Why not...
well...
come on...
just a...
very quick...
painless...
who would even...
no one would...
maybe one or two people...
but, come on...
but I've run out of bullets,
my rope is frayed,
I can't afford a belt,
the bridge is too far,
I haven't paid my gas bill,
My toaster's in the shop
my knife is dull,
my brain is soft
I'm a coward,
I'm a procrastinator,
I'm a whiner
I'm a loser
I'm a pain.
Come on, really...
Why not?
Come on!
It'll be painless!
Quick!
No one would miss you!
No one would know.
But...
But.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Youth
Isn’t it strange? Isn’t it? I think it is… I was seen as a monster, but not that long ago… Not that long ago, I was 14 and watching a sitcom and there was this girl, not much older than I was, and I thought she was the prettiest woman I had ever seen, I thought she was spring incarnate and it’s probably the first time I felt anything that remotely resembled love. One day, my parents asked me if I liked her and I stupidly, and innocently, said that I did, that I wish she could be my wife. My parents and my siblings laughed, and they seemed so happy that I had a crush on some actress. They kept saying: ‘Oh, my little son likes Alyssa!’ And, well: I did. I was embarrassed that they kept saying it, but it was true, so okay.
Then I turned 17 and I met a girl who was the same age as me and we kissed and we slept together and I thought I had met my soul-mate, we were so made for each other, it wasn’t even funny! Until she met Richard and thought he was leaner and hotter and sweeter than I was and left me for him. I was heart-broken, but I had my Nintendo to fall back on, so it was okay.
When I turned 22, I met my second long-term girlfriend. She was 21 and people said we made a beautiful couple and I really think we did, we were sweet and innocent and we also fucked like rabbits on death-row whenever we were alone. But then she met someone who was nicer and smarter and older, but that was okay, I was old enough to get wasted by then.
Then I moved to Europe, to a country where the age of consent was 15, and that’s so wrong and gross. But I was 25 and I was lonely and I was horny, so I fucked women and I fucked girls and I fucked kids. 15 to 24, they were all fair game and I tapped all them asses, because I could and because they were willing and because I could. I really could.
In my mind, I still thought of that actress, who was about the same age I was. In my mind, I was still that kid, longing after an actress who could have been my classmate.
Then things happened so fast…. One day, I was 37. Fuck. But I was still the same kid. I was still attracted to firm thighs, flat stomachs, soft lips and innocent eyes. Once upon a time, it was cute and sweet that I had those thoughts, but now it was just creepy and wrong and disturbing. My body had aged, my hair had thinned, but my mind had stayed the same. I was still me, I was the same boy. A boy in a man’s body. How could I explain that? Well, I didn’t have to. My girlfriends were usually between 19 and 23, and yes: that was young. My friends, with their children and their grandchildren and sometimes as widower or more often than not divorces, well, I was envying them, sure: They had a family. But I know that deep down they were envying me because I was an almost 40-something and I was getting 20-something poon. And fuck: if that’s not happiness, then I don’t know what is.
Problem was: the older and fatter and uglier I got… Yes: uglier. They say an elderly man looks better than his young self, but that’s bullshit. Maybe you look better if you exercise every day or at least swim once in a while. But if you’re a fuck-up like me, sitting on your couch and drinking whiskies doesn’t make you age well, trust me. So, as I was getting older, I found myself disgusted by the women of my age: flabby skin, liver spots on their hands, saggy tits, fat soft asses. And the older I got, the better the young girls looked. And I don’t mean the 15 or 16 years olds (although a couple of my friends’ granddaughters, well forget about it: I’d tap them asses any day!). I mean the 22 year olds. Or even the 26 year olds. But by then I was just a dirty old man.
How did that happen? One minute I’m a teenager who likes a teenager and everyone thinks it’s so cute. The next minute, I’m still me, I still like young girls. But I’m 60-something so it’s not okay. Well, fuck.
