With All Due Respect, But...

I want to go to a place where the streets don't smell like cat piss.

I want to go somewhere that has sidewalks.

I want to go somewhere that has a sewage system,
so the streets don't flood
when it rains for more than two minutes.

I want to be in a place where I can buy
grapefruit juice, limes,
or whatever booze I want, hoping
it won't suddenly disappear from the
shelves for no apparent reason.

I want to live somewhere where booze is cheap,
where beer is good,
and where pork is readily available.

I wish to go to a place where there are no
'unmellifluous' street peddlers screaming,
rivaled only by the grating ululating of
the call to prayer.

I wish I were somewhere that had no call to prayer,
or rambling dogs,
or moaning seagulls,
or murders of crows,
or hissing cats,
or honking cars.

I wish I could be somewhere that has places
I could get to by walking,
not by taking boats where people retch
or shared taxis where people smell.

I want to go to a place where things get done,
where men don't wear pointy shiny shoes
and where women don't cover their hair.
A place where the people are less welcoming,
but more efficient.

I want to go somewhere where the hot water
doesn't smell
and doesn't get randomly cut off.

I want to go somewhere where the electricity
doesn't go out in the summer months.

I wish I were somewhere that had its water pipes
hidden inside walls
and where the fuses didn't blow every time you
wanted to vacuum.

I would like to live in a place
where you don't hear the neighbors' TV
or the neighbors' orgasms
or sneezing
or pissing
or farting.

I want to go to a place where tea is not
a religion, where coffee is a drink
and not a fortune-telling gimmick.

I want to be somewhere where the people
don't fast for a month once a year,
a place where people don't
slaughter lambs
or fondle worry-beads
in false acts of religious reverence.

I wish I were in a place that
did not have the same picture of
the same man
plastered on every wall
in every room
in every office
and every school.

I wish I could be somewhere
where the films were not interrupted
halfway through for a smoking break,
a place where students didn't
read the papers or use their cells in class.

I wish I were somewhere where people
did less tutting, less sighing,
and less oha'ing.
A place where men don't have to
kiss each other on the cheeks.

I want to go somewhere where people
have heard of George Orwell,
Salinger or Victor Hugo.

I wish I lived in a place that was not
slowly but surely deteriorating
and moving backwards to a more
religious dogma.

I want to live somewhere that
has no bombs exploding
or isn't under the sword of Damocles
of an impending killer earthquake.

I want to go to a place where women know how to kiss,
a place where women want to kiss.
A place where women want to kiss me.
A place where women want me.

All of this could be bearable,
all of this could be all right.
All I need is someone to share
my sorrows and
my joys,
however brief they may be.

For, with the right someone,
I could bear it all.
In the meantime,
pardon me, but
I'll keep on
bitching.

Her hair

Like some cheap gimmick from the 70s, her hair changed color
with her mood.

I met her when it was orangey-red,
like the passion that was growing in my heart.

Then it became dark-red like the blood
that had poured from her veins
not that long before.

Her eyes and her smile were all
I needed, her skin soft
and flawless.

She cried and I held her,
she talked and I
listened.

Our embraces were never-ending
and all too short.
Her breasts a perfect
fit for my hands.

In the morning she would go,
leaving behind her the
smell of our
never-consumed passion.

She told me I was gentle,
that she needed me and
that she felt safe in
my arms.

Then she became a blonde
and told me her eyes
wanted to gaze into
the eyes of others.

She had started to
feel safe in the
arms of someone
else.

Now, she's reading
cards somewhere
on the other
side of town,
but don't
you need
a soul
to do
that?

Right

When the demons sleep and forget about us,

When the world is standing sideways,

I lay awake and gaze at your eyes.

The weight of sleep on my shoulders,

The day replaying in my head,

The regrets and fears,

All vanish

As I look at your face

And if, by chance,

I get to see your eyes light up,

With or without a smile,

Then I know that all will be well

Because looking at you

And seeing you

And hearing you breathe

Are all I could ever hope for.

And when, in the early morning,

I feel your warmth by my side

And your head on my chest,

I smile and shuffle back to my slumber,

Because all is

Right.

Sore Thumb

My life isn’t that interesting

and neither is yours.

I have nothing to say

and there’s nothing I want to hear.

Popping peanuts and

sipping a beer as if it were

Mana from Bacchus,

you drone on about

your day,

your worries,

and your hopes.

Me, I’m thinking

of my pillow and how

satisfying

tomorrow morning’s shit is going to be.

Yes, I should have done you a solid

and stayed at home with

my booze and

my worries.

But I always get dragged out.

Don’t get me wrong,

I’m not apologizing

for being me.

I just simply wish

You would

let

me

be.

First Meeting

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Women

Women. Women! Shit, let me tell you about women. You don’t know shit about women. I know shit about women. Key word here is “women.” Or maybe “shit.” Shit, I don’t know, same difference, right? Haha. You’re not laughing? That’s okay, that’s okay, my sense of humor is not for everyone. Anyway, yeah. Buy me a drink, light my cigarette and I’ll tell you about women. Excuse me? You can’t smoke in here? Well, fuck that shit, do I look like I give a flying fuck? Light my smoke and be done with it, for cryin’ out loud! Thanks. So: women. Yeah… First the drink. Whatever that’s imported, and served on the rocks. Only without the rocks. Okay, thanks. So… Women, yeah, shit. Women. They’ll love you, they’ll tease you. They’re ferocious. They can make a pro blush. What? Kim Carnes? Who the fuck is that bitch? A singer? Never heard of her, so you wanna go VH1 on my ass or you wanna hear about women? No, ‘cause I’ll listen to your Behind the Music shit if it’ll make you happy, but since you got me a drink, I thought you wanted to hear me talk about women. So, can I fucking tell you about the fucking women? Thank you. Yeah, anyway… so you gotta woo them, you gotta be a smooth operator. No need to ask. Huh? “Shar-day?” What the fuck? You going Swahili on my ass or what? What?! Another singer?! Dude, seriously: stop with the singers. Not fun. So: women. My trick is this… Call me crazy, but it never fails… You sit next to a woman. It helps if she’s drunk. Then again, have you ever met a non-drunk woman? I didn’t think so. Anyway, you sit next to her, you whisper sweet nothings into her ear. And then you stick the tip of your tongue in her ear. Moisten that shit up, boy. Lick it clean. Literally. Then, with your fingers, you grab the little ball of wax you got on your tongue. Put it on the bar, mold yourself a tiny candle and light it, saying you’re burning a candle for her. Because she inspires you or whatever. Now: you got two kinda women. One kind will leave straight away. Those ones are anal-retentive. Broomstick up the ass or what-have-ya. They probably think their shit tastes better, because they actually tasted their shit and the shit of a dozen other people and theirs was kinda ok. Fuck them scat girls. And when I say ‘scat’ I mean no disrespect to Cab Calloway and the dude cook-man from The Shining. When I say ‘scat,’ I don’t mean “bee bap dee doo bap” but shit. Plain and simple and brown shit. Okay, you got a point, I shoulda said shit from the get go. My bad. Anyway, that kinda bitch is all into scat and I ain’t. If you are, that’s cool, that’s totally cool. But me, personally: no. So, the other kind, as soon as you bring your zippo to the tiny ball of wax, they cream their pants and they want you. Right then and there. Now, the key is… The key, now, is to pretend you’re bored. You go back to your drink, light a smoke and ignore the bitch. She’ll rub your arm, ask you where you’re from. She won’t even think to ask what kinda car you’re driving or how much you got in the bank. She’ll want you. So you stand up and walk to your car. Now, there are two more kinda girls. Or women. Or whatever. Two more kinda walkin’-poons. No, not ‘spoons,’ poons. The one will just stay at the bar, too confused, too dumb, too shy, too whatever. You don’t need that kinda girl. You let her simmer in her own juices – literally – and walk the fuck out and get in your car and drive the fuck away. The other kind… Well, the other kind will follow you out. The other kind is gonna talk to you as you pay the valet and wait for your car. The other kind will try to act sexy and cool and all that shit. The other kind will climb in your car and tell you the dirtiest, nastiest shit you’ve ever heard in your life. That kind will be ready to fuck you senseless till you cry. To fuck you till your balls roll outta your nostrils. You’re laughing. You think it’s funny? No? You think it’s cool? Yeah, I thought so. That kinda girl is the kinda girl you’re looking for, ain’t it? Well, lemme tell you something, little buddy: that kinda girl is worse that the worst fucking whore you’ve ever picked up. Worse than the scabby, herpes-infested crack-ho you picked up, only to discover she wasn’t a she, but an unshaven he. You know what I’m talkin’ about? Well, you will. You’re still young. You will. Believe you me. What? What’s my point? Ain’t it obvious?! My point is they’re all whores. If they sleep with you, they’re skanky hos. If they don’t, they’re snobby hos. A ho is a ho is a ho. And that’s that. My point, my well dressed young friend, is: don’t go looking for sex tonight, ‘cause their ain’t no sex to be had in Hollywood no more. Just sit there, buy me some drinks and I’ll tell you everything you need to know. If you don’t wanna just sit here and pay me drinks, then go on your merry way. You’ll either get syphilis or kill yourself or both before the night is out. Either way, I don’t give a shit. Just get me another drink before you go.

