls, johnny
He’ll swallow them up
And suck hard
Like you do with candy, johnny
And you might like it, johnny,
Or you might cry, johnny,
Either way, johnny,
You’ll have to live with the shame, johnny-

Little johnny,
Stood in the middle of his room
All naked and trembling
With your lil willy and lil balls
Into his big bad mouth
What you gonna do, johnny
What you gonna do now?
“I tole you it’d be fun”
“now your turn, johnny”
“make me feel good, johnny”
And little johnny
You’re knelt in the middle of his room
Oh johnny
“open your sweet lil mouth johnny”
And you’ll get cross-eyed johnny
From looking at that big ugly thing
Like a piece carved from wood
Sticky white cream at top
“lick it, johnny”
“lick the cream, johnny,”
“take it in your hand, johnny”
Little fingers around big veiny thing
And he’ll laugh, johnny
I know he will
And dab his big veiny thing
Against your shiny red lips
And push the creamy top in
And gasp, johnny
He’ll make animal noises, johnny
But don’t be scared
You brought this upon yourself, johhny
No buts, johnny
“now open wider”
“it doesn’t hurt, johnny, does it?”
But you’re choking, johnny
And he’s lost, johnny
Pressing his big fat hand
On your skinny little back of your neck
Forcing it in
Growls with joy at
Your little teeth
Scraping along
His big fat veiny thing
And put a thumb in and puuuuull your
Lil mouth open until it hurts, johnny
And you weep, johnny
Careful, johnny, this-
Oh fuck-
This will just get him-
Fuck, johnny
Wilder, johnny
You sob around the big fat veiny thing
And he
And your mouth spitting cream, johnny
Cream brimming
Cream leaking from your mouth, johnny
Cream dripping from corners of your mouth, johnny
And cream up your nose
It stings
And stinks, johnny
I know
“tole you is all good fun between buddies”

But it’s not the end of it
Oh,no, johnny
“my turn”
And he’s back
With his mouth
Clamped around your
Lil willy and lil balls
And big fat finger snaking up
Your lil ass
Up your naked white
Little bubble butt
And big fat finger
Poking in
It stings
And it stinks
I know, johnny, goddamn,
Told you not to,
Told you to be careful
Big bad finger creeping in
And your sobs muted now
Just water down your face
“lemme taste your lil willy cream”
“lemme taste your sweet boy cream”
Hey, fuckhead,
Can’t you see he’s too young for this?
But no end
No end till craziness ends
And his eyes glaze over
With malice
With need
With piercing desire
You haven’t given him
What he was after
The trophy
And The worst is yet to come
You know how I know, johnny?

Cos you’re dropped on the bed, johnny,
And your ass in the air, johnny,
And his fingers up your ass, johnny,
And his mouth up your ass, johnny,
Your naked white
Little bubble butt
And you
With thumb into mouth
Close your eyes
And make this go away
Haha, johnny, sorry, never will
Never does
You know how I know, johnny?

Cos it smells of spit,johnny
Spit and shit, johnny
Cos he’s grunting plastered against
Your back, johhny
Your skinny sweaty white back
And it hurts, johnny,
Fuck, I know it does,
Cos he’s shoving it in, johnny
Bit by bit, johnny,
Starved, johnny,
Crazy, johnny,
Like an animal, johnny,
And there’s blood, johnny,
And tears, johnny,
Up your naked white
Little bubble butt, johnny
There’s dribble of cum, johnny,
But you’ve no idea, johnny,
But it hurts, johnny,
It stings, johnny
Bit by bit, johnny
All the meat in, johnny
All the fat big veiny meat
Up your naked white
Little bubble butt, johnny
And fingers clutching at your hips
At your neck
At your shoulders
Ready to break, johnny
Ready to choke, johnny
No air, johnny
Bruises, johnny,
Which means lies, johnny,
Which means darkness,johnny,
Be careful, johnny,
He’s coming, johnny,
Inside you, johnny,
Inside that
Naked white
Little bubble butt