Now I’m on my kitchen floor, my pasta are getting over cooked in the boiling water, my cat is somewhere or other cruising for pussy, literally. And the world is fading and that’s not cool. I’m old, but I want a few more hours. One more hour, so I can call my friends, okay: my acquaintances, okay: the people I talk to once in a while, and say good-bye. Just one more hour so I can call the girls I dream about every night, the girls who could never love me and who made me who I became. The ones, I dreamt about almost every night. Yes: I want to punch them in the face and smash their noses, but I mostly want to kiss them and hold their hands one last time. I want them to be near me. I want them next to me. I want one of them nearby. I want my fingertips to brush their young firm flesh one more time. But it’s much too late. I can already hear the worms eating my decaying flesh.
What almost makes me smile is to imagine them old as well, lonely or better yet: dead. That’s petty of me, I know. I’m such a child, aren’t I? But I can’t help thinking about them. About all the shes. All the hers. I say ‘all,’ but really, there were only two. Possibly three.
And I would really like one of them to remember me. But she won’t, she can’t. She won’t even know I’m gone. And if one day she hears of my demise, she’ll go: “Who? Oh, yeah… that name sounds kinda familiar. But I don’t know. Who cares anyway, right? Pour me some more wine, honey.”
Open Letter
Dear One,
What I was doing in Istanbul
Anyway, I was walking one day, somewhere or other, it all looked the same to me: cats everywhere, old blind men begging, the smell of half-cooked kebabs and dog piss in the air. But I saw a bar and entered, hoping to find some solace in the guise of a whisky or two. The Crow, that place was called. At least that’s what I guessed, since it was in Turkish, but there was a giant picture of a crow inside, even though it looked more like an ostrich to me. In any case, I found a table somewhere upstairs, and that’s when I saw you.
My first thought was that you couldn’t be Turkish, you were too beautiful… Casually – but tastefully – dressed, you were sharing what looked like a Campari with a dark-haired man, one of ten million in this God-forsaken city. I became jealous of him, instantly. I felt I had more to offer than him. Even physically, which doesn’t happen often. I kept stealing glances at you, hoping you’d return my gaze, but your elbows were on the table, head in hands, enthralled by the banalities the guy was probably spewing out. I could tell you had long legs under those blue jeans and the slightly-tight T-shirt you wore let me guess you had small, firm, well-defined breasts. They made me think of apples freshly fallen from a tree, begging to be bitten into, and I was more than willing to oblige, to see their stars. I wanted to bury my nose in your long hair and feel the smoothness of your skin. Our bodies would be one, entwined for eternity in a sea of peacful slumber.
In short: I wanted to fuck the living shit out of you.
Then, after what sounded like a rather contrived laugh, you got up to go to the bathroom, or so I guesssed. I didn’t think twice about it, I also got up and followed you upstairs. ‘There must be a God,’ I thought as I saw the WC was mixed. Or maybe it wasn't. I just conveniently decided to ignore that fact, though.
I waited behind the door (after checking whether you had locked it or not) and imagined you with your panties between your ankles, a light golden spray coming from close to what I wanted my fingers to fondle. Then the lock clicked and the door opened. There you were. You gave me a polite smile. I didn’t think: I grabbed you, pushed you inside and locked the door behind us. What happened next is ours, and ours only. You might think you didn’t want it, but somehwere deep inside you did, I’m sure of it. I understood rather quickly why you had come up here: it was your time of the month. But I didn’t care. I removed and threw aside that white spongy plug and enjoyed you flowing around me. In fact, it somehow made it better.
I’m sorry I hit you.
You were starting to be too loud. I’m sorry I destroyed that perfect face of yours. Sorry about punching your nose so many times. Sorry I banged your head against the toilet bowl. And the mirror. I sure hope that silvery shard wasn’t too painful to remove from your eye.
I figured that once I had you, nobody else should. Why would you, anyway? I am sorry I left you behind, sorry I left. Unfortunately for you, the music in the bar was too loud for people to hear us. Funny, Nick Cave Istanbul
Very sincerely yours,
Me
Friday, February 25, 2011
The Game
As the cigarette was slowly dying in the ashtray,
She undressed and showed me her new bra.
I feigned enthusiasm and hoped she’d soon leave
So I could watch the game.
Her hips gyrating, her tongue licking her upper lip,
She kept eye-contact and I thought of getting more gin.