Prick

“No, no! No. No, wait! No: really. Wait. Don’t, just, you know… Don’t be afraid or anything. Really. I’m not gonna hurt you. It’s just a knife, it’s not gonna hurt. Really. I know what I’m doing. I really do. You’re not my first. I’m just gonna plunge it in your neck, you won’t feel a thing. Okay, maybe a slight prick, but that’s it. That’s the last thing you’ll ever feel. You should be thanking me, really. What have you got going for you? You live alone, you’re overweight, you’re single. Your cat just died and you got gas. There's a pimple on your forehead that just won't go away and you're tired of cleaning your place and you haven't ironed any of your clothes for I don't know how long. Is Häagen-Dazs really the only reason you're still alive? Do you still breathe because you want to know how your favorite TV show is gonna end? Do you really want to hear the next album by your favourite band? Is it really worth it? You're only gonna get older and fatter and more bitter. You’re gonna be more and more lonely. Until you do unto yourself what I'm willing to do unto you right here, right now. At least if you go now, people might regret you. They'll remember you as you are now, which is, I mean, already not so great a thing… But if you keep going and I come back, people will just say ‘well, that guy probably did him a favour, I mean he just let himself go those last few years.’ You think you got friends, but you ain’t got nobody. Even your cat didn’t like you. He pretended to, ‘cause you were feeding him. But you’re alone, you’re not liked and you’re certainly not loved. Let me do you a favor… Yes? Really? Okay. Brace yourself. You’re about to do the first and only significant thing in your life. You're going to be famous for six minutes. I'm sure they'll have Cookies n' Cream in heaven. Then again, there’s probably no heaven. Okay. Here we go... Yes, I’ll water your plants, don’t worry. See ya on the other side!”

As Usual

You’ll wake up at six-thirty, like on any other day.

You’ll put on your worn-out slippers

and shuffle to the kitchen.

You’ll dissolve cheap coffee crystals in boiling water
While your two pieces of rancid bread get burned

by the toaster your wife left behind.

You’ll put a piece of something you do believe isn’t butter
on the blackened bread and watch it melt.

If you’re lucky, it won’t fall down

and collect the dust off the floor.

You’ll eat, trying not to think of yesterday

or the day before, or the one before that.

You’ll chew the toasts and wash them down

with the bitter coffee, burning your tongue.

You’ll put the dish and the cup in the sink;

they’ll still be there upon your return

and you know you won’t do anything about it

until the following Sunday.

You’ll get in the shower, shampoo your hair,

put soap all over body, but you’ll still feel dirty

and won’t be able to get rid of that smell

that’s been around you ever since you were born.

You’ll slip into your clothes, which fit you too tight

since you’ve gained weight,

and you’ll decide to start dieting immediately,

but you’ll have forgotten all about it at lunch time,

as you’ll bite into a warm tuna sandwich with extra mayo.

You’ll get in your car, drive to work,

and slave all day

to pay for the lifestyle you hate

and the life you don’t even want.

And you’ll try not to think about any of it.

You’ll try not to be disgusted by yourself.

And that’s gonna be hard.

Next to her

You’re sitting next to her and she’s talking about her life and you want to know everything about her: What makes her laugh, what makes her smile, what makes her happy, what makes her sad. You want to know her favorite everything: colors, books, films, singers. You want to ask her endless questions and you thought you’d never want to ask those questions again. But here you are, doing it again. And it feels good. It feels real.

As you listen, you can’t help gazing into her eyes and wonder what the world looks like for her and you’re thinking you’d like to watch those eyes close before she goes to sleep and you definitely want to be there when she opens them again in the morning. You’re thinking of her mouth, you’re restraining yourself from kissing her, because you know she doesn’t want you to, but you want to so bad, it almost hurts. You have a feeling that her lips would taste like raspberries. Her skin like apricot. And if you can’t kiss her, you’d like to brush her lips with the tip of your thumb, with your eyes closed, to not just see her, but feel her.

Of course you also look at her fingers as she talks and you wonder what it would be like if you could hold her hands. For just a minute. Hold her hand, caress her tongue with your tongue and look into her eyes. Sensory overload. It is unthinkable.

Of course, you can’t help but think of the other things, such as what is her favorite position in bed and what her moans sound like, or if she bites her lower lip to stifle the screams. You wonder what it would be like to run your fingers all over her naked body and use your tongue, from her neck to her perfectly-shaped breasts, to her flat stomach and lower still. And you're thinking about falling asleep next to her, holding her, basking in the afterglow, your bodies still glistening with sweat.

Meanwhile, she’s still talking and you’re still listening and you wonder what her boyfriend looks like and if he knows how lucky he is and if he treats her right. If he makes her smile at least once a day. If he dreams of her nightly and feels inspired by her.

You hope so. You really do. Because hope is all you have.