And then more candy, johnny
And “it’ll be our little buddy secret, johnny”
And “don’t you tell your momma, johnny”
“because I’ll sneak in the house at night, johnny,
And I’m gonna do the same to your momma, boy.”
“I’m gonna kill your momma, johnny”
“and you asked for it, johnny”
“it was fun, johnny”
“now shoosh johnny”
“be a good boy johnny”
“see you around johnny”
“or else I’m telling your momma what a little bad boy her little Johnny is”
So lie johnny
Lie for the blood in the pants
Lie for the sore mouth, johnny
Lie for the tears and screams, johnny
Lie for the pleasure, johnny
You’re gonna have to live with this
All your life, johnny
I told you, johnny
And how did I know, johnny?

Well, johnny,
A long long time ago,
They used to call me johnny too.

This is a poem i could call Little Johnny or All Little Boys are Little Cocksuckers, haven't decided yet. dedicated to little boy across sreet.

Sunday, 25 July 2010


G. is scared of many things: he's afraid of planes, bees, roaches, spiderwebs more than spiders, of stepping on ants, of the absolute dark, of mirrors late at night, of packing bags, of what may be growing insuide his body night after night since night-time seems like the idyllic time for tumours to bloom, for cells to go bad, for diseases unseen and unheard of to fester under the unaware youth and suppleness of skin.

"Turn over now," the guy says after he's groped G. to his satisfaction, and G. thinks it all is like something out of a manual, do this, do that, imagination is dangerous in times and places like these -"where am I?" G. wonders, the ride to wherever they are now syncopated and blurred by drugs and drinks, turning over as ordered, there's order in being ordered around, and order is the opposite of chaos, and sometimes his mind needs to be commanded so that it can be free, and empty, and so that his body can be free too, and roll over, push his ass in the air, bring his hands to his butt so he can spread the cheeks and examine the corner of the bed or the wall as long as it takes for the poking, prodding, pushing, stabbing, grunting, twitching, ejaculating to end, and that is why he needs to not be scared of weird shadows that dance at the periphery of his eyesight or the possibility of HIV infection, or the runny cum that dribbles down his thighs with a tinge of blood and feces.

The first time he faced his fears was when he was twelve and realized he was a freak of nature, stuttering answers that made no sense to his schoolmates who soon started abusing him and calling him a retard. He went home and while his mom was cooking dinner downstairs, he stole a knife from the kitchen drawers and went to his room and slid down in the little nook his bed with a wall made and lifted his shirt and drew the blade across his stomach. Only the knife was blunted from the use and didn't cut as deep as G. meant to, it just hurt like hell because he had to slide the knife back and forth for any blood to come out, and when it did, it was only drops, like little blooming buds, coming out from the punctures in the flesh, and the next morning there was a bruise, black and yellow, along the cut, and next time he'd use a razor to cut across this line, this blue and black and green and yellow line, thinking
it seemed he could not do nothing right
how could anyone like him?
how could anyone love him?
how could anyone look at him?
at all that blue and black and green?

"Ass in air. Well done, boy. Now let us see that sweet pucker of yours."

Something cold and shiny and hard screwed up there. tastes, feels like green. Hard and glassy and round and smell of sour stale alcohol, yeast - beer. A bottle of beer...
Order is the opposite of chaos.
Twisted and twisted around, muscles spreading, muscles aching, muscles about to break.
Order is the opposite of chaos.
Blue and black and green, the opposite
of Chaos
Air inside, up shit chute, air around inglamed organs
Is there light at the end of this tunnel?


Order.The opposite.Of chaos.
"Shit, baby."
Lights-blue and black and green-
at the end of this tunnel.
And in the quiet, in the dark, in the shadows after
a knife, bring out the knives and razors
and Carve
Carve all that shit and pain and blood

Saturday, 24 July 2010


Last night I dreamt that I could dream.
I dreamt that I could breathe.
I dreamt these words.

(I found it written on the back of my arm with a red marker - blood, I thought.)

Last night I prayed that I could pray.
I prayed that i'd have faith.
I prayed for these words.

