by Gustavo Del Vecchio




This is a story about Horace, a lonely and perhaps forgotten man that wanders about in streets and thoughts. Each paragraph is to be understood as a different block, or section, or phase of his thought as it continuously drives to almost insanity. This is a profound homage to tradition and religion, as it is, too, a profound and sincere critique of our modern pessimistic time, together with its lunatic materialism, as Chesterton well said. The apparent dirtiness and gooey mudness of the text and the story must not be confused with the beauty and hope of the underlying message. This is a sad and funny story, but one that both reflects the ugliness of today’s post-modernism and the ever-present hope for Beauty to arise once again from our once powerful ancient morality.
I dedicate this to all of those that some way helped or inspired me to write it. But, specially, to the person that I most love in this world, my mom.

















Horace













Part 1 - Introduction

Your fingers, without hesitation, so ferverously audacious touching my avid face, pale to believe in this tale, and not enough they pass wading carefully the rest left all scared, but given skin, as if feeling the rain plunging down of the nowhere, waterrunning off in the bathroom suit glass like schweiß seeming something different in its shadow in the wet floor, maybe a terrible spermatozoa trip that is, all pouring likewise to the same spot, wet, floor, the same untouchable image still holding my ill secret mind, while the self-obedient palm-twisted, four-finger curved hand of mine moving imobile backandforth, the same Snow’s backandforth where you cannot know if the next forth will show me a new world picture, a uncertain but wantable future, or if the next back a new past, happy past, while it tries desperately to reach and hold also, also, please, thine scissors fingers and more, a hair, hiding a hidden face, that the voyeur cannot find the path to know, to feel the secret that lies behind the vain surface, legs closed tight still, and, and this, this finger slowly tapping the leg, hers, waiting perhaps, for something other than words and drownings, for the out-of-breath, the ongoing moment, action, arise ye ubermensch! Arise for the new dawn right ahead shining weiß and calling all the sons and brothers, excitingly to come in, welcome all ye wooers, please step on, come, come.
You crooked, spider-disturbed eye yours! Fixed with this fucking annachnidean that fucks every time everywhere and everyone that passes around, pissing her mischievous web all around, fooling both your own self, or dubling you instead, and forth till the innocent, though smart with his plans, are trapped, no way out, no, no, and the next thing he sees is a beautiful garden outside a house, not his, hissing snakes ready to seduce you, and of course last but not least a marriage ring right in your finger, well placed, which in turn places you wherever it wants, upright, in the soft corner of her old-lady’s sweater.

Wet. Unpleasurable. Losing time drying all of it. It. Who’s the one now?

Black space, void, a lack that drives until the little tiny dots get close to each other, and die, both die, ‘cause if they get too far they draw closer, and touching is death.

Why do you always get away from the waves? Walking alone along the vast shore, so much so dark-illuminating absence, not today my pale veil young Pierrot says the moon, nor red velvety blossoms flourishing for the knight’s rest, a sweet dreamlike voice mingled with the breaking of the tides, nor even wax to pass by, just those my two legs not daring to cross the invincible line. Is it not better to pretend to have fire between and around, Brunnhilde, some lusty wall that caused poor Miss Thisbsea so much, with love fully receiving Pyramus’s delta full with brown and dirty sediment from Ceyhan River himself. At least something. But no. No one to stop me. There’s no priest with a cross hanging on his neck handling both-hands the Handlyng Synne, Godot forgive us but neither is a Monica handling her insatiable milk which someone once wished to get drowned in the mother kangaroo's lap. Maternity, Augustine. Guess you indeed are the Salvador Dali mundi this time, let's cross thine heart woman. But in this days who can tell what sorts of shore she wander?


“Nausicaa is a pretty young lady, Ulysses says that she did look like a goddess, particularly Artemis. Homer makes a literary occasion of a love never explicited - while Nausicaa expresses a potential carnal interest for Ulysses, saying to a friend that she would love that for a husband, her dad says to Ulysses he would let her - nothing beyond that happens between the pair.”

Nausea everywhere.

Part 2 - Library

Those babel hexagons, I mean. Books books books, a lot of them, bollocks, no boobies, Borges you sick mad depraved old-man crying for these words and long sentences and all tautologies with it’s repetitions, worst dystopia indeed, asking himself why can’t I have something different, maybe not the again printed black little signifiers all around your eyes filling them with their insignificant meaning, a small delicate female nose placed against his right shoulder, the right nose and right shoulder, an flexible thin arm enlaced in his while her all warm-folded presses the corpses while walking in cold empty streets talking about how useless these words are but nonetheless using them. O, O, what a poor old-fellow, have you spat your shower today by the way, someday it will be from a drawing since you shunned the books, have you find yourself in your own labirint, in your stupid tatty motel where in tatters you live, sorry but here we don’t have multiple timelines to comfort your mind from the hand of harsh reality ungloved, this is it I’m afraid, or you have it or you don’t, nor even think in the possibility of the openly naked full-milky Madonna’s bosom, from Fouquet’s brush neither.

