_ somewhere in Washington Heights_
a cab pulls up to the curb_breaks screech/scream_a car comes to a halt. a short indian man, the cabbie, gets out, runs around the car, opens the door. Inside the car a slumped figure of a man. he has just vomited on the plastic divider. the inside stinks. the figure stirs. the cabbie reaches inside and grabs the man by the hair_blond tousled hair_pulls him out. there is a lot of steaming yak_all over, the back seat is laminated in puke, the plastic divider is curtained with reddish/greenish_chunks of undigested food pinned the flowing down curtain to the plastic. the indian guy is screaming something_pissed off_despair lifts his hands to his head_what a fucking mess!
the man, the passenger is laying in the street_absolutly blotted out_blackeness soft like a velvet cloth swathed his mind. the cabbie gets back in his stink-Sgonna-ride car. Revs up_gone!
the man lays still in the street. he is barefoot. 'blue levi's and black shirt. the manS body feels like a burlap sack. there are roches inside, thounds of them, snakes, rats. his body aches with nightmares you couldnT possibly imagine. the man , if it was only possible, wants to take off his skin costume like feels his his flesh drenched in booze_nightmares! he feels it all inside stir and writhe and slither....
he is still stilled_palsied by booze.
then, slowly, very slowly he rolls over on his stomach_tries to get on his four_collapses_tries again_CANt!
_is laying on his back, breathing heavily, then he heaves_rolls over_puke!vomit! tries to get up_crawls.
he is barefoot.
cuts across the puke, his pants are stained dirtied with chunks of food_torn up inside_wASted life_big fucking chunks.
he reaches the sidewalk. there are people. they look at him as if he were a beast. they are scared. they canT comprehend the sight of a man trashed so much that he seems to shed humanity and now something else is still breathing_clinging to life.
still crawling the man looks to the right_to the left. the street feels like miles long hallway with buldings for doors without numbers he cant remember he came out from. he wants to go home.Badly! but nobody Sgonna help him.
he Sbeen on the bender_a week?two?three? he cant remember. but he wants to get back to his pad. there is a cat he Sbeen missing_is it alive? he wants to...
he thinks he still needs more beer vodka whiskey wine cocke pot angel dust pills, a fucking flock of pills from sythnetic morphine to heroine, anything to dull the pain that begins gnawing at his brain_innards. the images he sees_unbearable! a dog with two heads, one sticking out from an asshoile...birds with steel shinning beaks like bullets ....come... !
he collapses. Again. then_he knows, he knows... he sees white fat cats with red eyes walking by_he sees scrawny figures with black cold marble eyes standing over him_an abyss opens up_
he is sucked in inside his paranois_he is a stunned rotten fetous inside a belly of some undescriable heidous un-people creature...he feels like... he wants to be re-born.
he pisses himself. wet flowing blanket of urine...he Sdone...
more creatures come, bent down and look in his eyes.
"where the fuck are you all come from".
he wants to get back...pad..cat...cozy leather couch are all waiting somewhere up on the sixth floor...washington heights...
the binge he Sbeen on he canT remember how long has finally come to an end_in the street_pissed_filthed in puke_with frayed with fears brain the binger knows he has reached...
falls asleep...warm darkness populated with dreams to be forgotten sets in... he will never again...
never again or the lady suicide Sgonna come with a rooftop...freefalll... of a tall building and_crush_pulp_gone! DEAD... but he knows there is more to death that just...skipping on this fucking chocking reality... of a sudden he remembers his "friends"...everything in their "stupid shallow lives"...timed!...lunches!...phone calls to tell her/him....hi! itS me i am....who the fuck gives a fuck what you doing...fucking slave!!... what?...slave...no character no fucking nothing but a body with a label. Hi, my name is...a medicore pussysnuff ...
he only wants to get back to his pad...and sleep...and not to think about those shitfaced...spittle-licking....brownose "meam men:"... forever...doomed fucking slaves with insurances and lives he wouldnT live for anything...slaves.!!!!..scared!!!of life and themselves...how disgusted he was with all...them... and those fuckwrinkled balls gals: wives...cunning like stupid bitches he wouldnT touch, not to mention fuck, with a stolen dick...wives...pathetic... men looking for mothers...doomed fucking pussywhiped brainlesss fuckers reading wallstreet papers ...MAN!
thatS why he has been drinking...better to give in than to "exysist" with those medicore, forever in-between pussywhipped hussies...insurances...lives planned for decades in advances... weed gardens...he retched imagining those "fathers"...
thatS why he Sbeen drinking...drugs...illusions stripping off their neurotic garments...
the binger...sleep...his cat he has missed...a room in a city...any city! as long as there is noise of a trafffic...people shouting...days melted in runneled streets...SLEEP!
and fuck all....of you...
One day in the life of a cook with a cockeye
He was up at 1:29 am. One minute before an old alarm clock would go off blasting black humid sticky silence out of the cookS hovel . He turned his head on a dirty pillow to look at the green glowing numbers of an hour, decoding the passage of time as it passed thru leaving in the cookS lonely, anxiety-ridden life deep footprints of silent regrets and muted cravings for a change that would like the alarm clock smashed the loneliness, anxiety and despair.
He laid in his bed, waiting, waiting for 1:30 am to come to rise him up to turn on the bed lamp ...waiting for something, someone else but the crippling routine... silence wearing a black heavy dress of loneliness, mourning his life, he was waiting...
1:30 am.
He turned off the alarm. Got up. His feet touched the familiar soft dirty rug with burnt cigarettes holes. He had this bad habit of smoking in bed and falling asleep with a cig dangling in the corner of his mouth.
Before he could dress in words a thought that silently came out of his dungeon of personality , he saw it holding in front of itself like a painting a scene of his wife and a man as when he had found her, him, them...his rose impaled on a thorn...words came running down creaky staircase of his mind...now, he was cursing outloud. "A fucking whore,a fucking whore...damn right, i am glad the bitch died". The sight of his wife in bed with another man seemed to purge his mind of any other mental, emotional scenery ,but that one that had congealed itself into formless disgust, hate and anger.