Thursday, 22 July 2010


Well, i rest my fucking case.
Have i been conditionned to hate, to envy, or is it just the genes or is it just me, the fuck-up-
Was it nature or nurture?
So easy. To accept defeat. To bow.
To try and be a better man.
A noble one. A kind one.
Yet, the hate burns, the envy desttroys like a wildfire. Nothing left but ambers of existence.
In your punishing arms and under the crack and snap of leather, i could be whole again.
I could be a better man, a noble man, a kind man.
Take me in.
Show me how to love.
Show me true pain.
Annihilate me?
And bury me deep,
until my mouth remains still.

EDT: (if i want to be completely honest, and what is honesty, i dunno, never did, i lack basic concepts and one of them is perseverence and patience and faith, so honesty is just an item in the long long list of defects and deficiencu\ies, and you have to excuse me for my weaknesses, and you have to be patient with me, and i to myself, because truly this blog was also an attempt, an exercise, to see if i could become a better character, and stop giving in to every stupid impulse and stop giving up in the face of the smallest obstacle, and to stop taking it out on myself.)


Since the day i've come back:
Every day exactly the same.
Only i'm a bit lost, a little bit more lost now, "don't get any ideas" he told me, "don't let'em put any ideas into your stupid head, cos you're worthless" his voice said, so right now i'm lost and afraid that-
Every day will be exactly the same
And what it means, it's scary what this entitles, because my routine will take me to the hospital or the grave, or to the madhouse, or even worse, it might lead me to become another cog in the great machine of things, a cog, turning, a wheel, a thing, on time, waking up the same time every day, brushing teeth, washing face, fast breakfast and wee bit of coffee to get the cog running, car or bus or train to work, same time every day, with the same old tired poor faces everyday, the same strangers, crunching numbers or whatver, "may i help you, ma'am?" and fake smiles to clients, on phone and to colleagues, until the muscles hurt from faking the smiles and the decorum, please, thank you, you're welcome, excuse me, all that stuff, working your ass off, not daring to look out the window, no sign of escape, no distractions please, coffee break, sneaking a cigarette, taste of ash, makes you want to puke, running to the toilets and soaping up your tongue, push the vomit down, stomach and bowels shaiking, making sounds, for years you've been sitting on that chair, trying to push things down, trying to fake smiles and decorum, trying to be a good functioning cog, pushing yourself towards your death, towards steady decay of inner organs with the after-work pints and shots of whiskey and microwave dinner and packs of smoke, a slow, decent death-
This is how every day could be exactly the same-
Ending up in the bog, always in the bog, puking guts out, throat scorched by ejected alcohol and bile and half-digetsed bits of food, shaky legs, back to counter with sour breath, asking for gum, a lozenge maybe, and order another drink, everything just makes it worst, but you shove em down, the poison down, slow death, respectable death, wash em down with another cigarette, everything inside you dizzy and wanting to go home, innards crying for help, bowels wanting to be emptied, frenzied with so much shit crammed up inside, stomach burning up, lungs choking, you laugh, it can come out, the bitter laughter of a cog, a shit-greased cog of a respectable life, a slow life ;eading to slow, respectable death of every organ failing you little by little, this is how your father died, out of a slow, respectable life, girl at corner smiling at you, oh shit, you've been giving wrong signals again, or maybe they're the right ones? and once more you wonder if you could go through it:
the respectable, decent straight fuck in the end of a slow, decent, respectable working daay