Part 3 - Motel

Who you thought i am, some tie to tight, hithering thithering in your stupid malleable hands, hearing those wary naughty sounds from the same body, and me likening to lick it, never could in those moments, flash moments. Just toss the toy already almighty gottess, am as were as usual the shameful gottoy. Toss the toy! Toss the toy! Lost the boy! O, Dullysses, I found the lost highway. Help, help! Indeed there to the crags’ embattled steep the laughing waters leap, always did, will ever, whenever, like evar, from apples to toys, ab mala! mala! Awake, ye bedman, to a new dokos, all too brightly smiley veil! Now the next thing ye shall see with your opened eyes and lonely closed hearts is the swan’s way where, as likely dipsy did the androgynous egypcean with his tricky dinky and the feminish famish hand in that piece of dirty nothing, Nihil Nile, shone fountains of matter with somewhat neversaw pleasure, the painter’s noiseuse’s kind, laid Helen the most silent rethoric woman, love-bearer, undecided one, nonsided beauty, accidentally substantial form, watching laughingly from the eggs the world balancing on one leggs as it went from one side to the other, phaloponnesian boring discourses. Atems versus Sun Worshippers. Pyrrhus with his two-sided victories. Lucullus, trying to be fancy in feign ways with both sides of the same, now down you went far ways with funny face. Lost Lucullus! From on high down to the universal law of victor and vanquished the world goes, as if Licentius couldn’t tell the distinctiondistribution in this order since the arid jester one willingly represented that wrongings as long as wrongly wrong are not all wrong unless the wrong itself becomes the order. And if we remember well that those things are good which yet are corrupted which neither if they were supremely good nor unless they were good could be corrupted, therefore, gentlemen, we have ourselves the not so mysterious triane unity. And so, my dear colleagues, shall us one more time desire to leap below from some high tower. And the fearful dame is still watchful, like an untouchable oyster’s pearl, or a pearl’s oyster, ye never can tell which one is the truthful truth or the court’s truth that them sides always were chasing against each other. Lust me’am! They searched and fighted and screamed and drunk from false bottles but none of which pursued with cleanness and passion the babybottle’s milk from Maria’s most pure and calm breasts. Lost me’am! Instead they go peeingpubbing and deedumming about, ever wrong, fighting and rattling thunderphrases over pinkypurple rattles, until forgetfulness comes and they smile with timidity at some innocent girl. Lonelylost Alices! Ricorso! Calm down, control yourself, Horace. Keep down, concentrate, lie dull with it, yes. Brannigans, awake! It’s your duty man: Mr. Strauss! I have my plaything too, under control, further doll I go, into the profound openly bunny hole, peeping toi through the looking glassy of these eyes that doesn’t move atall. Please call me your little Tommy! am up the leg ay ya drawers already. Lying on with depussy playing on, watch that pee beetoy in the word there, that goes right in the legs centre, point of mediation, la dullce vista. Then suddenly, O my love, why all this withering, twas getting fun, nothing I could do for your inflatable body. And now, by Aeolus!, now me gets a lass in bed sleeping out of lane never fallfilling love’s lack nor lure or less wi’ lakeshifts. Someone give air to this airless poor girl, breathtaking girl, hurry, its me now who is shriveling! Humpty, sit on this bed. Pumpty, having a great fed. All the scents and all the dreams, shouldn’t remember a man his sins. Uf. One two three, more more, fall five sex, in the eighth we shall be air back together, and its all feasting and fun. Tis, tis, tis love, that makes the bodies go round. Come back to me please, why cunt you really cumback, the real of you. Maybe i only don’t need you to be what you would seem to be, being in the eyes of others, in some other shape and texture, images, images. Maybe because the shore there is of thine the mess there is of me, sure, too much of a muchness for me. O but why when they said birds of a feather flock together, is the sweety fairy-tale gone i wonder, or is it not me same feather, don`t tell me that. And that wis the end ay ya drawers. Uf. Or maybe ye don't eat the feather ye admire after all, eh horace ye poet ye. Uf. Last but not least, we’ve to just take care of the fancies and the mouths will take care of ourselves. Its okey now. Passed. Fully now. Restart.
I don’t need to explain why control is good, every healthy man has it, take the damn stairs whenever I want, this marionette toy, take those plastic arms and stretch it as hard as possible, yea you clumsy thing, sure I can’t wipe that stupid smile off, or is it a hole, bet ya that it is your hole now, not mine! Even though what’s the problem i ask, what’s the matter you, it’s my role not yours to take some folded shoulder with a proud hand and serve as guide to some place else, unknown mostly, probably some circle disguised as squire with cold frozen windows showing the dusk or whatever you want perhaps the nothing itself or infinite possibilities for tomorrow’s next gathering with friends and lunch why not, you know you can always take the stairs right over there, this isn’t other ouroboros trap, so it would not have the satyrs, no, stars, stairs, laughing at us, if at this time they didn’t already received your warm frenzied foot-steps and black shoes running from what i ask, at me then, from me?, alone again. And, as the lonely snail Ionus Calcium noticed with sadness, she went off, pale, among those wastelands, mumbling dirges and stroking her harp, as if completely disdainful of me eternal (as she thought) lunar state. Descarted in the infinitum greyness my complexity by my being notbeing sensibly perceptive.