Soon she started grinding her panties against my crotch
And sooner still I came in my underwear.
I pushed her off, calling her names,
Thinking of the laundry I now had to do
To get that stain off from my shorts.
She swore at me and scratched my face
With her badly painted nails.
But soon, all was back to normal
And I could finally watch the game.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Parties
Just another evening, home alone, time to party. Because, yes: I like parties, I like to have fun. As far as I can see, the only problem with parties is that they’re full of people. Boring people, drunk people, slobbering, dancing, talking people. Parties would be much better without them, don’t you think?
And so I organize parties for myself, what’s wrong with that? First, I get dressed up, a nice suit, no tie, no need to look stuck up. Then I make myself a cocktail. That’s another thing about parties: you go there, sometimes in the cold, sometimes in the rain, sometimes in the snow, sometimes in all of the above, and your only reward is a lukewarm beer in a cheap plastic cup. So it’s not so much a party as provided shelter for the next few hours. A homeless shelter at that, with drunk and annoying people. Okay, this isn’t fair… a homeless shelter would actually have people congregating for the same reason: a warm bed. And I’m sure they’d have interesting stories to tell. Instead, you have to plaster on a smile and answer the same questions over and over again: ‘So, what do you do? How do you like it here?’ Who cares what I do? I didn’t know I was supposed to bring my resume with me. For a while, I just started lying, I was saying: ‘I’m a maze designer.’ Or ‘I skin livestock.’ But I became a victim of my own smart-assness and they asked more questions, wanting to know more. As for the how do I like it here question, well, I walked for thirty minutes in the pouring rain to find a cab, then I spent too much money on said-cab and walked five flights of stairs to get here. Now I’m drinking non-imported beer that’s not even cold. So, in short: I hate it here so much, I want to jump out the window, but me doing so would nullify all the effort I put into getting here. So I’m staying for now, although if you keep talking to me, one of us will end up dying, and it’s not gonna be me.
Surprisingly, people seemed to get a bit offended at that.
So, now: parties just for me. I dress the way I want to dress without hearing people saying I overdressed or underdressed. I don’t need to hear people pretend to like my outfit and, more importantly: I don’t have to look at people silently judging me with a look. I also get to drink what I want to drink: a Martini, a Scottish single malt or Czech beer. Or all three, who cares? It’s my party!
I know, if I hate going to places so much, why don’t I organize parties at my place? Well, because 1: I am too kind to impose this on the few friends I have left. And 2: those friends would just come over empty-handed and imbibe all the good booze I have stashed, so screw that.
So, dressed the way I want, drinking what I want to drink and, finally, listening to what I want to listen to.
When I want to listen to it.
Some parties have so-called DJs, who are just people who want to show the guests how cool they are and how edgy their musical tastes are. Or they just have no taste at all and we’re stuck with Celine Dion or Aguilera for most of the night. I’d rather drown in a puddle of poodle-vomit than listen to a Celine Dion song. Not a fan of Aguilera either, but she’s kinda doable, so that’s okay. Kinda.
So, I’m listening to my own songs, dancing if I want to, drinking and sitting if I want to. I do what I want, it’s my party, I’m alone, no one is grabbing my hands forcing me to dance, squealing and thinking that this is exactly what I want to do. Seriously, bitch: if I’m chain-smoking and hanging on to my drink while lodged in the sofa, do you really think it’s because I want to boogy?
I’m dancing around my apartment, smoking as much as I want, without having the need to step on the balcony to be face-to-face with a blizzard, just because smokers are now a notch below rapists in our society’s eyes.
I smoke, I drink too much, I sing along and make a fool of myself, but the only witness is the mirror on my wall.
The reason to have parties is to see people you don’t want to see and work on a hangover for the next day. My parties are better: I get the hangover, but without going through all the idle chit-chat.
And, hey: pressure-wise, meaning women-wise: no problem. I don’t have to feel butterflies in my stomach when I see a beautiful woman. I don’t have to think about what kind of shit I could say to start a conversation, hoping to be clever. I don’t have to see another guy beat me to her and see them exchange phone numbers. I don’t have to watch happy couples kissing and dancing and laughing and talking. No, all of this is spared when I am face to face with my mirror.