Fuck it, I'm outta here, couldn't get it hard anyway, right, and your powers of imagination and recreation and reproduction could not possibly work to reconstruct her cunning, lipsticked, decent mouth into a dude's greedy, ravenous hole, and either way, you'd be on your knees, the eternal do-gooder, the obliger, the little sacrificial lamb wanting to take it all in, please, place your sins and burden upon my back and shoulders.
Exactly the same, it could be.
As it is.
Taking a taxi home, alone, wanted to be with someone but can't be arsed about the glances, words, fake smiles, introductions, touches, doubts, games, kisses, it's all so exhausting, cos i don't want to meet anyone, i don't want to know anyone, not after a slow, decent, respectable day at work, i just need to be an anmal for a while but too tired for that too, scary, back home, retching retching retching and puking and then retching again, scattered clothes in room, half-naked in front of monitor, letters appearing beneath window framing a skinny chest like your chest, letters telling you that they wanna see your arsehole, but you're too drunk for that, fall asleep mid-wank, face aginst keyboards, radiation piercing eyleids, all those fears, all those dangers, when you wake up someone has left a message on your profile, they wanna hook up for the shit you said you're gonna let them do to you, "see you Friday night" you type and log out, and rub the dried drool of your chin and the dried precum of your fingers, miserably logging in to your blog, lost in words and images and worlds of others that make you feel less lonely, but in the same time
just a cog
blogging about nothing, cos nothing happens, nothing's ever different and if sth different happens it's still the same, you can't do nothing about the sameness, and you find this entry, it says, art can save you from your slow, decent, respectable life, it can save you from your slow, respectable, decent death, that would be if everyday was not exactly the same-
Even now, it's the same, even now when you're young and restless and loud and cute and people wanna fuck your body every night, even now when you get get from sleeping the mornings to partying the nights, a night-owl, a butterfly in worn-out sneakers and cartoon boxers, fucking, dancing, sniffing, smoking, injecting, drinking, huffing, moaning, goading, grinding, shoving ass up someone's nose and mouth, your own fingers up yuour own arse for the camera, teasing, a whore, a cunt, a cunt-boy, a dog, on hands and knees after your master, sniffing and licking balls encased in leather, and belt welts rising on back, this is where you disappear, or not,
had it not been for this wound, perhaps we would not have known many of his masterpieces
we need the wounds to make us something, to make us someone, this is a big joke, a gamble, or a delusion,
A life without the longing and suffering of desire, isn't this the poorer life that we can imagine?
But even the longing is exactly the same, even the suffering is exactly the same, even the desire is always the same, and the news on the telly are exactly the same, wars, blood, famine, floods, and the temperature is rising, and all you want to do is something different, you've never been part of sth, and you've seen people, damaged people being redeemed by ART,
but not you, you know this, you can feel it in every broken and badly-healed bone, you can feel it in every warped word you type, in every piercing of the blade across skin, in every drop of blood that leaves your body to make a flower into the marbled sink, in every sharp blow of leather and slide of knife, in every piss of blood coming from torn rectum, in every piss of diarrhea coming from ruined guts, hole-filled guts, pierced, torn, burnt, you know you can not be saved by ART, art like love and friendship are an illusion, something fake like faith, made up to lull you into sleep and ignorance, art is too made-up, is too artificial, and you need holes, great big holes to piss and pour and puke the poison you've gathered inside, from the sameness of it all, from the failed attempts to live, to laugh, to escape, ART cannot save you because you're ugly.
And way too broken.