Part 4 - Dream


...latest news from the apparent serial killer that brutally murdered two girls in what appears to be a three-some session, the man is kinda tall, wears a somewhat brown suit, black tie, white shirt, we don’t know his pants, uneasy hair, weary face, probably with a cigar on the mouth’s corner, smiling at his glasses, fancy gloves, sinuous walking, drunk perhaps or it’s naturally natural this way. We are searching for little spots in his physical body in order to methodologically and with precision gather enough evidence to put this bastard into jail, yea, ya ass is not escaping this time ma fellow comrade, no, this time our precision will be medical precision, handing carefully the scalpel cutting your veins and organs, beating heart, open flesh, vivid blood, pulse, pulse. Same I think when he were in bed with the girls, lickering their pussies pulsing so wet I imagine, his hands so slow and patience throughout the hole body, holy skin, precision, control and precise fingers, systems, categories, aristotle’s analytics now flesh naked bodies old blake, young cherry-smelling bodies, full of curves and lines and meat, a perfect map, with its ondulations and mountains, harboring seas to the lost captain, and the shelter, the best part, downstairs, cozy and warmy. Until the unexpected, beastful, the out-of-control, frenzy: MURDER! MURDER! Hoppla! He's taking the life of them goodman bergy's marionettes! Screaming women, it’s the only thing they can do, no exit whatsoever, screaming so loud, horrendous scene, blood everywhere, scarlet billows from the shark’s toothless bites, in all the furniture, blood-covered carpet, on the walls, a primitive post-modern painting, doodling on this canvas, is it gone the doodle this time I wonder, stopped scribbling non-minded the pearly whiteness all around and all that jizzjazzing. Out of sight the old MacHeath that withered jackknife has. Look at this prick, idiot punk, murderer, finally displaying the corpses, clown-powdered faces resting absentmindedly on the blank pillows, so serious these faces, so without significance, in this redlighted room, ruddy room, redrum.

Dreams about the necessary gore, invade infest my mind ye demons, fill all the night along with your, or mine, most repressive impulses, because I’m a mad man, a bad boy, a filthy fuck pig.

Greetings, for the child have grown up, greetings to the new man that loves to confound simples gestures with tragic and heroic moments, seeing things that are not, three-movement horror pleasurable painful adventures with washing the dishes, some scylla coming at any moment from these waters, poor plates and spoons, to marry words with each other to some new and subversive meaning, like when you, you Horace, tried the same thing with her hand, trying not to remember the unpleasurable wet that morning in your hand, same hund.

Part 5 - Brothel

Truly and really a pseudo embryo, after all. Here I am drying all the land, until Lloyd comes and the flooding starts again, sour and sterile. Until a woman comes. Apple red cheeks. She says, as though not yet the babylon type: You’re not trying to know me, are you, mister, because these days we can trust no one, and I say no one, this is a brothel, she said and more babbling. Why don’t you continue your own repetitive movements my darling, yea the way you always do, not having the courage to open your mouth and let such a phrase pass thine mouth’s barren gates, if not some other will not hesitate without keys rape them before the uncertain unpredictable gentle-masked tongue do the rest, who would want that, lucky to have me indeed. Hips to and fro till the morning or the day that never comes, never overcoming search for that sacred pearl, well maybe not sacred, something worth, hippyhips, never-stopping pendulum, the birth of physics came nearly, or after, kinetics and everything moving along, swaying in the flux of nature, brutal wind shivers shivering leafs, river slowly passing the forests by the mountain, so close around and around, behind and infront touching curiously each ever and ever discovered and funny and circular parts.