Some people might think this is sad, but I tell you: tomorrow you’ll be waking up next to your loved one or next to whomever you picked up the night before, and your head will hurt and you’ll be nauseous and you’ll have to talk with that person over breakfast.
Me, I’ll be nauseous, sure, but I’ll be alone.
All alone.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Shut it!
What the--?!?!
Whoa!
Close the door, close the door! Close the fucking door! For God’s sake, for Satan’s love, for all that is holy and whole and for all the holes in the universe: close that motherfuckin’ door! No, really: close it! What the fuck?! Come on! How else am I gonna say it? Close it, shut it, make it un-open, mind that gap and make it disappear, ‘cause I fucking mind the fuck out of that fucking gap! So, close it, please, really, pretty please, super please: close it! For fucking fuck’s sake!
Yeah, so I swear, so what? Get used to it! I’m in here doing my thing and you’re in there fucking things up with my thing. I’m doing my thing, it’s my thing and myself, it does not involve you, so fuck off and close the door behind you because fuck off, really. What’s my language gotta do with it? Seriously! I swear, yeah! Woopdee-fucking-doo! I say fuck, so fucking what? Really! Close the door na-fucking-ow. That’s right, I’ve managed to nudge fuck in a one-syllable word. So fucking what? You gonna sue me? No? Then please close that fucking door!
I’m up to no good, I’m doing things you don’t wanna know about, I’m choking and pulling and oiling and rubbing things you don’t wanna know about, trust me. Really. Fucking trust me already. So close that motherfucking door before I tear it off its hinges and shove it so deep up your ass even your spelunking cock of a husband won’t be able to find it, not with his spelunking cocksucking friends, not with his cocksucking spelunking equipment, and not even, and especially not with his cocksucking cock. Yeah, I’m saying your husband is gayer than a day in May and I’m not saying that’s wrong, I’m just saying you’re gonna have to wait a long long time before he decides to spelunk your grotto. You dig?
So, come on: close that fucking door! I don’t know how else to tell you! It’s awkward enough as it is, but here I am monologuing or soliloquing or whatever! You’re looking at me and I’m spewing my shit, and I mean my shit is spewing out of my mouth for now, okay? But all I want is for you to close that fucking door, so why aren’t you closing, shutting, that fucking fuck of a fucking door? Don’t you know that the sooner you shut it, the sooner I’ll shut up? I’m on a roll, I can’t stop, I’m a whirling, swirling, spinning Dervish on a quest and you’re the ground I trample to find the truth, the absolutism, the ultimatism, the totality, the whole.
Yeah, whatever: close that fucking door before I get up and punch the living shit out of you. Literally. I’ll stand up, walk to you and punch you so hard you’ll shit this morning’s breakfast into your cheap K-Mart pants and then you’ll weep and cry and go on Sally Jesse or Geraldo or whoever is out there nowadays and you’ll moan about how much of a monster I am and you’ll talk about the time you shat your pants that time I punched you so hard, which is about to be right now if you don’t close that fucking door. Really. Don’t make me get up, woman. Consider this a friendly warning.
Yeah. Stare at me if you must. Look at me if you can. Talk to me if you have to. Speak if you are able to. Fuck! See what you make me do?! You turned me into a fucking English-as-a-Foreign-Language teacher and for that alone you deserve to lose your teeth and your tits and your eyes and your face. And your bowels and your flesh and your scalp and your liver.
Seriously: I will punch the face off of you if you don’t at this very moment turn around and close that fucking door behind you.
Atta’ girl! Good! Thanks! Great! Good. Really. Okay. Nice. Thanks. For your sake, really: thanks. Okay. Close it all the way. Yeah. And yes: I’ll be right down for dinner.
Thanks for letting me know, mom.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Single
He enters and straight away
The music is insanely loud,
He sits on a stool,
He sips his beer and once in a while looks around,
Then it’s time for everybody to be kicked out
But he drives home alone with himself
He enters and straight away
he smells the cheap perfume
The music is insanely loud,
He sits on a stool,
He sips his beer and once in a while looks around,
Then it’s time for everybody to be kicked out
But he drives home alone with himself
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