He smoked five cigarettes, trying not to see it, not to think about it, but it was in vain. He knew that not until he would get to the kitchen the sight of this atrocious betrayal would be present in his mind as much as the chair he was sitting on.
At 2:30 am he left for the kitchen where he was a supervisor and where the scene would dissolve like salt in hot water.
The kitchen was his Soviet Empire and he was like Stalin there. Tyrannical, vicious, suspicious, alert, and fatigued by the two dishwashers who worked there. One, a lazy, incompetent nigger, and the other, a commie, fag polak. He just couldnT stand them. He hated them passionately, unreservedly. How many times he found himself wondering what happened to America from his childhood when niggers could be lynched behind a barn, commies hang or shot in a public square, faggots spat at and ran out like lepers. Back in those days those two clowns would have been gone, dead or alive, either fucking way, out of his kitchen, thought the cook to himself. But now, them: lawyers and laws protected all and sundry perverts and misfits.
He opened the kitchen, turned on the lights, came inside and scrutinized its state of being.
Everything was as he expected it to be; the floor was mopped, the silver counters were wiped cleansharp shine, the ovens were cleaned inside-out.
He made himself a cup of coffee, weak tastless hogwash. The scene of his wife in bed with another man did indeed dissolve like salt in hot water. Now, he was ready to start cooking, to get from the stockroom all the canned products he would need for that day when out of the corner of his right eye he noticed a dirty towel laying under his desk. That was it.
He had to hold on to something or he would collapse. He leaned on the silver counter whose clean sharp glint almost cut his hands. He was breathing heavily, with a difficulty as thou he had a slob of marble laying on his chest. His heart beat in slow strokes, then missed a beat...two...three. he felt noxious and weak. He felt dull pain in his chest grip his heart. He pushed himself off the edge of the counter, standing still. He pulled a handfull of grey, lanky hair. He blinked his cocked eye, a big salty tear scutted down his taut face. he was pale, trembling.
He went over to his desk, a wooden wobbly mamoth of a tree trunk. Nobody was allowed to sit at that desk. It was his. He had brought that desk to the kitchen. It was an inheritance he came into possession after his grandfatherS shamless death at the hand of a nigger his grandfather thought he could still whip into a servitude, but the nigger pulled out the gun and blew the old fartS brains out.
He pulled out the towel from under the desk. Suprisingly it was clean except for few hard spots as if somebody wiped starch with it, but tossing it under the cookS desk was in the cookS eyes like pissing on an altar. Desecration. An abodinable and unpardonable act that had to be paid for. The only way to find out who worked the night shift was to check the schedule that was always pegged in the same place to the cork board hanging above the desk. Well, according to the grit it was that damn commie, fag polak who closed the kitchen last night, so it had to be him. There was a notice in big red letters telling all and sundry to stay out of the kitchen.
The story of the towel.
Around 7:00 PM, the polak's nympho girlfriend showed up at the kitchen, demanding an explanation for his recent, as she had put it, wierd behavior. "What? i am not good enough for you...i have been calling your place for the past three days...what the fuck have i done to deserve all this fucking bullshit...ah?tell me...what have i done that all of a sudden you been avoiding me...i know, i know... you got yourself another pussy?...whatS the bitchS name?"...
"oh, baby, come on...stop blowing things out...thereS no another pussy...i just havent been feeling good...been working this damn third shift for the past two weeks...how do you think i feel when i get home beat like shit...i just didnt feel like ..." Of course, like 99,9 percent of men he wasnT honest with her. But to tell her in the face that "you have fucked the life out of me, my balls are still aching from having you kneed them like some fucking pizza dough, my asshole wet for days from your "oh, please, let me see how it feels thumb up in my ass". He wasnt going to tell her all that, but to stop her from bawling in the kitchen when there were still other employees in the building, he knew that the only way to stop this cunt was to whip his dick out and just let her have it...
Once they were done, she looked for something to spit it all out and there she found a clean towel while the commie fag polak was washing off his aching boner in the sink she sucked all the marrow out.He didnt even see her throwing it under the desk, otherwise he would have told her about this old, sour freak cook and how much that wooden jonk meant to him.
The end of the story of the towel.
The cook was sitting at his desk with the towel laying in front of him. He picked it up and smelt it, just to see if his suspision of its being used to clean some starch was correct. Then, slowly he stuck his tounge out to taste it. And it tasted to him like starch. Slightly salty but its only because it was used some time ago, but he thought he was right.
He laid in his bed, waiting, waiting for 1:30 am to come to rise him up to turn on the bed lamp ...waiting for something, someone else but the crippling routine... silence wearing a black heavy dress of loneliness, mourning his life, he was waiting...
1:30 am.
He turned off the alarm. Got up. His feet touched the familiar soft dirty rug with burnt cigarettes holes. He had this bad habit of smoking in bed and falling asleep with a cig dangling in the corner of his mouth.
Before he could dress in words a thought that silently came out of his dungeon of personality , he saw it holding in front of itself like a painting a scene of his wife and a man as when he had found her, him, them...his rose impaled on a thorn...words came running down creaky staircase of his mind...now, he was cursing outloud. "A fucking whore,a fucking whore...damn right, i am glad the bitch died". The sight of his wife in bed with another man seemed to purge his mind of any other mental, emotional scenery ,but that one that had congealed itself into formless disgust, hate and anger.
He smoked five cigarettes, trying not to see it, not to think about it, but it was in vain. He knew that not until he would get to the kitchen the sight of this atrocious betrayal would be present in his mind as much as the chair he was sitting on.
At 2:30 am he left for the kitchen where he was a supervisor and where the scene would dissolve like salt in hot water.
