I return to the cave. I return to the Fliegenpilze. I return to the urine. And I unpack my vegan orgasm. This is freedom outside of the shopping mall, the supermarket, dial-in pizza and cornerstone liquor. I do not want any more of the world.
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Nutrition comes from a little blonde check out chick, who steps out from behind the cash register and leads me to a back room. It is a waiting room for the unsaleable produce. I fill my rucksack with a vegan orgasm. I don't know why she does this, but I love her and I don't try to understand her.
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I am paid to talk to a Tootsie and look at modern art. However the word calls my name. I spend more and more time battering away on a viking desire; eating Fliegenpilze and drinking my urine. I have reduced sex to a spectator sport. I only smoke for pleasure and alcohol is for the cough.
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Home is an above ground cave. There are no windows. I don't want to be seen looking out So I only ever look within. A day will arrive where the police will burst in the only door, It will be an eviction according to property law.
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For those who might survive these dark ages, that words may continue beyond economic oblivion, to thee i write. I write out of of necessity, because words will not burn
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not that berlin is much to write home about these dying days or any other day what was so great about it simply to be somewhere anywhere to get to anything anytime never having to tell anyone that it was fantastic so great they just had to go see it and it has grown a large pair of ovaries and it is happy and i am happy to reenter the womb of this behemoth and call it home where heroin runs in the streets like it does in the veins and the alcohol runs from bar to living room and bread and doughnuts and coffee scent the air with grass and tea in the parks and i can never over do it everyone is shitting out their ears there is no talk of going back to how it was no damage is permanent your praise has made me a better reporter a better man two realities no one wants to see on the street but if you ever do get anything published please do send me a copy won't you
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i am ready for your love lizzy come all over me here right now right here get that nervous energy out and best sit back down at the machine relaxed you that simply one vibrator is not enough
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bartender i will have one bourbon one scotch and one beer oh and pass me a vagina to go to sleep in like a creche i want to wake up in warm oats soaked in milk and honey softly cooked apple pieces on a street with no name sure i can pay in cash
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take what you want and grab a handful of what you need kick the bastards in the balls and when they are on their knees kick them again and when they are on the ground make sure they are not getting back up
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i would love to send my local baker to paris to learn how to make croissants, baguettes and bagels. i look into the mirror and ask myself why i have not learned.
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technology has destroyed physical distance but it has not brought us closer together. if anything the opposite, it has divided us and separated us more than ever. in the virtual hall of mirrors we are scared of anything that cracks our reflection and suspicious of anything that does not echo us completely. we have even grown afraid of our own virtual shadows that do not disappear with the sun.
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do not even look in my direction. you will not see a thing. and do me a favor, deny me. you do not know who i am. then bam one right on the nose. he goes down and i am out the door and on the street by the time he comes round. i jump into a cab and disappear.
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ditti is upstairs with the coating machine and gritti is filling bottles over in production. i am busy finding spare parts. give the bastards over in the packing station room to move to the music. palettes come in boxes go out.
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to whom are you writing? who are you thinking about? who is your audience?
i am not thinking about that. i do not know my audience. my audience is unborn.
do not think about your audience?!? you need a target market.
who do you think kant had in mind for his readership. or heidegger or nietzsche?
everyone and no one.
the target market is a trick for the modern age. i think a more important question to be considering is what are the conditions under which one writes. do not think about why one writes. if you even have to pose yourself that question then you are already in trouble. one writes out of necessity or not at all.
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the people are sitting on their hands unwilling to take the reigns merely handing it over to the supposed ruling class. why is a vegetable something to hide? the same old narrative of comfort and the billionaire class. there is nothing close coming to pass as such that would bring about any sort of socioeconomic equality. do you even know what you are talking about using these words? what kind of cool are you trying to invoke here? but you have the cash anyways so the kids come over here to check it out. i am all for freedom of expression, but even then- . no but. what do you want to do? and how do you want to do it? and under whose army do you want to be thrown into your prison cell? make your prison comfortable make it into a home so that maybe some day the children born into it do not recognize it as a prison.
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upstairs the table the toothbrushes and the bottles you think we are singing about someone else check yourself and what the hell was it Sarah tell me was it a serious Missgeschick?
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with the feathered friend i share old school angles on the breasts and mouth. the excitation in the other can be excitation in self. with no radical separation there are so many way to destroy yourself.
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Alex and Anna are heading back to the south of france to sap the confines of their own four walls. when the entertainment is not allowed the city just is not worth it.
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it will not be too long and i will be up there like a log sleeping on the river bank making a deposit.
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the border control never bothered checking the whole bag check through all the pockets take everything out and flatten it i was too much there i looked too unlikely it felt like so much of a waste of time there was sympathy in my eyes who wants to be working for the man i silently suffered the inconvenience that this would go nowhere but to take time out of my day make me wait slow me down my pace was all to quick back it up i could have broken something a freewheeling pests blowing in the wind pretending not to be otherwise than what we let into the country a simple in and out affair i left a lot of stuff here pick it up and move on eastward just wanted to pop across the pond like so many before me have a gander and if it didn't stick come on back over
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you have to eat what you speak the line is a sharp razor to walk but we put many steps on it not all admittedly but many and looking to put more on there in the future balancing act do the work get in shape keep the feet upon the edge for as long as possible until it cuts us entirely into two
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what once was a social skill all over town is now a secret talent a card trick playing the harmonica anyone could put a number out on a chromatic scale blowing like you breath singing drawing reading writing no more simply pick your flavor from the gelataria taste this taste that within four walls in a cone or paper tiger no dedication no effort any more a trickle in the martial arts on a mountain but mostly machine gun fire and computer games these dying days
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