[NOTES: part of the italics are something taken from here:
which was also part of my inspiration-reply-reaction. I lost it along the way, and now can't exactly remember the purpose of this post, but i know its heart. Bleh. Heart.]

Wednesday, 21 July 2010


Where you goin’? You runnin’ away from me? Come back ‘ere, kid. You asked about it. I don’ promise about no harming you, kid. Kid, you said you wanted it. Come back here then. Quit your running. Where you gonna hide? You can’t hide. Com’ ere. The pain is yours, kid. Just how you wanted it. This pain. ‘s all yours, honey. Little lovin’ don’ you go all quittin’ and runnin’ from me now. Don’ you go hiding from me. You stronger than this, baby. You no deserter. How do I know? I taught you this. And you were a good student, you learnt your lesson well. Right? Don’t you go drifting off on me now. You gonna enjoy this, you gonna learn to enjoy this, kid. Be tough, kid, be a monster, be a rock so the world can’t touch you, yeah? Come oan, kid, suck it up, kid, this is life, kid, this is a valuable lesson kid. Hey kid. Quit your cryin’ now. Now that’s just childish. Be a man, kid, take it like a man. Are you a sissy, kid? Are you gonna cry? You gonna tell mommy? Are you a fag, kid? Is this what I taught you to be? You’re a fuckin disappointment, kid. Yeah, this is better, kid. Snap out of it. Come oan, don’t make me hurt you. Stop this. Yes, wipe your tears. Gimme a smile, kid. Like that smile you gave me that day. You said you wanted to escape yourself, remember? To escape mommy, daddy, the world. Now you must feel it all. You must experience the pain, embrace it, or its wasted. You asked for it. Don’t you try to run away from it now. Don’t go all pussy on me, boy. You grit your teeth, baby boy, like I taught ya, take it, boy, take it like a man. How else you gonna live with yourself? You gotta toughen up, kid. Babe. You gotta toughen up. You don’t wanna grow all wimpy and weak, lovey, do ya? I’m gonna make you a man. A real man. But you have to take the pain, you have to celebrate the pain, the pain is all that separates you from those damn corpses over there. You wanna die then? You wanna die? You wanna be a damn wimpy little corpse? Come to me, kid. Quit this, it ain’t gonna help you. Don’t try to sing yourself to sleep. Quit these daydreams, you think they’ll save you? You gotta toughen up, see things as they truly are. I’m gonna make you a man, baby boy. This pain’s gonna make you a real man. Now come here. Come here. I love you, kid.

Tuesday, 20 July 2010


Is my father's spirit watching over me?


Copping out.Zoning out.Drifting off.Imagine your humiliation, the sin, the filthiness, as a white ball of healing light.Shutting down.Flying away.Escape sign.exit world.Slide.Close your eyes.Go back.Immerse.Submerge.Reverie.Daydream.Lost.Nod.Forget.Relapse.Metastacize.fantasize.Vegetate.White light.Visualize.Envision.Childhood memories.Run away.Float into space.Return to innocence.Erase.Dig yourself.Suppress stimuli.ban.Submit.Hide.Safe house.Forsake.get in line.Torture.secret smiles.back in the streets.a dope fiend.To the mad house.Reformation.Restoration.Rebirth.Rennaissance.Then prison.Then the grave.Refuge.Run.Hide.Fantasize.Blur.Static.Blind.


I want to escape myself.

I can't escape myself.

Monday, 19 July 2010

19. Possibilities know, when you're walking down a busy pulsing night street with colours and noise and voices and laughter and maybe drunken slurs -or is it too early for that. no, it's never too late - and people like packs, hooting and howling down the street, and girls with their sqealing and squeaking and high-pitched dirty flirtation, the cow eyes full of insinuations that will get you high or plunge your self-image real low, between us there is only limitless possibility, that's what he said to me as we ambled down the street, elbowing through people, beer in one hand, cigarette in other, and for a moment, i look around, take this scene in, and i see eyes and smiles, yes, the possibility is here, and i hear music pouring out from doors and windows, the night is still young, and there is definitely possibility, it's definitely in the music, but when i think of the many alternatives and i'm still relatively somber which makes me kinda depressed, it's weird, on one hand the music and his eyes lifting me up, and then, something bad in me, going terribly haywire, like a wrong connection somewhere, like the wrong chemicals are excreted and they're taking everything over, so even the brightest swirling lights, even his hand on my nape, even his lips on my neck, even the alcohol rushing through my veins, even the music making my ears bleed, it's all translated into pain and hopelessness, because, after all, What are the possibilities? I ask, and he smiles, squeezes his fingers around my sweaty neck, and says, You must have faith in the poison, which was a phrase that had so impressed me, and i was like, oh, profound, and wanted to know everything about it, but he was all mystique, and then someone told me it was a poet who said that, so I never believed what he said to me ever again, and i sat in a corner and said to him, like completely serious:"I love you and all, but I know what my possibilities are."

And with his fingers, he tries to turn my frown into a smile. And I say, Fuck off. I say, "I love you but you don't love me back, except some fucked-up concept you have of lust which you might misinterpret as love, and that's totally okay with me by the way, and this is one possibility." I say, "by the end of the night someone will come to you and ask you how much, and i'll have to go to some grubby hotel room with him, wishing i'm being taken nobly to my death, and this is another posiibility." I say, "and someday someone will play along my death wish, and he'll like seriously murder me, not just pretend he does until he gets off, and this is a third possibility." I say, "But all I really want to do is to disappear. I don't know. I want to disappear so bad. I don't even know what this means."