The kitchen was his Soviet Empire and he was like Stalin there. Tyrannical, vicious, suspicious, alert, and fatigued by the two dishwashers who worked there. One, a lazy, incompetent nigger, and the other, a commie, fag polak. He just couldnT stand them. He hated them passionately, unreservedly. How many times he found himself wondering what happened to America from his childhood when niggers could be lynched behind a barn, commies hang or shot in a public square, faggots spat at and ran out like lepers. Back in those days those two clowns would have been gone, dead or alive, either fucking way, out of his kitchen, thought the cook to himself. But now, them: lawyers and laws protected all and sundry perverts and misfits.
He opened the kitchen, turned on the lights, came inside and scrutinized its state of being.
Everything was as he expected it to be; the floor was mopped, the silver counters were wiped cleansharp shine, the ovens were cleaned inside-out.
He made himself a cup of coffee, weak tastless hogwash. The scene of his wife in bed with another man did indeed dissolve like salt in hot water. Now, he was ready to start cooking, to get from the stockroom all the canned products he would need for that day when out of the corner of his right eye he noticed a dirty towel laying under his desk. That was it.
He had to hold on to something or he would collapse. He leaned on the silver counter whose clean sharp glint almost cut his hands. He was breathing heavily, with a difficulty as thou he had a slob of marble laying on his chest. His heart beat in slow strokes, then missed a beat...two...three. he felt noxious and weak. He felt dull pain in his chest grip his heart. He pushed himself off the edge of the counter, standing still. He pulled a handfull of grey, lanky hair. He blinked his cocked eye, a big salty tear scutted down his taut face. he was pale, trembling.
He went over to his desk, a wooden wobbly mamoth of a tree trunk. Nobody was allowed to sit at that desk. It was his. He had brought that desk to the kitchen. It was an inheritance he came into possession after his grandfatherS shamless death at the hand of a nigger his grandfather thought he could still whip into a servitude, but the nigger pulled out the gun and blew the old fartS brains out.
He pulled out the towel from under the desk. Suprisingly it was clean except for few hard spots as if somebody wiped starch with it, but tossing it under the cookS desk was in the cookS eyes like pissing on an altar. Desecration. An abodinable and unpardonable act that had to be paid for. The only way to find out who worked the night shift was to check the schedule that was always pegged in the same place to the cork board hanging above the desk. Well, according to the grit it was that damn commie, fag polak who closed the kitchen last night, so it had to be him. There was a notice in big red letters telling all and sundry to stay out of the kitchen.
The story of the towel.
Around 7:00 PM, the polak's nympho girlfriend showed up at the kitchen, demanding an explanation for his recent, as she had put it, wierd behavior. "What? i am not good enough for you...i have been calling your place for the past three days...what the fuck have i done to deserve all this fucking bullshit...ah?tell me...what have i done that all of a sudden you been avoiding me...i know, i know... you got yourself another pussy?...whatS the bitchS name?"...
"oh, baby, come on...stop blowing things out...thereS no another pussy...i just havent been feeling good...been working this damn third shift for the past two weeks...how do you think i feel when i get home beat like shit...i just didnt feel like ..." Of course, like 99,9 percent of men he wasnT honest with her. But to tell her in the face that "you have fucked the life out of me, my balls are still aching from having you kneed them like some fucking pizza dough, my asshole wet for days from your "oh, please, let me see how it feels thumb up in my ass". He wasnt going to tell her all that, but to stop her from bawling in the kitchen when there were still other employees in the building, he knew that the only way to stop this cunt was to whip his dick out and just let her have it...
Once they were done, she looked for something to spit it all out and there she found a clean towel while the commie fag polak was washing off his aching boner in the sink she sucked all the marrow out.He didnt even see her throwing it under the desk, otherwise he would have told her about this old, sour freak cook and how much that wooden jonk meant to him.
The end of the story of the towel.
The cook was sitting at his desk with the towel laying in front of him. He picked it up and smelt it, just to see if his suspision of its being used to clean some starch was correct. Then, slowly he stuck his tounge out to taste it. And it tasted to him like starch. Slightly salty but its only because it was used some time ago, but he thought he was right.
To be continued ...
Sneer
Dentist Pavlik died suddenly. He was so untimely dissmissed form the ranks of living. His demise in disguise of heart attack came and laid him in a 6 feet deep cavity of a grave with claish gums. Shit! he was only thirty8.
He died that very same day i came to see him about my teeth reeking with decay. My mouth was filled with stinking breath inside which above tounge swelled with puss hang sagging palate.
Been afraid of dentists all my life. Those who never had a drill caress their gums with bashful smiles bump against rotten stumps, know shit about DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRill!
In his office there was this comfy fotel i sat in, streched my legs. The interior of his office was swelled with smells of detergents.
Dr. Pavlik: Uhm gonna fix your smile...pearly smile...Hollywood shine.
I : How much its gonna cost me?
Dr. Pavlik: Eleven grand.
Dr. Pavlik asked me to open this foul-hole of my mouth to numb a molar he said he was going to save. he put on latex gloves smelling like wetflour, and reached so deep inside my mouth that i gaged.
Dr. Pavlik: O!right...letS numb this foul- smelling hole...
His round, clean shaven, cold face splashed against my popping with stress eyes, his odorless breath rippled my taunt face.
A young broad tanned so much that her complexion was that of a moldy bark of a sick tree came in, around the fotel, holding a needle and a smile. Both sterilized.
She started humming a tune while the sharp needle squirted out fluid and transparent aphasia.
I jerked.
Dr. Pavlik: Oh, come on...donT be afraid.
The yellowed faced assistantee fanned my face while Dr. Pavlik numbed the molar. Her breath was scented with chemicals. Maybe it was the mouthwash he rinsed her mordant teeth after brushing her teeth with Dr. PavlikS ... .
Dr. Pavlik: Ok!...letS wait...until...
Dr. Pavlik: It shouldnT take longer than...and...i think.
The broad with the complexion of a sick tree patted me on my back.
When i was a kid i lied to my mother and fixed my already then cavitated smile with sweet chewing gum. All those cavities were like ants that scattered more decay all over my teeth.