People

What? Come on! No. Yes… No, come on: Really. No, I love people. I love them, really. People are great. I love people, people are cool. Yes. Really. Key word here is people. And love. Words to remember: love and people. For me. Because that’s what I do:  I love people. Yes, sure, okay: all right, okay sure. I sometimes complain, but who doesn’t? I mean: come on! Yes… I’m on the bus and an elderly lady bumps into me without apologizing on her way to the exit… I let it go, I do. Because she’s elderly, she’s earned the right to be rude, really. It’s all good. If she were younger, okay, that would be uncool, I’d think ugly thoughts like shoving my ipod up her nostrils or wrapping my headphone’s cord around her windpipe… But she ain’t young, she’s old. An old cunt. A mean ugly old cunt who thinks that just because she made it to her 70^th birthday, she earned the right to step on other people’s toes. Well, how she managed to get that old without anyone stabbing her is anybody’s guess. But I digress. I’m saying it’s all good. A few people annoy me here and there, sure. But that’s normal. I’m sure even the Dalai Lama’s got some murderous thoughts once in a while, like if he’s in a queue at the supermarket and some fuck just steps in front of him. But, no: even that, I say it’s cool. Because you know who I really wanna kill in that situation? Myself. Because I am too gutless, too chicken-shit to say anything. I smile my goofy smile and actually step back to let the fuckwad step in front of me. How about that? So I don’t say ‘fuck the fucking fuck,’ I say ‘fuck me.’ And fuck my weakness and my goofy smile and the fact that I should have brought a pound of semtex to shove up this asshole’s asshole. But oh well. I also hate, no, come on: let me finish, I’m on a roll now. I also hate people who bump into me on the street and don’t apologize. What am I? Invisible? Yeah? Would I still be invisible if I was walking around with a loaded .44 in my paws? Would I? Yeah, probably not. Fuck… I don’t mean to be rude, but really: fuck. Then there’s the butcher who short-changes you, and the banker who goes to lunch when it should be your turn at his window. And there’s the waiter who thinks he’s God on Earth because he once jacked off a guy who had shaken hands with a girl who had seen Tom Cruise driving down her street. I mean: come on! What is this world coming to? I know I sound like a bitter old fart when I say this, but really: What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On? Can you answer me that? Probably not. I wanna smoke my smokes, I wanna eat my saturated fat, I wanna drink my booze, I wanna fuck whores, and I wanna snort coke. Yes, I’ll die. But I’ll die happier than the miserable vegan twats. And I’ll die faster, so I won’t have to see them, or you, or anybody else, for much longer. Because you all disgust me. I hate you all. Fuck you all. Let me be, let me live. I hate people, there is no redeeming value in us, we’re bacteria who like to argue. We’re sad and pathetic and dirty and smelly. And we bump into other people. I hate people who bump into me. I really do. And I hate meaningless talk and stupidity and poor people. And ugly people and sad people. All I have is my hate, that’s all I can give you, but brother: let me tell you, I got a shit load of it and I’m in a sharing mood. My words offend you? You think I’m a cunt? Okay, fine. I know I am. Just know that you are too, and then all will be better… There is no saving us. Except… Well, except one day I was writing an article for my paper, and I called it ‘people.’ And when I went to save it, you know what it said? It said: ‘Word is saving people.’ You think about that. Really: think about it. Oh, hell: who am I kidding? You can’t think for shit, can you?

But, yeah… other than that, no, sure, okay: it’s all good.

Bumming for Love

You don’t like me. In fact, you probably hate me.

No, scratch that. Let me start again.

You don’t know me, you don’t want to know me. You ignore me, you look away when I’m around. But you can’t avoid me.

You saw me before, you heard me mumble to myself and you saw me stumble in the streets at three in the afternoon.

I haven’t showered for over two months, and even then it wasn’t so much a shower as standing under a sprinkler for five minutes.

Your dog barks at me and your children point and cry when they see me.

I do not have a home, I do not have a bed. I do not have friends.

I used to, though. I won’t tell you how I lost it all, because you don’t really care and because I'm not sure I even remember. Besides, what's the point? I'm me, without a thing. I stink, I know. A god day is when I find a half-smoked cigarette on the sidewalk. A good day is when someone shoves a few coins in my hands and I get to drink something. Most of you don’t want me to drink, some of you sanctimonious pricks tell me "I'll give you money, but don't drink it!" What the fuck do you care what I do? You want me to go see a movie? Open a bank account with the 5 cents you're giving me? Yeah.That’ll happen.

I spend my days riding the subway or the tram. I never have a ticket, but nobody cares. I slump into a seat and fall asleep. I vaguely notice people not sitting by me because of my smell. I don't smell my smell anymore. I got used to it. It's part of me. Once, a controller asked for my ticket and when I couldn’t show one to him, he dragged me out of the tram to write me a ticket. I laughed so hard I puked all over his shoes. A ticket! How am I supposed to pay? What are they gonna do? Reposess my car? My home? My TV and DVD player? With some luck, they’ll put me in jail and then I’ll be fed and cleaned.

In fact, sometimes, when I'm in the tram and some yuppie fuck sits in front of me, I think about reaching over and snapping his neck. Then I'd go to jail for ever. It would be better than sleeping in a cardboard box in a park amongst dog turds. And even if I get raped, so what? Some action is better than no action.

I haven’t fucked for over 10 years.

How about that?

Sure, I jack off when I’m in my box, I think of the women I had and I think of the women I see in the trams.

Sometimes I jack off in the tram. Some women wear the shortest skirts. They get me hard and then what am I supposed to do? I'd rape them, but I can't be bothered. Too much work involved. So I jack off. My pockets have holes in them so I shove a hand in my pocket and two minutes later, I got one more stain I don’t worry about. People get scared, I don’t understand why. If I had a gun or a knife or ran around naked and screaming, I’d understand. But I’m minding my own business, pleasuring myself. Even a guy like me should have a bit of pleasure, no? And if you don’t want me rubbing one off, then wear fucking pants, you slut!

Last night, last night was wonderful. I was on my way out of a metro station when I noticed an ad for some shop that obviously sells bras. The model was striking a typical model pose, in black lingerie. She had long black hair, a great smile and a body that got me so hard so fast, I thought my dick was gonna rip a hole through my pants. I couldn’t help it. I had to have her.

I unzipped and started my business. I wanted her to see what I was packing. She kept smiling, I think she was impressed. It was just her and me. Together. I accelerated the tempo and soon enough, I felt the familiar tingling letting me know I was reaching the end. So I stopped and with my hand full of precum and grime (try not washing for two months, you'll be surprised at the shit that accumulates down there), I stroked the glass case covering the poster. She was still smiling. She was still happy. I could imagine how her taut, flat belly would feel under my hands. I could imagine her smooth legs wrapped around me. I felt normal. I felt like a man.

I started again. The world stopped. It was her and me, in a room overlooking a blue sea. Champagne, caviar, satin sheets and us. Naked, entwined, moaning, sweating. Together.

I think I screamed when I came, I must have. It was so powerful. And beautiful.

She was still smiling. Always that smile. But it was now covered with my own seeds, which were slowly oozing down her face, to her chin, down her neck and towards her perfect breasts. A pearl necklace from a man with no money to a Goddess. It was my gift to her. It was the only pure, white, and clean thing I had.