Grinning face my little Alice my love, wandering us from buildings to buildings, delaying to blossom for me the innocent stupid or mysterious bloodelaries of a kid’s heart, unequivocal as usual, or the wrong here is only me, asking myself the always rosebuddy questions, a so small living here, the rainbow’s unknown grounds, colors dripping from a disco-ball smashing the abstract floor, how you’ve never fallen in these, golden pots never so close, eyes and hands can touch O pleasure in so dandling legs, later to suck a strawberry lollipop as a reward from this green paper, not those other history-telling papers my darling, wanting the Ballthus some other past, in times forever gone. How you’ve never fallen in these, always sharp-falling from hell directly to the already tedious abominable hairy fiend’s lap with a suit and tie from work, now the second, hunting preys. How you’ve never fallen in these, the cupid black hole right there in the backdoor calling for new arse adventures old experiences, those you’ve had enough for such a short time. But in these lightning houses who cares about tiger and cattle plays but the new youngfries comininage ready to proclaim shouting their territory of moving bodies after their tortuous path of liquorring booze boozy, if before the evernew shotshout to dionysus out of whose eyes breaks fire on the maenads that follow their lips weren’t yet occupied, leaving the shyness and waiting the so longed reveal under the dress circumstances, montre-moi la derriere, the kitty pinky netherlands, brave new world never seen before, only yesterday, don’t lose it!.

What about those big female sandy sandals that squish squash every poopy poor staying below, men in the dunes, all-sweeping waterfalls coming from the diamond staircases of the sky’s clouds, so distant, blue, white and the sun light piercing right through the eyes, as a knife in the glassy water, so terrible and beautiful, bright as the dew that wets, in these sharp and somewhat anywhat nowhat beautiful times. So is the Berggott Dorf Dogman with those thin female clown mannequins, thick in its thinness; the makeup makeup, blowing-maestroiani-up spectacularly through the looking glass of the inverted display’s windows. I am what I am not and He is what He is, said she long time ago. Toys they are, them toys, the modern couple. Illustrated by Jimmie the Wanderer walking a viconian circecircle around the lump iv a gassoon’s tail, goddess waitresseas Barnapple, gardening the pub with words of life and joys of wisdom, as the woody barrel’ tap goes hissing as joyfully and undisturbed as a master of a grandglorious all encompassing sinsinning plan. Thalatta! Thalatta! As the charmful dame strides from table to tumbling, prostituta in herba, wi the trembling and vibrating and alluring glasses of whatever you may to drown gulpyglupy the sorrowful days of labour without bread, guilty and fresh female flesh. In the muddle of nowhere they lied that night. Toys. On one side and both sides, not just the easy traditional opposition, not the now tiresome agressivepassive complex thing, but them all passive. Sugary m&m’s. Witwit. So pass Eve, this evening is yet only a child, don’t waste it. Ricorso. As the famous coloured liquor that Sham the Punman took without shyness and full with the showery fanny urinia, this day we got the colorless languid and whitey Fanny Pistor. A rainbow of scenes and stages, plaster statues of trojans bursting with plump muscles with Venus in their soul’s eyes, favorite dildos, combined with the glamour of the vogue, clowns whose only dainty ambitions is a motley coat, kings that of course don’t want to be kings walking without shoes in the fairy garden singing along with the chorus who wood exchange craziness for my senity. As you lick like it de finibus bonorum et malorum, as the two friends of Brutus said against the first masoch’s denier. So it’s all inverted anyway when you go pass it, Alice my deer in this Eve’s, anyway. Repetition isn’t it, palid faces with gold-platinum crowns in the place of the sweet fragrant garlands of some other past, forever lost now by the Proust’s visual merchandise with its all-blue clothes and empty memories. Witwit. O, but those chic birds and chic whips, the latter just resting low, lying quiet in those furnace’s furs, waiting to be used, waiting and waiting, whipwhip, digdangling mauve as dead on the now white once brownish proud Man’s skin. Candy, Bennie and Ronnie all soft-feeting on the green grass, lolling on briar patches, gracious as shamrocks standing two-legs with four, or five, sides waiting for the big moment. O, once there was a time that it did come, but now the ages are so quiet and superfluous fastidious fatuous fetid and nonfathersome, without the mysterious magic that timidly and powerful did with a respectful and charming awe comforted the hearts of many mothers and many a man.