Dr.Pavlik: Is it numbed?
I: Yes..it is...
He picked up a drill and...Shit! Jaw ripping pain fleed to the Pulp Chamber.
Dr. Pavlik: Medicine...dentistry in particular is so advansweat nowadays...it souldnT hurt so much...
I groan/moan/ am about to roar when the yellowed faced assistantee starts singing.
I feel neurons inside my head with wilted with fear brain, bursting with pain.
ThereS no teeth inside the brain. Imagine! Molars in Medulla Oblongata, Inciors in Pons, Canines in Cerebellum, and Premolars in Frontal lobe. Imagine! you could have heard toughts chatter and prattled and grind images right behind your eyes.
OH MY! .....the pain...rootcanal...fuck this!! since dentistry is so advansweat i want my toe nails transplanted in my gums. I'd'em polished and paint and forever had clean, shiny, manicured smile.
Dr. Pavlik:...almost done...donT move...donT close your mouth...
Dr. Pavlik: Done!
I'm still numbed. I get off the fotel, but the pain is still sitting there, dosenT want to leave.
I'm in the reception room waiting for the yellow faced broad to come so i can pay her and leave When,
as if somebody dropped a bomb in the office something hit the floor sending a shudder, the entire place quaked . It was the body of Dr. Pavlik hitting the ground. The broad is wailing.
Well, I am still numbed but can feel the right corner of my upper lip raise...sneer at such an untimely dimise of Dr. Pavlik.
He died that very same day i came to see him about my teeth reeking with decay. My mouth was filled with stinking breath inside which above tounge swelled with puss hang sagging palate.
Been afraid of dentists all my life. Those who never had a drill caress their gums with bashful smiles bump against rotten stumps, know shit about DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRill!
In his office there was this comfy fotel i sat in, streched my legs. The interior of his office was swelled with smells of detergents.
Dr. Pavlik: Uhm gonna fix your smile...pearly smile...Hollywood shine.
I : How much its gonna cost me?
Dr. Pavlik: Eleven grand.
Dr. Pavlik asked me to open this foul-hole of my mouth to numb a molar he said he was going to save. he put on latex gloves smelling like wetflour, and reached so deep inside my mouth that i gaged.
Dr. Pavlik: O!right...letS numb this foul- smelling hole...
His round, clean shaven, cold face splashed against my popping with stress eyes, his odorless breath rippled my taunt face.
A young broad tanned so much that her complexion was that of a moldy bark of a sick tree came in, around the fotel, holding a needle and a smile. Both sterilized.
She started humming a tune while the sharp needle squirted out fluid and transparent aphasia.
I jerked.
Dr. Pavlik: Oh, come on...donT be afraid.
The yellowed faced assistantee fanned my face while Dr. Pavlik numbed the molar. Her breath was scented with chemicals. Maybe it was the mouthwash he rinsed her mordant teeth after brushing her teeth with Dr. PavlikS ... .
Dr. Pavlik: Ok!...letS wait...until...
Dr. Pavlik: It shouldnT take longer than...and...i think.
The broad with the complexion of a sick tree patted me on my back.
When i was a kid i lied to my mother and fixed my already then cavitated smile with sweet chewing gum. All those cavities were like ants that scattered more decay all over my teeth.
Dr.Pavlik: Is it numbed?
I: Yes..it is...
He picked up a drill and...Shit! Jaw ripping pain fleed to the Pulp Chamber.
Dr. Pavlik: Medicine...dentistry in particular is so advansweat nowadays...it souldnT hurt so much...
I groan/moan/ am about to roar when the yellowed faced assistantee starts singing.
I feel neurons inside my head with wilted with fear brain, bursting with pain.
ThereS no teeth inside the brain. Imagine! Molars in Medulla Oblongata, Inciors in Pons, Canines in Cerebellum, and Premolars in Frontal lobe. Imagine! you could have heard toughts chatter and prattled and grind images right behind your eyes.
OH MY! .....the pain...rootcanal...fuck this!! since dentistry is so advansweat i want my toe nails transplanted in my gums. I'd'em polished and paint and forever had clean, shiny, manicured smile.
Dr. Pavlik:...almost done...donT move...donT close your mouth...
Dr. Pavlik: Done!
I'm still numbed. I get off the fotel, but the pain is still sitting there, dosenT want to leave.
I'm in the reception room waiting for the yellow faced broad to come so i can pay her and leave When,
as if somebody dropped a bomb in the office something hit the floor sending a shudder, the entire place quaked . It was the body of Dr. Pavlik hitting the ground. The broad is wailing.
Well, I am still numbed but can feel the right corner of my upper lip raise...sneer at such an untimely dimise of Dr. Pavlik.
The Painting
She was the last one to come in to the classroom. All the other students were sitting in a circle in the middle, busy looking over their notes, correcting papers, talking in hashed whispers. They did not even noticed a small figure dressed in a green sweater and blue-light jeans of a girl with beautiful face framed in black curls streaming down her back,and green eyes sparkling with defiance. Jenny walked in and, noticing an unoccupied chair by the window, she went over and took a seat. The two tall windows couldnT be open because of two cocoons swarming with hornets outside. She didnT like this classroom, nor any other. All were exactly the same. Whitewashed brick bare walls, yawning cracks, red linoleum floors , gloomy looking blackboards, confided her in this educated ugliness. And it was hot inside.
When the green door with a small window opened, and prof. R.'s tall, thin figured clod in ever the same beige curdory jacket, blue shirt, and black dockers appeared, the students stopped talking and greeted the prof.R with a barely audible "Hello". Prof. R. strutted his stuff towards his desk.
He put down his brown-leather bag bulging out with books and papers. He sat behind the wooden desk whose surface was scarred with only too familiar insults whose deep cuts in the wood bore testimony of hatred for prof. R. strict and too demanding standards he had set up for all who ever hoped to pass his course. Communication 401.
