excerpt from page #35

[..]what is the general lifespan of a shock? is it now the loveless, and again, the faces, carrying the loveless respiration? who's the hyena? who imagines a loveless face? I know I do, and tell the tale believing that the loving face will be restored, like Jesus the Fairytale Queen was brought into existence, waving his magic wand around our nations shopping malls. accused of pedophilia and loitering. holding a typewriter to the sky, "cursed be these missing letters!"

relief, and a different story. where do the words go?

could I still convey my thoughts to you, even if there was a rare mismatch between thought and expression? would it be ok? if you treated it like a puzzle, and knew that I was indifferent to the the way you jigsawed it around, that I am content with you trying? asking someone to waste their time, is asking a lot.

look at the hyena with it's jagged teeth, throwing belly-roaring laughter left and right, could you for a moment suspend the image of me?[..]

[..]what if this ends, and the loveless faces are the ones passing judgment? the hyena, smirking like never before, making sure to also turn this into a staring contest. who would ever dream of looking away?[..]

excerpt from an undated page

[..] in the bar hangs a moose head with clawed out eyes. underneath it rests fourteen bamboo sticks. I fail to see the connection.

every time I want to light a cigarette I order a tequila. every time I want to order a tequila I light a cigarette. I note that I am balanced.

the outstretched female stomach rises from the floor and hisses between old teeth. I, who never evade reality, give birth to traumas in the midst of innocent dreams. I take a hint, and roll off the bar stool and tumble underneath the pool table.

I look up into the guillotine. to be is to become. I close my eyes and hear an iceberg calving. nine ball hits corner pocket. this is where desire is beheaded.

the inhuman, again made human.

the bartender calls for a cab. or in his words, a rather large pumpkin[..]

those brutal hands

this will end me

I thought it was silent
till it went silent

how have you inspired this pain?

I've never understood
what it is I'm not supposed to feel
like a bird on the wing in a swollen sky
my mind is torn by lightning
as it flies from the thunder behind

From Sarah Kane's 4:48 Psychosis

Because it is beautiful, and well worth remembering when you're having your regular 4:48 tea & typewriter sessions.

paper # 9, berlin, (..) march 2009

i'm stuck

and i don't know how to change that

stuck

a terrible word, when you hear it. or write it. it is one of those few words of absolute self-fulfillment, completely wrapped around itself, so that when you say "stuck", or write "stuck", it is stuck

stuck

my tongue tastes of cold steel when i'm stuck. which is strange, since that sense of being able to taste cold steel, is something ephemeral i've always related to my childhood. sticking my tongue out to taste my grandfather's reaper. or my uncle's hunting rifle. also my father's shaving-knife. all these secrets concerning cold steel that would never be revealed. are they my secrets? how and why do i remember them? once in a while; something uncertain, a brush of unbearable nostalgia, so unreal, but present, so alive. the tongue, scraped, it must be something else, the tongue, so anesthetized by strawberries, or insect bites

i roll one of my father's cigarettes, even though he stopped smoking ten years ago. i need this one, i have been dreaming about this smoke. i have always been looking at this pack of tobacco, with unbearably nostalgic eyes. now, ten years later, even though you stopped, i roll one

your judging eyes, i could almost change my mind

what should i say in your funeral? should i hold it against you, and disclose to everyone how cheap you are? how common? and how can i actually tell you how much you mean to me?

i'm stuck. i ran out of words just as, just AS, they were about to come, just before, right now. my words for you, your words. and i know that i'm talking about myself, that this is totally unfair, that i actually mean me, and my words for me, that it is one word, and that it is inverted, and written on a loose tongue, somewhere around where i grew up

and it holds more than my language

despite your advice, none of the girls would go to bed with me, or fuck, or kiss and hug or however it now was. i went to youth club after youth club, and i still do, go to youth club after youth club, only now, and this is different, i operate on arenas where i always win. too old now for fantasies and dreams. and insecurities.

and this: running for my life through boiling blood. and this: the nervous passion that brings it to the boiling point

stuck

stuck in idolatry and remnants from dreams, stuck in the sleeping, stuck in the waking

stuck, and surely not stuck

"Over and over again I fall asleep with my eyes open, knowing I'm falling asleep, unable to prevent it. When I fall asleep this way, my eyes are cut off from my ordinary mind as though they were shut, but they become directly connected to a new, extraordinary mind which grows increasingly competent to deal with their impressions."

Charles Lindbergh, writing about the twenty-second hour of his transatlantic flight in The Spirit of St. Louis

a sort of answer to neil addison based on an answer to me.

--

before the band comes in/ [poem long forgotten]/ the sequential oscillation of a spoon in a cup/ staring at the poem by NA, and now, instead of shifting, or coercing, or twisting, try linedancing your way towards a response/ leave all past behind


great stones cracking in blurred memories


leave all memory, prepare for that which is coming

what is coming?

leave all fear of what is coming/ the past is coming

memory too


isolate the cradle/ the helpless man, from an album of ghosts, is coming/ nothing survives on intention alone/ tear a horn off some gazelle, and show him a unicorn

memory too


travelled so far, no postcards to mum

paper # 20, the bus from rissani to fes, the 1st of may

desert sand, desert animals, desert men, desert sounds, desert talk, desert laughter, desert stories, desert pride, desert joy, desert knowledge, desert chronology, desert causality, desert darkness, desert wells, desert light, desert drums, desert fatigue, desert realities, desert stars, desert cold, desert wool, desert dreams, desert friendship, desert languages, desert confusion, desert compromises, desert dephts, desert drugs, desert tourism, desert wine, desert interests, desert bliss, desert piss, desert wind, desert lamps, desert egalité, desert coke, desert directions, desert liberty, desert choice, desert help, desert shadows, desert life, desert sand

desert whales

the white whale of the desert

to me, a cringing desert brick, a 300 meter high, unattainable dune of sand, to the desert berber an unattainable european kiss, a shag in paris, baguettes in the morning, desertless desert dreams

shameless desert illusions

desert hubris

the over-heated sunbed of the desert, no rational thought outside instinct

the heroes of the desert, jimi hendrix, bob marley and some football player, every other sentence uttered in their praise, the dromedars bearing their names

every little thing's gonna be allright

desert rye, desert tea, desert coffee, desert jam, desert bread, desert bugs and flies, desert time, desert patience, desert paralysis, desert will, desert gait, desert kneefall, desert heat, desert water, desert games, desert sounds, desert laughter, desert salutations, desert fraternities, desert drawings, desert tea, desert bugs and flies, desert sand

don't you worry 'bout a thing/every little thing's gonna be allright

the white whale of the desert, the broken harpoon of the desert, the artificial galleon of the desert, the flying kick of the desert in the pointless motion picture of the desert

the jean-claude van damme of the desert in the book of the desert written by the william s burroughs of the desert on the black typewriter of the desert

desert faith, desert hope, desert doubt, desert gods, desert devils, desert crucifixes, desert churches, desert minarets, desert fast, desert sins, desert commandments, desert covenants, desert sacrifices, desert answers, desert sand

every little thing's gonna be allright

tiergarten biergarten

all papers are lawfully reduced to ashes in

the great incinerator

a pen

another pen

another pen