The world started again. I heard a few people gag, a couple of young men laughed and called me names. An elderly woman shook her head and turned around. I looked at all the people, my limp dick still hanging out of my pants, drooling onto the dirty ground. They didn't understand me. But that's okay, I didn't understand them. I tucked my cock back to its dark home in the griminess of my pants and stole another glance at my girlfriend.

She was still smiling, but the smile seemed forced, contrived. The beauty was gone. The poster now looked as if someone had thrown a water-balloon full of raw egg whites onto it. My whiteness looked sullied. I almost felt ashamed. Mostly, I didn’t want others to see the only purity I still had deep inside of me. So I stepped closer to the poster, stuck my tongue out and licked it clean, ingesting what had been in me a only few moments before, putting it back where it belonged. It was mine, it would stay mine. Besides, proteins are filling. Besides, it was as if I was licking her. Besides, who gives a fuck what I do?

Soon the poster was almost clean and I went on my way, smiling.

I hadn’t smiled for over ten years.

How about that?

And on my way out of the station, I even found a half-smoked cigarette on the ground. I picked it up. Post-coital cigarettes are always the tastiest. It had been a good day. Things felt like they were gonna be all right.

And if they’re not, well, I can always go pay a little visit to my girl. I know I’ll find her there and she’ll still be smiling at me. Forget the jacking-off, forget the smokes and the cheap booze.

Sometimes, a smile is all I need.rthe posterum and grime (for some shop that obviuit of pleasure, no? es later, I got one more staintes later, I got one more stainn I see in the tram.

 a park  over and snappin ghio it. O guI got used to it.  me? Yeah.  drink it!"rink something. ut a thing. I stink, I know. d cry when they see me.

Mrs Z

Mrs. Z’s door. They’re banging on it. They’re banging on Mrs. Z’s door. Why are they banging on Mrs. Z’s door? It’s not even seven yet, most people haven’t even left for work yet. Is that why they’re banging on Mrs. Z’s door so early? Who are they? There are three of them. Men. Three men, dressed in dark winter coats. Blue or black? I can’t tell, the hallway isn’t bright enough. Who are they? Three of them, like an unholy trinity. Their faces hidden in the shadows cast from their matching hats. And they keep banging on her door. Oh, why doesn’t she answer? The banging must stop, or I will go crazy, surely. They keep hitting the forever-remaining-closed door with their closed fists and their closed faces seem to stare at nothing in particular. Why Mrs Z? What has she done? She hasn’t done anything, she’s just a little old lady living alone. Living the life of a lonely little old lady. But they’re at her door, and it can’t be a mistake, because men like that don’t make mistakes.

So what is it? Am I the only witness to this scene? By now, the people who were sleeping must be up, because the banging must be echoing throughout the building, surely. I’m behind my door, in the safety and warmth of my apartment, looking at the three men through the peephole. They seem tall and twisted and Mrs. Z’s door is bigger than life. Why are they here? Why today? Why so early? Mrs. Z doesn’t work, surely they know that, so why not come later when there are less people? Who are they?

All I did was call.

And the banging continues, on and on, without a stop or an end or a break or a pause. Bang bang go their fists. Why don’t they talk? Usually, people like them say things like “open up!” or “we know you’re in there!” but not them, they stay silent, their mouths stay closed. And Mrs. Z? People in her situation usually say: “just a minute!” or “be right there!” or “I need to get dressed!” But not her, she is silent. Is she even home? If she is, how can she not go mad from the banging? It’s so loud! Won’t they ever stop?

Sometimes, Mrs. Z, she has guests. Strange guests. Guests that run into her apartment after looking left and right, as if afraid they were being followed.

And sometimes those guests are loud in their silences. They try to go unnoticed, but the shuffling and the door scratching at three in the morning wakes me up. Because I can’t sleep too well. Never could.

So, after a while, I just made the call because I thought that maybe Mrs. Z was in trouble, you understand.

And now here they are banging on her door and she doesn’t answer and they are louder than the silent guests.

Bang bang bang.

All I wanted to do was help, really. The noise wasn’t that bad, I couldn’t sleep anyway, but I was worried for poor Mrs. Z. Poor woman, living all alone in that big apartment of hers, looking out over the river and the forest and the blue sky, when the sky is blue. It’s not blue often, but sometimes it is, and it looks nice. And blue.

It’s been ten minutes now, they keep banging on her door; they will never stop – they are hypnotized by their banging and they’ve lost all concept of time. They must have.

Here’s the super of the building, running up to them, out of breath. Is he scared or did he run? He never runs. So he must be scared. Unless he’s out of breath because he’s not used to running. Probably a bit of both. Yes.

One of the men takes out his wallet from a side pocket, opens it and shows it to the super. Maybe it’s not a wallet, maybe it’s an ID. The super seems more scared and he whips out a keychain from his own pocket and opens Mrs. Z’s door. The banging has stopped.

Thank You Lord. If You exist, that is. They say you don’t, but I don’t know. In any case, thank You Whoever.

I stayed behind my door, in case I could be of any more assistance. They carried Mrs. Z’s body out of her bright apartment, the rope that killed her still around her neck. I think maybe it was an accident. The men left and the super left and I’m still looking at Mrs. Z’s  door, closed and silent.

And I wonder if I’ll be able to move in her bright apartment. From there, I would be able see the whole city and I wouldn’t have to hide behind a door anymore, I could stay behind the window, looking at the sky, when it is blue. And even when the sky isn’t blue. And I’ll make sure everything is going all right.

Just to do my part. Just to help. 

You understand, don't you?

Outside Target

An old woman got up

On the large metal trash bin

Outside Target,

Somewhere in Santa Fe Springs.

Some people laughed,

Others got scared

And some actually listened

To what she had to say.

“The world is coming to an end!

We’re all gonna die!

Beware!”

Three people laughed

And five turned away,

Going back to their cars.

Then one man,

Wearing a worn out Budweiser shirt,

Burped and told her:

“We’re all gonna die

One day, lady.”

The old woman looked at the man

And people thought she was gonna

Say something.

Instead, she opened and closed

Her mouth a few times,

Like a fish slowly dying.

Then she nodded

And got off the bin,

Ready for her weekly

Shopping.

A Conversation

“I want to know all about you.”

“And I about you.”

“I want to know your secrets, your desires, your perversions, and your fears.”

“Yes...”

“I want to know what makes you smile, what makes you laugh, what makes you you.”

“I do too.”

“I want to know it all, I want to understand you, to know you. To love you.”

“Thanks.”

“And then I want you to take this knife and slit my throat.”

“You do?”

“Yes. And then I want you to gather my blood and bathe in it. Before it coagulates.”

“Of course.”

“And then I want you to pleasure yourself. In my blood. I want your semen in my blood.”

“I see...”

“And when you’ve cum in my blood, I want you to get dressed, without rinsing yourself off.”

“I can do that.”

“And then I want you to walk out in the streets and walk around so people can see me all over you.”

“Sure.”

“And if you get arrested, I want you tell them you killed me because you loved me.”

“Uh huh.”

“And tell them I wanted you to kill me. And tell them you won’t do it again. Since I’m already dead.”

“Makes sense.”