When the class began Jenny was glad for not sitting close to this elder man whose cadaverous, hallowed-eyed face with sucked in cheeks and thin colorless mouth reminded her of a washed ashore dead fish. His hands wore transparent gloves of cold, damp sweat.
She never participated nor volunteer in any of the class discussion, knowing that others looked down on her just because she never even tired to became a part of any crowd, least of all of this college pack. She was thought to be the freak, the misfit, always by herself.
Again and again the same voices of the same few students answered the question and seemed to battle for more space to voice their bullshit knowledge.
Jenny wasnT listening. She was looking out the window where the spring paraded in her fabously colorfull dress, scenting the air with sweet, jenny imagined it to be soft pink, smell of floweres waking up in their beds with freshly turned out earth.
"Jenny", she heard her name called out by prof.R,"and what do you think about it?".
"I am sorry...but i wasnT listening", she said bluntly, staring at prof. R's cadaverous, taut face stadded with beads of sweat.
"We have been discussing the importance of skilfull communication, and as we all have agreed, it is indispensable in having a satisfactory relationship with others...by satisfactory i mean fulfilling..." A drop of sweat like a stirred leach began descending prof. R, tall, furrowed with wrinkles brow, hang on his caterpillar eyebrow and dived into his right eye with a dilated pupil floating on its watery surface.
"Communication...", repeated Jenny to herself as she glanced around the room, meeting blank, mocking faces of other students,"...it all depends on what i want others to know...i think that language can express a lot in terms of ideas...intellectual concepts...but there are feelings that have their own vocabulary of gestures that sometimes render the expressive power of language impotent."
"impotent you say." said prof.R, reaching for a napking inside his pocket of his jacket and tapping on his red eye in which the drop of sweat dissolved, stinging his vision.
She could feel thirty eyeballs boring into her.
" Thank you, Jenny." said prof.R, "does anyone would like to add anything?"
"Well, I think...", it was one of those few voices she knew and yet didnT want to put a tag of a face. She began feeling uncomfortable.
Suddenly, she felt a cramp take a bite out of her stomach, she curled up on her seat, holding herself in half, feeling the cramp loosen its grip only to climb her ribs and stub her heart with piercing pain. She felt the pain now spreading all over her body until she couldnT breath.
Tumbling over chairs, tripping over backpacks she dashed out of the classroom, leaving behind gangoozeld students and prof.R. blinking his deep set, watery eyes in total confusion.
She run down the long hallway, taking two steps at a time, she scaled down the stairs, throwing her body against white doors, almost knocking them out of their wooden frames, outside into a warm, comforting embrace of sun and gentle breeze that kissed her face.
She looked around, looking for a spot to sit down and calm herself. The pain was gone, but her body still throbbed at the memory of this "voluptuous" stranger that had come from nowhere and knocked the breath out of her.
She saw a bench on a purple rug of petals that fell from a tree after fresh green broke out of the buds. She went over to it and sat down. She streched her legs, spreading her arms wide apart, taking a deep breath that felt like a sip of cold water.
She sat there for quite awhile until she remembered that she left her bag and brushes in the classroom. Slowly she rose up and walked back in to get her stuff. Inside the building the hallways felt like a behive swarming with so many bodies and voices.
There were other students she didnT know in the class. Those were the diligents students, ambitious students, studious and smart, always nice and forever fake. She looked at them with such a defiance in her eyes that if they could only read her look they would have known how doomed they were trying in vain to bribe life with their diligence and ambitions and studies that would take them all like a peasant takes his herd to a pasture to grease, inside cubicles in which their life would shrink to a pathetic tragedy. she grabbed her bag that she found laying on top of the wooden desk stained with fingerprints of prof.R's cold, damp hands. she left the classroom thinking of how useless was all that education which she had found to be manufactured in schools which like factories produced brainless goons with "deep" thoughts.
She almost run to her painting studio situated in the back of the building. There, in front of a white, taut surface of a canvass, she found herself reciting Rilke's poem she had copied long time ago and carried in her bag: "May what i do flow from me like a river,
no forcing, no holding back, the way it is with children."
She checked her brushes to make sure that they had been thoroughly washed, opened seven tubes with paint letting colors slowly snake out onto a palatte. She picked a brush and twirled the tip in red. she touched the canvass, the first touch always intimidating but also exciting, soon she crossed the threshold of that dimension in which images came to her bringing on silver trays colors they wanted to wear. time stopped.
She wasnT done painitng when she put down the brush to see how the painting looked/felt from the viewerS distance. it showed far in the distance a range of volcanos wearing plums of smoke of different colors, luscious green carpeted a strech of red earth between volcanos and a golden river with gently sloping banks studded with precious gems and a beautiful, tall, red-hair woman wearing a transparent gown in the middle of the river, holding what looked like a leash with a dwarf at the end with an eyeball instead of a head.
She liked it, but there was still a lot of work to be done. She was about to stepped up to the painting to figure how...when suddenly, she almost fainted, the woman beckoned her to come...she turned around...no,no, it was too much...but then, there she was...smiling and with her left hand out for her to come...Jenny approached the painting, at the same time hesitantly extending her hand towards the smiling woman...Jenny took her hand and stepped inside her painting...the warm golden water was gently breaking apart against her legs...the dwarf with an eyeball for a head blinked at her... she looked towards the volcanos with their colorful plumes of smoke slowly moving...
When the green door with a small window opened, and prof. R.'s tall, thin figured clod in ever the same beige curdory jacket, blue shirt, and black dockers appeared, the students stopped talking and greeted the prof.R with a barely audible "Hello". Prof. R. strutted his stuff towards his desk.
He put down his brown-leather bag bulging out with books and papers. He sat behind the wooden desk whose surface was scarred with only too familiar insults whose deep cuts in the wood bore testimony of hatred for prof. R. strict and too demanding standards he had set up for all who ever hoped to pass his course. Communication 401.
When the class began Jenny was glad for not sitting close to this elder man whose cadaverous, hallowed-eyed face with sucked in cheeks and thin colorless mouth reminded her of a washed ashore dead fish. His hands wore transparent gloves of cold, damp sweat.
