So I’m the freaking lunatic? What spin, what piece of string in what blue sky, what egg brought me to this world of indulgence I was twisting around my neck like it was an old talisman protecting me from the “evils” of the very same world it contained within? Where do the roots of this lunacy begin? And let me tell you: they’re nowhere else but the moon. Yes, the moon and the stars telling each-other stories, one of which managed to reach my ears from the mouth of humans and after it opened a little hole in that part of my existence not so very clear to me, it poured in it something we call soul. Sometimes they speak with their arse also, and to tell you the truth, -or rather to impose this opinion-, it is when they are most understandable. “My soul is not dead”. What a fart! There should be pleasure for the instinct to follow: to put standards, scales, expectations, to economise pleasure in such way, for such a long time, it only means to know the role given to each of us and to walk a path we’ve chosen blindly and with no end in sight. It’s all good to treat the path as a race and whoever finishes last will win, but I thought we convinced ourselves that we had won already, I thought we made the superior choice to be the consciousness of the universe, I thought this was the one hundred metres race, -I must have gotten in the wrong competition. Why am I still running, why are we still running? Is it so impossible to believe that in the war for a piece of bread, in the big game called “survival of the fittest”, a program which is shown in all the TV channels of the universe, we might actually be the losers, finish our 15 minutes of fame with a bow and retire? Or does that thought appal me as much as a fart not my own might make me get up from the chair and leave the building altogether? Between a war against the material and a war against the spiritual, between an indulgent path and an ascetic one, which one would you chose? Where is the pleasure of so many questions, when one can easily jump one of so many jet engine ropes only to indulge in madness, or piss on standards if for no reason at all? Let me lie down in your thoughts and your soul and your lap, and I don’t even need a pillow; I’ll just rest my head in your touchable smell and I’ll hum a tune and if you want, you can sing it back.
Yes, sing it back! Please, sing it back and dance, twitch from pleasure, shine a light I’ll gladly follow, get me out of these old sewages of thought, stinking, slippery, falling sewages of thought, let me land on your lip and lick me with delight, or even better, let me lick your soft smelling morning rose and right there let me beat my head and find relief! Give Me My Eternity!
What a great word that is! I know its meaning and I know it’s not easy to ask for it – falling in another sewage of thought I should say that one can’t earn it but steal it, and once it’s stolen by the way of sneaking in, one has to be arrogant enough to protect it. If you’ve followed my tune this far, you should know by now that my arrogance has its roots in my indulgence. It is a craving I haven’t yet fed to my pleasure. Right now, my pleasure is to see you hug your legs, become one with the corner of the bed by the wall, as small as I can cover you all with the palms of my hands, and to feel you take it all in, my indulgence that is. Turn around on all fours. I don’t want you to look at me. I want to keep my eyes open and I don’t want to find out that your touch and sight might betray each-other, but more than that, I want to look at myself and all the lunacy I’m fucking you with. What? Wrong hole? Sorry! I didn’t do it on purpose, (really?) but I know you like it too, that and my arrogance. Don’t worry; I won’t hurt you, for you are the daughter I never had.
I know what I’m doing. I pick you up by your thighs and then I fall on top of you. Glad of your warmth and your beauty, I cannot even justify my arrogance, for I am ugly, very ugly - the fingers I touch you with are bent and broken in imaginary fights with demons and giants and dark knights that belong to me, broken are the teeth I try to bite you with and dirty are the nails I sink in your smooth skin. I don’t even own the truth; that old excuse of an impotent mind. Talent? What talent does it take to indulge in sodomy, to walk a dead end path? Instead, I want to **** and re-**** your unborn, -I don’t will it, I need it-, but this is the closest I can get to it, this is what I’ve fallen down to: echoing innuendos that fade in the winds of the future further and further away from what I’m really trying to say. Should you hear my cry, as it is within my depths, perpetual, sealed by never ending human valves, masked as (if you can allow me such unoriginality) creative values, you’d know that I’m nothing more than another son of chaos, trying to avoid at any cost all elevating human patterns.
As you twitch and twist away, slipping from my sweaty grip, as you bite the pillow and hold on tight to the rails of the bed, as I grab your hair and pull you back, as I hush you with a gentle slap on your behind, just under the tattoo, O you old wank, you start speaking again in your native tongue. That I can’t resist. That tone of voice, imploring, praising and pitting, cursing, that melody of thought and feeling I drink to your health. Bottoms up!
Through the lie, beyond the truth, into the shit, there I indulge. How’s that for sodomizing the English language and with it the speechless thought?
Overcome? You want to be on top? You want to show me the real meaning of the breasts? I hear your song now, I look at you swimming away, thinking that, on a beat of the “thunder” you can ride this donkey to your own peaks. But bitch, aren’t you forgetting that you’re being screwed in the tight hole of timeless perceptions? Overcome your arse!
Rasputin comes to mind. There never was a more honest person. His intentions were always clear. One indulgence, two goals: immortality and sex. Of course I most definitely want to **** your mother too. Humility is a virtue of the genius. Whoever put a tight rope between lunacy and geniality, -to **** if I ever regret saying this- must have been a very wise camel, but definitely not a donkey, for donkeys hold their burden on five legs. Yet, I battle against only one visible enemy, against only the bitch, the one who is commercialised, or to further degrees, advertised. And just that, just that battle is obscene.
The rest of your body is mine. Over your skin, from the tip of your shoulder to your elbow I plant tiny, cold granules of sand that have never known the touch of humans before. Let me sand my rough hand and heavy fingers on your thin arms. I am a whimsical leaf that is being filmed in slow motion, falling from arrogance to humility, so let me in the place I love most now, and bear my lunatics.
But just before I lose the plot, like it would be expected of a lunatic, I have one last question: who lunatic wins the race to the egg now? It’s a big question, and its time hasn’t come, for I haven’t revealed all of my collection of lunatics yet.
Pėrgjigju Duke Cituar
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