“And my body... I think you should bury my body before you go out.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t tell them where you buried it. I want to stay wherever you think I should stay.”
“Right.”

“You can feed me to dogs, if you want to. Or you can bury me under an elm.”

“Sure thing.”

“And I want to rot there, surrounded by earth, devoured by maggots and worms, knowing that my blood and your semen mixed.”

“Fine.”

“And one day, if you ever get out of jail, I want you to find me and remove me from my grave.”

“If I didn’t throw you to dogs.”
“Yes. And I want you to make love to me one more time. No matter what I look like. Even if my pussy’s gone. And it probably will be. But it shouldn’t matter.”

“No.”

“You’ll manage. Use my eye cavity if you need a hole. Be inventive.”

“I will.”

“And once your semen squirts on my dry bones, I want you to shout my name and apologize.”

“For what?”

“For nothing, that’s the point. Apologize. Then laugh and put me back in my grave. You may piss on me if you want to. I don’t care. I’ll be happy no matter what.”

“All right.”

“And then I want you to go on your merry way and forget about me.”

“I can do that.”

“You must. But I’ll never forget you because you’ll make me happy. Truly happy.”

“Will I?”

“I think so.”

“And then I can fall in love with somebody else?”

“Yes.”

“And I can kiss somebody else’s lips?”

“Yes.”

“And I can cum down somebody else’s throat?”

“Yes.”

“And I can caress somebody else’s legs?”

“Yes.”

“And I can bathe in somebody else’s blood?”

“If you must.”

“And sleep with another corpse and start the whole thing again until I, too, become a corpse?”

“You never will. You will be eternal. You will be remembered.”

“Do I want to be remembered?”

“Everybody does.”

“Do you?”

“Me more than everybody.”

“Then why do you want me to forget you?”

“I said that to be nice. I know that even if you wanted to, you couldn’t.”

“I think I could.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I really do. It’s not that hard.”

“It would be impossible. You can’t sleep with a corpse and bathe in blood and forget about it. You just can’t.”

“I think I could.”

“I’m telling you, you couldn’t. But if you do, that’s fine. Once I’m dead, I guess it doesn’t matter if you forget me.”

“That’s right.”

“And once you’re dead you’ll also be forgotten.”

“No, you said I’d be remembered.”

“I lied again. Because I wanted to be nice.”

“So I won’t be remembered?”

“No. You’ll be another unknown. And they’ll hate you and they’ll fear you. And once you’re dead, they’d rather forget about you, and they will.”

“Don’t you think that would be impossible?”

“No. It would be easy.”

“I don’t think so... People can’t forget that easily.”

“Then it means you won’t forget me either.”

“But I will.”

“Then they’ll forget you, too.”

“So you’re saying: as long as I remember you, they’ll remember me?”

“That’s right.”

“Fine by me.”

“Fine... So, now, are you ready to use that knife?”

“Yes.”

“Will you really jerk off in my blood?”

“I can’t wait.”

“Then let’s do it and let’s be remembered.”

“Yes, let's.”

Wisdom

An elderly monk once told me that the secret of life lay in the undying hands of a ten year-old virgin. Thinking this a riddle, I smiled and asked him to tell me more; but he just said, with the faintest of smiles: “That girl gave a mean handjob.” And then he laughed and walked away, leaving me disenchanted.

Three years later, I walked all the way to India and met a wise man. When I asked him to tell me about life and its meaning, he smiled and pointed at my heart. Thinking this to be a deep sign, I asked him if he meant that love was the meaning of it all. But he smiled some more and told me that no, the secret of life is the heart. Because as long as it beats, you’re alive. When it stops, you die. “Not much of a secret,” I said. “I never said it was,” he replied. And here I was feeling let down again.

Many years later, as my hair became gray, people kept asking me what I thought of life and of its various surprises. I tried to be kind and honest and answer as best I could, but then I realized that I was the same man I was when I was born, except for the gray hair. And if people were dumb enough to regard this as a sign of wisdom, then they were too dumb for my honest answers. And so I started giving obtuse answers.

One day, as I left a disenchanted man behind me, I thought of the monk and of the wise Hindu and smiled to myself; and if I had had a hat, I’d have tipped it to them.

The Liar

Let’s see now, I’ve been up for barely two hours and I’ve already smoked fifteen cigarettes. What does that say about me? After all, I’m supposed to have quit smoking five months ago. My girl (okay, she’s not my girl, she’s the cheapest escort I could find, but for all intents and purposes, since I fucked her most of the night, she’s my girl until she leaves, especially since I paid her for it) is still sleeping, drooling lightly on my recently-washed pillow; it makes me wonder if her pussy is drooling, too. I want to hazard a peek, but I just can’t be bothered to lift the sheets. Plus she might wake up and I’d have to hit her again.

Okay, yeah, so I hit her. But as I said, I paid her, so there. Okay, so she’s not an escort, she’s actually a student of mine. We met at a pub, we talked, we flirted, we kissed, and we drove to my place and then there was screwing and hitting. She asked me to, though. Okay, no, she didn’t. But I could tell she wanted me to. She said: “pretend you’re raping me.” Right, no. She said: “fuck me.” But still, she could have meant that. She probably did. Isn’t there a rumor going around that all women fantasize about being raped? Well, she doesn’t have to fantasize anymore. She should thank me, really.

Shit, okay. Fine. So we didn’t actually kiss in the club. I had some Vicodins left from my surgery two months ago and I gave them to her, telling her she’d feel good. Well, almost. I never had surgery, but I know this guy who did and gave me his Vicodins. And she had a headache and asked me for Ibuprofen and I gave her my pills. So, she fell asleep and I drove her to my place. And then, you know: rape, etc.

Then again, could it be rape? She said “fuck me.” So she was consenting. Yes, she fell asleep after that, but so what? I slapped her to wake her up, I mean I didn’t feel like fucking a sponge, I wanted her to react, you know how it goes. In retrospect, the anal sex was a bad idea, she started bleeding. But no big deal. I fucked women when they had their periods, so: same difference.

Okay, okay. So it wasn’t a woman. But still. The story still holds, more or less. The sex, the bleeding, the pills. Right? In a way it makes it better, because a man, I mean: come on. He could have fought back, but he didn’t. Even if he was in a half-coma.

I gotta wash my pillow case. Okay, so it’s not stained by drool, but blood. I admit it, I get carried away once in a while. They want passion, they get it. A fuck, a kiss, a bite, a punch. It’s all the same.

No. I’m alone. As usual. I never smoked and I am watching the first snow of the year cover my street. I just jacked off to the distant memory of a woman hugging me in a street, of a woman kissing me for the first and last time. Remembering the taste of those sweet lips and that long twice-pierced tongue was enough of a stimulant.

I go back to bed. The woman under the covers moans softly as some faraway dream takes hold of her. I close the curtains, to shade the sunlight from her eyes.

And then I fall back asleep, alone. She by my side.

The man

There’s a strange man outside my window, he keeps tapping against the glass with his pinky ring and he’s smiling, but his eyes are sad, they remind me of the eyes of a weeping dog, there is so much sadness in those lonely dark eyes. His face brings rain and his laugh makes babies cry, why is he out there now? What does he want from me? His shoes look expensive, but his suit is cheap and wrinkled and it is a canvas for meals of time-passed.