She never participated nor volunteer in any of the class discussion, knowing that others looked down on her just because she never even tired to became a part of any crowd, least of all of this college pack. She was thought to be the freak, the misfit, always by herself.
Again and again the same voices of the same few students answered the question and seemed to battle for more space to voice their bullshit knowledge.
Jenny wasnT listening. She was looking out the window where the spring paraded in her fabously colorfull dress, scenting the air with sweet, jenny imagined it to be soft pink, smell of floweres waking up in their beds with freshly turned out earth.
"Jenny", she heard her name called out by prof.R,"and what do you think about it?".
"I am sorry...but i wasnT listening", she said bluntly, staring at prof. R's cadaverous, taut face stadded with beads of sweat.
"We have been discussing the importance of skilfull communication, and as we all have agreed, it is indispensable in having a satisfactory relationship with others...by satisfactory i mean fulfilling..." A drop of sweat like a stirred leach began descending prof. R, tall, furrowed with wrinkles brow, hang on his caterpillar eyebrow and dived into his right eye with a dilated pupil floating on its watery surface.
"Communication...", repeated Jenny to herself as she glanced around the room, meeting blank, mocking faces of other students,"...it all depends on what i want others to know...i think that language can express a lot in terms of ideas...intellectual concepts...but there are feelings that have their own vocabulary of gestures that sometimes render the expressive power of language impotent."
"impotent you say." said prof.R, reaching for a napking inside his pocket of his jacket and tapping on his red eye in which the drop of sweat dissolved, stinging his vision.
She could feel thirty eyeballs boring into her.
" Thank you, Jenny." said prof.R, "does anyone would like to add anything?"
"Well, I think...", it was one of those few voices she knew and yet didnT want to put a tag of a face. She began feeling uncomfortable.
Suddenly, she felt a cramp take a bite out of her stomach, she curled up on her seat, holding herself in half, feeling the cramp loosen its grip only to climb her ribs and stub her heart with piercing pain. She felt the pain now spreading all over her body until she couldnT breath.
Tumbling over chairs, tripping over backpacks she dashed out of the classroom, leaving behind gangoozeld students and prof.R. blinking his deep set, watery eyes in total confusion.
She run down the long hallway, taking two steps at a time, she scaled down the stairs, throwing her body against white doors, almost knocking them out of their wooden frames, outside into a warm, comforting embrace of sun and gentle breeze that kissed her face.
She looked around, looking for a spot to sit down and calm herself. The pain was gone, but her body still throbbed at the memory of this "voluptuous" stranger that had come from nowhere and knocked the breath out of her.
She saw a bench on a purple rug of petals that fell from a tree after fresh green broke out of the buds. She went over to it and sat down. She streched her legs, spreading her arms wide apart, taking a deep breath that felt like a sip of cold water.
She sat there for quite awhile until she remembered that she left her bag and brushes in the classroom. Slowly she rose up and walked back in to get her stuff. Inside the building the hallways felt like a behive swarming with so many bodies and voices.
There were other students she didnT know in the class. Those were the diligents students, ambitious students, studious and smart, always nice and forever fake. She looked at them with such a defiance in her eyes that if they could only read her look they would have known how doomed they were trying in vain to bribe life with their diligence and ambitions and studies that would take them all like a peasant takes his herd to a pasture to grease, inside cubicles in which their life would shrink to a pathetic tragedy. she grabbed her bag that she found laying on top of the wooden desk stained with fingerprints of prof.R's cold, damp hands. she left the classroom thinking of how useless was all that education which she had found to be manufactured in schools which like factories produced brainless goons with "deep" thoughts.
She almost run to her painting studio situated in the back of the building. There, in front of a white, taut surface of a canvass, she found herself reciting Rilke's poem she had copied long time ago and carried in her bag: "May what i do flow from me like a river,
no forcing, no holding back, the way it is with children."
She checked her brushes to make sure that they had been thoroughly washed, opened seven tubes with paint letting colors slowly snake out onto a palatte. She picked a brush and twirled the tip in red. she touched the canvass, the first touch always intimidating but also exciting, soon she crossed the threshold of that dimension in which images came to her bringing on silver trays colors they wanted to wear. time stopped.
She wasnT done painitng when she put down the brush to see how the painting looked/felt from the viewerS distance. it showed far in the distance a range of volcanos wearing plums of smoke of different colors, luscious green carpeted a strech of red earth between volcanos and a golden river with gently sloping banks studded with precious gems and a beautiful, tall, red-hair woman wearing a transparent gown in the middle of the river, holding what looked like a leash with a dwarf at the end with an eyeball instead of a head.
She liked it, but there was still a lot of work to be done. She was about to stepped up to the painting to figure how...when suddenly, she almost fainted, the woman beckoned her to come...she turned around...no,no, it was too much...but then, there she was...smiling and with her left hand out for her to come...Jenny approached the painting, at the same time hesitantly extending her hand towards the smiling woman...Jenny took her hand and stepped inside her painting...the warm golden water was gently breaking apart against her legs...the dwarf with an eyeball for a head blinked at her... she looked towards the volcanos with their colorful plumes of smoke slowly moving...
He
Early morning. Daylight leaks thru a roof of clouds, golden drops of light fall into a pond of a green, sparsely furnished room in which naked man sits in a chair by a bed, smoking a cigarette, contemplating a sleeping woman and her naked flesh. She is nestled in warm folds of bedsheets scented with sex.
the man is aroused by the memory of last nightS perverse darkness that released him and her from all bodily and mental inhibitions. sex to him was the most eloquent gesture that expressed his mingled with confusion and shame but also pride and conceit his enormous lust for life he could quench in giving himself away to this sleeping woman. he abhorred and despised men and women whose cravings and longings were shackled to their wither with dry fucking genitals, who thought themselves to be perverse just because they smeared they mugs with cum and pissed into their wide open mouths. he could never imagine to dirty this sleeping womanS face with ...
a face that he would be kissing soon, a face that looked at him with trust and respect.
he took a drag, blowing bluish smoke that coiled into transparent shapeless form and slowly disappeared. he felt disgust rise its hideous face at the passing thought of others turning their faces into napkins satined with cum, piss, and shit, the thought passed thru his mind leaving behind deep footprints of such an intense distaste, he leaned forward and put his hand on the sleeping womanS belly heaving like a sea. it felt warm and soft.
half of her face was veiled in black shining hair, slim white shoulders he thought he would crush, holding them from behind as thou her body was a continent he was afraid to be torn away, round, full breast topped with hard nipples lay on her corset of body, long smooth legs were slightly spread showing black stripe of hair between.