And he says, "well, that's the longest i've ever heard you talk."

"Do you like it?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. I don't think so. let's keep things simple."

So, i know, you know, i know the possibilities are choosing between lust and death, and everyone just wants to stay as safe as possible behind whatever monstrosity they impose, unaffected, it's just dangerous to intersect with other people, except for some brief physical contact maybe, however intense it only grazes the surface of things, and this is the only possibility. Fucking and fucked, i'll leave the grubby room untouched, unpossessed, inaccessible, a mystery, a wonder to some poor bugger, and come back to you, to our room, and find you high in our bed, untouched, unpossessed, inaccessible, a mystery, a wonder.

And this is the only possibility.

Sunday, 11 July 2010

Friday, 2 July 2010


Nick wrote sth beautiful, he wrote “Let’s be flowers for a while.”

And I want to be a flower, I’ve tried to be a flower, wanted to bloom in the remotest garden or forest in the world, or outside this world, a flower in heaven, or even in hell, I didn’t even want to be a beautiful flower, an orchid, a poppy, a sunflower, I could just as well be wild weeds springing from the death roiling and roasting beneath the layers of earth and dirt and soil; or grass, tall fucking grass behind which a scared child could hide, or a happy one, excited, heart boom-boom-booming in its chest with joy, to sneak up on the unaware friend or parent or sibling and give them the scare of their lives. The mother will take the impish little kid in her arms and whisper:"you had me worried sick".

And I could be a flower, cut, but still undisturbed in its marbled vessel upon the father’s grave, where it’s silent and peaceful, and there’s only the buzzing of summer insects and the chirping and lovemaking of birds, upon tombstones etched with names and dates, and in the winter, gypsies and beggars, palm out for a dime, a crushed cigarette butt, framed pictures of beloved ones rusting away in the rain, candles sizzling to the touch of a raindrop or tear.

Or be a flower that comes to rest above coffin, thrown as a last farewell or due respect, and get buried there amidst the wood, a guardian of the decayed, hidden under shovelfuls of earth, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth”, lost flowers, kissed by worms exuded and given birth to by rotting flesh, where it’s the most quiet and the murmurs of the busy world above are barred or filtered into a song.

Or even a flower covering a shallow grave, skinny naked mangled body underneath, my body dragged there in screams and laughter, died there in bursts of blood and slashed skin and steel blades, excited, crazed by young blood rushing out of huge cuts now resembling mouths, in which the filth of the earth shall inhabit, and grow fungi and moss spitting out of eyes, pores, ears, nostrils, a tune playing in my dying head, it’s Beethoven, I recognize it, can play it by heart, last drops gushing at the elegiac melody, sad, beautiful, sad, beautiful, each touch of the piano key, falling, falling, towards death, bye-bye at last, and the shouts of the world are slowly covered, and dirt fills my eyes, and sun fills my ears, what a beautiful day to die, all nature delirious for you, it wants you more than people ever did amidst them, and the flowers they will embrace you, and the worms they will embrace you, and the earth will cover you soft like the mother all children should have, to cover your ears from the screams of the world, to cover your eyes from its ugliness,

I wanna be that flower.

Thursday, 1 July 2010



"The children of sinners are abominable children
And they frequent the haunts of the ungodly.
Children will blame an ungodly father
For they suffer disgrace because of him.
But whatever comes from the earth returns to the earth
So the ungodly go from curse to destruction."



[The kids disappear. Some of their ghosts have grown too old. Nobody wants to know what happened to them, except from a vague closure. The imaginations haunting such disappearances can drive us mad. The reality of it is cruel, raw, unfathomable. And that is why charts and lists have been constructed. Try to put some sense into the insensible, try to put some order into the chaos. List the reasons, motifs, effects, behaviours, note down the steps and break the evil magic. Speak the monster's name and analyze its profile, and the scary randomness becomes tactile fact, the crumbs to a solution, a mumbled answer to the question, a light shed in the darkest cave of the human nature]