I’m listening to Wagner, but it sounds like Chopin. His eyes are beady and wet, is he crying or is it the wind? The never-ending wind, that takes away the hats of the old men limping in the street, the wind that upturns the umbrellas and runs up the virginal thighs of schoolgirls, blowing their short skirts up, for the pleasure of the hatless old pervs. The wind that makes the lovers laugh and the loners cry.

The wind is moaning and crying my name, blowing snow flakes against the windows of bars, censoring the happiness of couples I will never meet.

Why is the man still looking at me? How can he be looking in? I live on the third floor, why is he on my balcony? Why now? Why here?

I then see him pouring himself a drink and light a cigarette. Just like me. I think I can understand his tear-filled eyes now.

Kriegburn & Kriegburn

“All right, Mr Kriegburn will see you now. Please remember, although this is your second interview, we by no means guarantee you employment here at Kriegburn & Kriegburn. Please follow me... Is that really what you are wearing for your second interview? Huh. Quaint. But do not worry, we by no mean discriminate against the poor here at Kriegburn and Kriegburn. If you cannot afford a suitable suit, you soon will. If  we decide to employ you that is. Please do not take what I just said as proof of employment. The final decision is to be made by Mr Kriegburn Sr upon consultation with Mt Kriegburn Jr. You are about to meet Mr Jr. He is a very fair man, you will see. Please do not mention that you bought your suit at K-Mart. I am assuming that this is where you bought it, right? Or maybe Target. In any case, it is not your fault if you do not have enough money for a proper real suit. It does not really matter, as long as you get one soon. If Mr Kriegburn wants you, that is. Wants you as in wants you to work here. Ha ha. I did not mean to make any salacious double-entendre here. This is a family-owned company for family-oriented people and any salacious comments are to be thrown out the window. Are you a salacious person? I hope not. We do not like salacious people. Oh, dear me. Here I am ranting along and poor you probably don't know what "salacious" means... You do? Well good for you! Education over money, kudos to you! Anyhoo, if Mr Kriegburn decides he wants to employ you, you will have to buy a new suit. Something more… Suitable. Something dark grey, or possibly navy. Navy is good. Mr Krieburn Sr was in the Navy, did you know that? Oh yes, he protected our country from the Kraut bastards, that’s for sure! Uhm, by Kraut bastards, I did not mean to imply that all Germans are fatherless people who eat boiled cabbage. No, I meant to make a derogatory comment against National Socialists, as I am sure you understand. Not that all Germans are or were members of the so-called Master Race. In fact, we have some lovely people working in our Frankfurt branch and I am quite sure that only a low minority are National Socialists. If that. Ha ha. No, no, we love everyone here at Kriegburn and Kriegburn. Pardon me? Kriegburn? German? How do you mean? Goodness, no: the Kriegburns have been in the good US of A for as long as the Mayflower landed here. Or maybe even before that. Columbus. German name? Kriegburn? Oh, I really doubt that. I think it's Dutch. Or maybe French, I wouldn't know. I do not partake in the pleasures of languages, but I do know what a good company is and Kriegburn & Kriegburn is that. And then some! Oh, yes. Fair and kind and pleasant. In fact, we usually do not hire poor people. I say usually because you never know what will happen during your second interview. But please, again: do not understand this as guarantee of employment. In fact, if I were you, I wouldn't hope too much. I mean, again: you seem rather “un-well off”. Ha ha. I mean, judging by your “suit.” And, quite frankly, well... Your heritage might not be completely appropriate. Understand that we are an equal-opportunity company here, but we just rather give more equality to people who look a bit more... well... civilized. I am sure your people struggled much and had to endure much hardship, but that is not really Kriegburn & Kriegburn's problem now, is it?... Excuse me? Offended? Well, you'll need thicker skin than that if you want to work at Kriegburn & Kriegburn. You? What? Do not want the job? Well, now... Of course who am I to say, but if you do not fully desire employment here, perhaps you should apply at, I don't know... Maybe a fast food chain or one of those growing coffee outlets that seem to be popping up everywhere.... Are you sure? Well, I understand, of course. In fact, I believe Mr Kriegburn is rather busy at the moment. But we appreciate you stopping by... Not at all. Good luck to you. We wish you the best of luck and look forward to seeing you again here at Kriegburn & Kriegburn. Do you need your parking ticket validated? Oh, good. Because we don’t really do that…” 

The Swans

In the pale moonlight of the early day, wedges of swans broke into the infirmary. All hell broke loose; feathers flying, blood splattered on the walls. Swans are vicious fuckers when you’re holding on to something that they want. Outside, dogs were howling, knowing that a brother beast had taken up arms against the master species.

A group of us found our way in a storage room and we got to thinking: what else would come after us, once the swans were gone? The squirrels? The badgers? The goddamn fishes in the fucking sea? We could hear a wounded man moan outside, in the hallway; his eyes had been beaked out –God knows how– by the immaculate-white feathery freaks who were still roaming the infirmary, executing the survivors. Soon they were upon the moaning man and in a quacking fury, it was all over. Silence. Except for palmed feet marching on the now-scarlet linoleum.

What was happening? How would we get out of here? What we needed was a rifle, or two, or three. Or a gun. Or a knife, at the very least. But all we had was despair and anger, which sometimes suffices, but not this time. Little by little, we psyched ourselves, getting ready to open the door and face the danger. Because, after all, there was no way we could stay in there forever. We had to do something. We were humans, for crying out loud! Humans! And they were swans! As far as we were concerned, up until twenty minutes ago, they were useless white birds lounging in ponds and eating bread crumbs that snotty children were throwing at them! We’d be damned if we’d let fowl take over our treasured way of life!

We were getting ready to make our escape, knowing some of us would not return home to their families.

The ensuing battle was fierce, and it was bloody. We lost a lot of good nurses and first year interns, but by God: we managed to get out. Later, the police came and napalmed the birds to death. We had a big barbecue, celebrating their defeat.

Swans taste like chicken.

We shall never forget the day the swans took over the infirmary.

Busy

I’m busy, I’m busy, sorry I can’t stop and talk to you, I’m busy, I’m just so fucking busy. Just look at me: Don’t I look busy? Well, that’s because I am. Very busy. Look at me, walking down the street with my suit and sunglasses. With my bluetooth headset stuck in my ear. Hell, I’m so fucking busy I can’t even use my hands to hold a phone. They’re busy holding a cup from Starbucks and a briefcase. I’m the image of busy, the allegory, the personification, the what have you. It’s busy-ness as usual.