-sheS beautiful, the man says quietly to himself.
she was so much different form all the other women the man had slept with before. she was the only one that turned her body into a sort of a gate festooned with her soft, warm voice, beyond which he has found another dimension of sex in which he met his selves.
he remembered her face while her body was ruptured by waves of orgasm crushing with loud, long moan against the shores of night.
her face, the undescrible expression of pain and ecstasy it wore , has become his own.
the woman turned around, brushing her black hair off her face, beautiful and "clean".
-hi, she said, smiling,
he put out the cig. Went over to the bed. "Hi", he said, laying down next to her.
the man is aroused by the memory of last nightS perverse darkness that released him and her from all bodily and mental inhibitions. sex to him was the most eloquent gesture that expressed his mingled with confusion and shame but also pride and conceit his enormous lust for life he could quench in giving himself away to this sleeping woman. he abhorred and despised men and women whose cravings and longings were shackled to their wither with dry fucking genitals, who thought themselves to be perverse just because they smeared they mugs with cum and pissed into their wide open mouths. he could never imagine to dirty this sleeping womanS face with ...
a face that he would be kissing soon, a face that looked at him with trust and respect.
he took a drag, blowing bluish smoke that coiled into transparent shapeless form and slowly disappeared. he felt disgust rise its hideous face at the passing thought of others turning their faces into napkins satined with cum, piss, and shit, the thought passed thru his mind leaving behind deep footprints of such an intense distaste, he leaned forward and put his hand on the sleeping womanS belly heaving like a sea. it felt warm and soft.
half of her face was veiled in black shining hair, slim white shoulders he thought he would crush, holding them from behind as thou her body was a continent he was afraid to be torn away, round, full breast topped with hard nipples lay on her corset of body, long smooth legs were slightly spread showing black stripe of hair between.
-sheS beautiful, the man says quietly to himself.
she was so much different form all the other women the man had slept with before. she was the only one that turned her body into a sort of a gate festooned with her soft, warm voice, beyond which he has found another dimension of sex in which he met his selves.
he remembered her face while her body was ruptured by waves of orgasm crushing with loud, long moan against the shores of night.
her face, the undescrible expression of pain and ecstasy it wore , has become his own.
the woman turned around, brushing her black hair off her face, beautiful and "clean".
-hi, she said, smiling,
he put out the cig. Went over to the bed. "Hi", he said, laying down next to her.
Half/hour
It's a wedding_i work as a caterer.
-hey,Ayoub, how much longer to the end of this bullshit ? i ask a piss-ugly, hyperactive, mentally screwed-up Arab.
he dosenT say anything_he gapes at me_he grins like a cheshire cat_his face twitches_he blinks his bung eyes_he jerks his head forward_he shoots up the whites_claps his hands_jumps_spins around_stops.
-half/hour, he spits it out_salivates_long spittle he flings around his neck like a scarf and darts away into dense crowd of drunken guests swaying,trembling,rocking,shaking on the dance floor sunk in a carpet which like a lawn has been fertilized with stinking feet, gobs of spit, dipterous insects, sweat and puke.
-half/hour, i repeat to myself as i limp back like a beaten dog to a dark corner where by a tall, arched window painted black by the night outside, my disgust and despair has built a doghouse draped in futility, misery, and slavery.
i have been slaving away another day_12 hours_for a fucking pittance_720 minutes of exhausting,debilitating, life-annihilating drudgery_3700 seconds of lying, acting, and pretending.
during the cocktail hour i couldnT bear the sight of a roasted pig with distended stomach_the pig gaped with black, burnt, incrusted with yellow lard holes for eyes at the fat, smeared with blood and spittle faces of guests_the pig held between its black stumps a lemon_there was also a prosciutto tree about 2 feet tall with transparent slices of meat which were like pages torn out from some book written by manS gross gulosity_plates piled up high with meat poisoned with fear_animals slaughtered to be shitted out.
that was before_now, iAM in the ballroom_a humongous interior lighted up with 12 huge crystal chandeliers made out of thousand of frozen beads of sweat_walls dappled with shadows of a faceless multitude_silhouettes of lives irrevocably wasted in alcoholism gluttony greed avarice stupidity_the guests fumble among slim-legged tray stances with silver dumping balls which like open skulls shamelessly exposed the content of their brimful with unbearable waste minds.
iVE been serving 12 monsters without eyes_without mouths_without ears_with dilated toothless hairy assholes impaled on stiff spines with hemorrhoids for tongues they reach for and lick and suck in raw meat.
iAM bleeding with sticky stinking sweat.
my face is whipped/slashed/cut with rank breaths_daubed with orders and complaints.
my black tux is soaked in sweat gushing out form pores into shallow ponds fringed with salty satins under my armpits.
my feet stink_they reek with pain_a pair of black sneakers nests corns wrapped in foul smelling socks.
grotty, obese, slouching motherfucker waves me over to come to his table_i jerk my body forward_i hobble_i take out a note pad covered with caricatures i have drawn before.
-yes, sir, what can i get for you, i ask him with polite impatience.