Places to go to, people to meet, meetings to set up, appointments, rendez-vous, faxes to send, emails to write, calls to make, reports to write, files to file. Oh, yes, I’m busy. In fact, I am so busy I probably won’t even be able to drink my coffee. It doesn’t matter, I don’t even like coffee. Especially from Starbucks. I mean, come on: coffee from Seattle? Yeah, right. No, I won’t have time to drink it. I’ll probably pour it down the gutter in 30 minutes, once it’s cold. I don’t need to drink it. I just need people to see me carry this cup, because I look cool, I look like I’m on the go, like I don’t even have five minutes to sit and sip a cup of coffee. I gotta run all the time. Plus, Starbucks, everyone seems to like it there, so people respect me and they like me because I like what they like. I’m busy, but I drink Starbucks, how bad can I be, really? And my briefcase, just look at it. Italian genuine leather, more expensive than your television. It’s black, it’s smooth, it’s chic, it’s cutting edge, it’s sharp. You can imagine all the precious files I have in there, all the reports I’ve been working on round the clock for the past five weeks. It doesn’t matter that it’s empty. It doesn’t need to hold anything. It makes me look important, so it makes me feel important. Therefore, I am important.There are no two ways about it.

See me walk down the street, hear me talk to so and so in some far-off place, setting up a meeting in Dubai for next week, talking about having breakfast in Geneva and lunch in Rome. I am so fukcing busy. So busy I didn’t even have time to charge my bluetooth contraption, but it doesn’t matter. If it were working, I’d still be talking to far-off people in far-off lands that I’ll never ever see. I don’t even have a phone. I’m too busy to go get one. I can just phone people from my office anyway, it’s not problem. As soon as I get around to setting up a phone line. I just don’t have time for things like this. I’m just too fucking busy. It’s just insane how busy I am. I don’t even have time to look for a job, I’m so busy. Maybe one day I’ll find some time to find an apartment. Or a girlfriend. Or even a life. But I doubt it. Because I’m just so Goddamn busy, don’t you know.

No, but...

No, but seriously, not to quote Phil Collins or anything, but you know what I mean. How can I make you happy? I mean truly happy? Do you even know what happiness is? Okay, if it’ll make you smile, I’ll shove this pencil in my eye. This freshly sharpened No 2 pencil. Straight in my eye. Would that make you happy? No? Then what? I can jump under a car if you want. Yes, a moving car, of course. What would be the point otherwise? So, yeah: a moving car. I'll jump under one. An Escalade, a Taurus or even a motherfuckin Passat, it doesn't matter. Just say the word. No? Then what? What?! Gunshot? Yeah? You want me to go buy a gun, and... Okay, to go to a gunshop, apply for a license, buy a gun, wait 2 weeks and then shoot myself? Splatter my brain on the stucco and shit? No? Not even that? Then how about a razor. Veins, tub, hot-water bath, the whole nine yards. No? Still too messy? Then for God's sake, what? What?! Nothing? Really? That's pretty simple. Nothing. I do nothing and you're happy? No? Oh, you’re unhappy because I do nothing and yet you don't want me to do anything to make you happy. We got one of them Catch-22 here, don’t we? Shit. You be too deep and shit. Really. So I just stay on this couch and keep on watchin' the game and keep on rootin’ for them Wolverines, screamin’ “Go Blue!” or whatever and you’ll be completely content? Really? You ain't shittin' me? Okay, yeah. I can do that.... you what? You're going out? Okay, that's fly. For a while? Sure, no worries. For ever? Well... Define forever. Till I die? Or you die? Huh... That's some twisted shit, right here. What? I gotta stop talkin' like a brother? What are you talkin' about? I am a brother... Oh, is that right? Just because I got a sister doesn't make me a brother? Well, Mr Webster would disagree with you, you know. Okay, sure, fine. Whatever. Leave. See if I care. Take the cat with you. His purring bugs the shit outta me anyways. And the kids, take 'em with you. Just leave me some beers and the TV. And whatever you do, be quiet when you get the fuck outta here, 'cause the game is about to start.

I mean: shiiiiii’…got one of them CAtc to make you happy.  dbath, the whole nine yars.

Wild Pair

Sitting on a stool, in a bar I’d never been to before, next to a theatre I will never go to, she by my side. We used to be an item, a long time ago, a life-and-a-half ago. Two months ago. All this time without hearing a word from her. So I figured we were through, for better or for worse. But then, out of the blue, she calls me and we agree to meet.

And here we are again.

Will I still feel the spark? Does she still like me? Are we still a 'we’?

I don’t know what to say. I want to ask her a million questions, but somehow I feel it might be taken as a faux pas if I asked her who she's been fucking and why she stopped answering my calls. There will be time for that later, surely. Meanwhile, we're trying to have a conversation, but I feel we are like bad actors who have forgotten their stilted lines.

“And so what did you do last weekend?”

“Ah, yes. Beer is good.”

“I need to buy some more cigarettes.”

I keep staring at my soggy coaster. I have the impression it probably is drunker than I am, the lucky prick. What does it mean when you get jealous of a tiny piece of cardboard? I’m not sure, but it can't be good.

I look at a small chalkboard advertising the specials. Or at least I guess that’s what it is. I am, after all, a stranger in a strange land. A local-fucker, for all intents and purposes. Sure enough, she’s a local. All legs and breasts and lips. Only, they’re not mine anymore. But I shouldn’t think about that. I shouldn’t think like that. I have to salvage the friendship.

I have to, don’t I?

“What does it say there?”

Of course her monologue about me not yet speaking the local language follows and, of course, my feeble excuses follow that. Ah, yes, just like Abbot & Costello we are, our routine. We shan't forget that anytime soon.

Finally, she tells me it means wild pear liquor. I look at it again. Of course. I know the word for pear. And I've seen the word for wild before. There's a big park with that word in its name. Proudly, I share my finding.

She looks at me, exhales her smoke, has a sip of beer and proceeds to tell me that the park’s name is about a woman. A wild woman. She tells me that all women who have that name are bitches.

“Come again?”

She repeats: “All women who have that name are bitches. That's a fact.”

And like a ray of light from God above, like absolution, benediction, salvation, and exorcism all rolled into one, it hits me: The girl I am sitting next to, the girl I have been lusting after, the girl who gave me the best head in the world and who fucked my brains out for the better part of six months is nothing but an ignorant cunt.

I smile to myself and drink up my beer. I fish out a crumpled bill from my pocket and throw it on the counter, where it immediately starts doing battle with my coaster to soak up as much beer as possible. In this country, even money needs to get drunk.

I stand up and put my coat on.

“Oh, you’re already leaving?”

I don’t answer, because really: what would be the point? I just smile and brush her left cheek with the back of my hand, as a final farewell. I blink a yes to her question and turn around, leaving her staring at the chalkboard, facing her beer and her half-empty pack of cheap cigarettes, alone. Irrevocably.sation, btrel. Md her who she's been fucking and why she stopped answering my call.

A Letter

Dear asshole,

Dude, what the fuck? Okay, first: notice I didn't write 'WTF?' as I fear your pea-sized brain would not understand the acronym that even a retarded beagle would get. But I digress, I fear I'll do that a lot in this letter... So, as I was saying: what the fuck?
I mean, if I don't answer the first six times you call me, you think it's because you're so unlucky that for some weird reason you're the only person who can't get through another person? I hope not. I mean, let me be frank: I heard my phone ring, I saw your number on my screen and that is why I did not answer. You might have thought: 'Oh, no, maybe she got into an accident!' 'Maybe she needs my help!' Uhm: no. Plus, notice I said I saw your number, not your name. Because I deleted your number from my phone a while ago. And those phone calls you've been getting at 3 in the morning? With the giggling and the hanging ups? Yeah, that was me and my friends. We all think you're pathetic.

Yes, I said it: pathetic. I've been dragging you along long enough, now I'm bored with my own game. You bought me dinners, and they were great, but fuck: I had to look at you and pretend I cared about what you were saying, I had to smile as you were telling me about your petty dreams and your fucked up life. so your parents died in a car crash: get over it. You think I'm gonna suck your cock because you're sad? No. I sucked it once, and that's because I was drunk and you so looked more attractive than usual. Plus I was in the mood to suck cock and you were there so I did it. And when I sucked you I didn't have to look at your face or listen to you spew your inanities.

I mean, shit: I even told you about the guys I fucked and the screaming orgasms I had on some random guys' faces and you just smiled and played it cool and was happy for me. What is wrong with you, man? How pathetic can you get? You know, when you thought I was going to London for a week? Well, I didn't go. I just shacked up with a young dude and we fucked for seven days. That's why I was limping when you saw me, not because I had twisted my ankle but because I was pretty much literally fucked raw. But, hey: credits to you. The mixed CDs you made me really came in handy, we fucked to those songs you picked out for me and as I spewed my cunny juice on that guy's face (I've forgotten his name), I also sang along to those songs. You suck, you're a loser, but your musical tastes are cool. Feel free to send me another mixed CD.

I was kind enough to talk to you, I was kind enough to sleep next to you, I was kind enough to let you see me naked and I let you take pics of me. Come on: do you honestly think a girl as hot as me would fuck a guy like you? At least you got the memories of my tits and the taste of my pussy to get you through those long winter nights. And spring- and summer- and fall nights you'll be spending alone.

This might seem a bit crude, but oh well. And please, please, please: don't think that because I spent time to write you that there might still be a chance. No: there isn't, there never was. Tomorrow, I'm changing my number and my email address and my facebook username. I'll once again taste the sweet taste of freedom, I'll once again live a life devoid of you.

My advice is fuck yourself. Or better yet: shoot yourself. Or pull a Carradine and off yourself while you jack yourself. Double whammy for a quadruple loser.

Oh, and also: lose weight. Do yourself a favor. And stop thinking girls like me want to know a guy like you. You're not funny, you're not rich, you're an ugly fuck and you're clinically depressed. At least you have good credit -God knows how- and so you got to invite me to nice restaurants. You're welcome for the company.

But I'll take a good-looking poor dude over someone like you. Because fucking is more important for me. And I know, your friends and you will talk about me, call me a whore and what have you. But please... I've actually fucked two of your so-called friends. I won't tell you who, I'll let you guess, it's more fun that way. But I'll give you a hint: you call them your brothers. Ha. If only you were as good-looking as your 'brothers.'

So, there you go, I've said all I had to say. Eat shit, fuck off, die, rot in hell. I don't care as long as you stop trying to call me. And if you turn this into one of your pathetic sob-stories no one wants to read, I swear to God I'll hurt you in a way you've never been hurt before. You might shed tears after reading this letter. But that's nothing. I've done so many other things with people you love and trust, you wouldn't believe. Oh, oops, did I say that out loud? Go ask them. They'll say: 'fuck her, you know she's crazy. Fuck her!'

Yeah. Fuck me. That's the one thing you never got to do.

Think of my body and think of my lips (all four of them) and think of me screaming somebody else's name in the dark of the night.

Yeah. You do that. You think and you weep while I fuck and I laugh.

Cuntily yours,

Me.

The One

Hello. What’s your name?

I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you

Your eyes are lovely.

What a beautiful smile you have.

You seem vulnerable

and yet strong.

You are smart and funny.

You are perfect in every way.

You are The One.

My One.

I need to see you again.

It’s so lovely to see you again.

I missed you terribly.

Oh, you’re welcome.

They’re just flowers,

It's nothing.

But I am glad you like them.

I wish I could shower you

With diamonds.

One day, hopefully.

There is only you.

Let’s have some more wine.

Should we go to my place?

Oh, yes, I like it when you touch me there.

Please don’t stop, right there.

I’m so close, it’s so nice,

It feels so good,

Faster, faster,

Yes, that’s it.

Ah, that was wonderful.

I’ve never felt that way before.

You are magical.

I keep thinking of you,

You are wonderful in every way.

You complete me,

You make me smile.

Life without you is not worth living.

You’re one in a million.

Why don’t we live together?

Yes, you are wonderful, but…

No, it’s not that I don’t love you, but…

It’s not you, it’s me.

What can I say?

At least we tried.

I still love you. Really.

I’ll miss you.

Call me sometime.

Hello! What’s your name?

I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you

Your eyes are lovely.

What a beautiful smile you have.

You seem vulnerable

and yet strong.

You are smart and funny.

You are perfect in every way.

You are The One.

My One.

Pain

I am from the city hate built. I was born in a storm and when I die, the hounds of hell will be unleashed. I will forget your name, but you'll cry mine in your troubled sleep. I know, I sound like a Johnny Cash song, or a double Jeopardy clue, but the fact of the matter is: I don't give a fuck. I did many a bad thing, and I'll do things even Takashi Miike can't dream of.

I don't think this makes me a bad guy, I don't think this makes me hateful. I am just like you, and that's what bothers you.

The Grinch and Keyser Söze ain't got nothing on me, nor does Alonzo, as I paraphrase him. I might seem like just a bunch of one-liners, but that's who I am: a one-liner for all of humanity to pay attention to.

Next to me, Danny Trejo is a choir boy, and Heydrich is a presidential candidate.

Some of you might think that if I really was such a bad-ass, I wouldn't have to talk like this. But you are wrong. You are always wrong and I am always right. You are more wrong than when you figured that fucking that skank without a condom wouldn't give you AIDS. You're more wrong than when you drank funny-smelling milk, thinking it'd be okay. You're way more wrong than when you thought the chef would know how to prepare your fugu. You're just wrong all the time, you were born crying for the wrong reasons, you complain for the wrong reasons and, let's face it: you were just plain born for the wrong reasons.

I am here because of you. I am here for you. I am here to destroy you. I'll ram you, I'll jam you, I'll just plain fuck you up. If I'm ranting here, in front of you, it's not because I need to be feared. It's not because I need respect. It's because you need to know who you're messing with.

So, come on: try your luck, do your best. But before you do, tell me: pine or oak? It's on me. I insist.

I am your nightmare come true, I am that giant spider coming to kill you, I am the evil clown under your bed, I am the zombie coming through your window, I am your father armed with a chainsaw, I am your high-school crush laughing at you. I am the pants you didn't put on before your big school presentation. I am the exam you forgot to study for.

And you are merely you.

Your mind is reeling, wondering what you did wrong. You think you should have held the door open for me, or you shouldn't have stolen my parking spot, or you should just have said 'thank you' or 'please' or 'sorry.' All of it is true, all of it is wrong. I have reasons you cannot even begin to pretend to understand.

Because, yes: not only are you wrong, but you are also stupid.

You stupid fuck, you.

So now...

Cry, or duck, or run away.

It does not matter, for pain is coming your way.