-YEAH!, he belches out_Johnny Walker on the rocks
-yes,sir.
i turn around and slowly wobble to the bar which like turd is mobbed by a buzzing swarm of boozers.
i bring the drink back to his table and stagger back to the doghouse_invisible and yet so ominously present inside which half/hour is undressing herself painful seconds.
you may wonder, and rightly so, how come despite my being so tired and disgusted with this place_this job_these monsters i serve, i stand still in the corner looking down at the black carpet.
itS because i must pay the fucking rent_$900 to a couple of appallingly ugly and dismayingly stupid yokels only god knows from where since he has always been blamed for creating this world and its hellish populace_only god knows what scummy womb my landdeadlords were shitted out, wrapped up in slime and excrement stinking up my life.
i must pay for a place where i can wash and lay down my exhausted, aching with futility and slavery flesh_to rest only to bring it back to work to serve fake, disgust-disguising smiles to a horde of faceless, heartless, souless, mindless, lifeless puppets_to punch in and out the enslaving certitude of a morrow_
iAM tired_so unspeakably beaten_i start hallucinating.
i can see my disgust clothed in baudlerian red velvet jacket, strolling among a hundred or so cloned from hypocrisy lives that drag behind them drunken with guilt regrets_stoned with fixation neurosis_obese with sinful past sins_pale and famished with illusions experiences_i can see my disgust now caressing regretS_bleeding wounds with salty insults_shlunking in neurosis' convulsed face viscous aversion_patting sin' celluloid ass with holy perversity_spitting in experience wide open eyes cataractal curses.
SUDDENLY!! loud piercing crushing noise CRUSHBRAAMBOOMBINGCLANKBANG!!!!rents the thick with boredom and misery membrane of space. some caterer has dropped the tray: broken glass, chewedup/spatout oddments, bones, napkins dirtied with expression they wiped off painful to look faces_
the bosses are running_with vindictive looks peeling off their red with anger faces. they are whipping/lashing/flailing with commands the horde of shitless scared caterers who have flocked to clean this beautiful mess.
-YOU! YES YOU! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU STARING AT ! GET A MOP! CLEAN THIS FUCKING MESS UP!
-AND YOU! BRING ME A NAPKIN,RIGHT AWAY!
The caterers; fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, girlfriends and boyfriends_every and each one of them like a cheap, toothless whore afraid of her pimp-master runs to get mops, brooms, napkins and_one shit-faced brown-nose asks_and what else?_anxious and fearfull to fulfill the order which like a ziplles fuck was rammed into her frazzled asshole.
The caterers come to work every day_punctual and obedient as slaves can only be_some, though they may have a day off will still call in to make sure that the boss doesnT want to whip their faces with his limp-whim dick. others, after having their cold, listless, lifeless carcasses revived in front of flat like their lives tv screens_illusion spinning dvdS_come to work!
how repulsive!_appalling!_they are at work when they steal 10 seconds to puff a smoke_their lips always dry and cracked with silent curses_they keep throwing over their slopping shoulders fearfull glances_shitlessscared puppets_always and forever on the look out for their "masters".
But, now and here iAM one of them_but not like them !_NEVER_I put on the show, let all and sundry use me and abuse me_then,at "home"when i hatch myself out of this cocoon of stinking,dirty tux, i pick up a pen and mock and desecrate the slaves and their masters.
iAm tired_unspeakably so_begin hallucinating.
I see belches flying up like bats, bouncing off my numbed senses_halitosis swarming like hornets, stinging my face with stinking stings_jackals_reptiles_huge fat spineless crocodiles whriting_blind elephants with long fat trunks pierced with eyes_cross-eyed vultures_skinned cows pigs sheeps_headless owls and eyeless pigs_
SUDDENLY! the 12 huge crystal chandeliers are ablaze with jarring light that rips apart the cloth of imagination_the end of the bullshit party_the drunken crowd of guests like mud slowly flows back into shallow cracks of their wasted but satieted lives_they are gone!
Fluffhead
A bunch of guys in their mid30-s is sitting at the bar_it's an early afternoon outside_the interior is drown in edge-blunting semi-darkness_five low lamps are shedding dark yellow piss like faint glare_that's all the light in the bar_the green carpet stained with drunken steps is black_an ungodly ugly bartendees is wearing red dress_her greasy almost dripping with oil blond hair is pull back_she is gaping at the tube hanging down from a streaked with black ceiling.
one of the guy, a short skinny man with long nose and big beady eyes leans to another guy and...
- hey, jimmy, would you fuck this broad?
- are you fucking out of your mind...wouldnT fuck her with a stolen dick.
- why not ? wants to know the short skinny man with his big beady eyes moist with a fuck pulling on his long eyelashes _he is beaming on the broad behind a bar_he also knows that jimmy fucks pretty much everything that moves and dosenT run up a tree.
- why not, jimmy?
...another guy jimmy has been swapping yarns about his fucking spree...says,... so i took her home...in the kitchen before i eagle spread the bitch i put four strawberries up in her ass...four fucking strawberries each the size of an apple. man...cum on her face while she was shitting those big red bubs...hahahahahahahahahaha!
he leans back in his stool with arms folded on his hairy chest and chuckles loudly lost in a reverie of a fuck and strawberries he remembers his wife ate later...
one of the guy, a short skinny man with long nose and big beady eyes leans to another guy and...
- hey, jimmy, would you fuck this broad?
- are you fucking out of your mind...wouldnT fuck her with a stolen dick.
- why not ? wants to know the short skinny man with his big beady eyes moist with a fuck pulling on his long eyelashes _he is beaming on the broad behind a bar_he also knows that jimmy fucks pretty much everything that moves and dosenT run up a tree.
- why not, jimmy?
...another guy jimmy has been swapping yarns about his fucking spree...says,... so i took her home...in the kitchen before i eagle spread the bitch i put four strawberries up in her ass...four fucking strawberries each the size of an apple. man...cum on her face while she was shitting those big red bubs...hahahahahahahahahaha!
he leans back in his stool with arms folded on his hairy chest and chuckles loudly lost in a reverie of a fuck and strawberries he remembers his wife ate later...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