Part 6 - Outside

The dazzling lights outside came rushing through the weak body, precious naturmachine with its locomotives driving noonstopp amid alleys and doors, unleash ye kraken from so earthly arid clubs, needing the tasty water tasting better after the shame glass, same old Horace, sham fantasies above neck, dirty bloody poverty under pants. And so shall you one more time desire to leap below from some high tower, away from the brothel, kicked out. So fast these things happens nowadays, thrown out of the window to the squares pof paf puf papum, (you don’t belong here mister you sickass drunkan fuck, next time I, no there will be no next time sir getout, yea yaright I’m leevaing), kicked in back still wondering if something wrong he said, (c’mon gentlemen we don’t need to hurry), there’s progress all around and forth, we’ve got all these tech already, smoke machines, new chimneys these, movement movement Mmmarinetti’s tedious repetitive tendencies, move along hurry, o just show him the next whiskey bar already or he must live, unfortunately.

Isntit sebaldy my friend, sleepy walking in endless circles streets to streets from streets to some always unkown knowable street that leads to a house that leads to a door and thereto a window to a beach. Pebbles! allways so nice to count them, if you could of course, the all so used malloy method manifold mays to mirculate the mebbles mocket to mocket, sucking them, counting them, till the infinite, making always the same old-new ways. The eightie lieddown for the first letter, eight gee seaball. Or is it an emm upsidedown: Dublin JJee Seaball. Of course! c’mon, lets continue the journey shallway? Fallowing straight upheaded to heaven through the samie same curse, perhaps there’s a shortcut, no, a hill to climb, no, this coarse hollowful of noughty signs, any boards, nicht, revelations to shine upon this reve all nation, nein, nein. Where to then, if not backtoback to the fancy stem point: dust to doomst. Or is it to powder? Contradictory, paradoxall, repetitive, unpredictable.
Why, these fellows wander around to write a book in the end, well perhaps not the end, beginning, middle it is not i am certain of that, already lost the count of the pebbles. But, you see, i can take how many i want in this beach, many, mine miny, applying the same to the pathways all scattered, the ones and everyones pointing to the same point, We only got to choose which middle, the poles doesn’t matter, nevel will, always were.

Thunder notes, words falling from the mouth not inclining to stop the order of letters and letters again and again, tundarr, allegretto sííí, louder my boy, you are not trying to seem clever in front of this woman I ask, not less robust the unlettered looks of those whose limbs walk lustily, Vuessa Majesta misma no es sino una ceremonia. Clevering this cleavery bolty phrases with golden garments veiling what was never there, clever clever, hold sooool that klavier, anyone notices some untune, discord? Any obscure truthful ugly word that escaped the guarded heart’s garden, leaving to hurt the other’s, O lies, how admirably sincere and calculated thou art. Stick with that tonal as usual, changing to atonal for fashion to catch a fish, for some complex all variable tones and phases, phrases, but beautiful and terrible as the Richard and the Third! Fair as the Blue and the Beard and the Show in the Castle! Dreadful as the Mack and the Knife! Then suddenly, uum pa beee, gross, stirry, quivery, trembles the foundations of the earth! Moving fingers there and downthere upthere rapid and slow as the music goes on, placing them in the right keys, careful boy, the right keys please, right words dangling forth, till the, no, not that key!, eyelids and brows turned up, startled, something’s wrong for sure, what happened, repair this. I loved all of them, yea, I don’t care about your belly, don’t be angry now, I’m sorry, where do you wanna go we go for now on, I agree.

Part 7 - Monologue with Two

Stupid mortal, worthy to be born from a thigh! But who would not prefer to sing a song of angels with downy cheeks and gay smile. With lameness, taunts and silly sayings, I shall be full of heart tyrant over the citadel’s breast, and Lena, my lovely companion, would take rule of the broad empire lower down. Lavish one, you can’t even take care of a woman. Gardening, picking and hoarding fruits on a greenish garden until you lose yourself, what was the use for the dedalo’s path if in the end of your end, in the beginning of your end and for all your lore you don’t know nothing about yourself and is still the same wretched fool you was before. You and Folly share the same shadow, so high in flesh and so low in bone, so one pound of flesh no more nor less is your share too for all your misses and madames. Guard thyself, you boy, for the proportions between the rivers that run today and the mountains are about one pound to half an Leounce. But what about the so dreamed nectar from the Fortunate Isles, and the pico of the dignity of mortal men that live happily as ever sharing the soul’s immortality with the gods intelligence, in between the standstill of eternity and the flow of time, interpreting nature with sharpsighted senses, hunting-power reason, king of the lower and familiar with the upper kingdoms. Rattlin’ over the bogs and frightening all the dogs with the brand new brogue. Most of all, with his protean abilities of ever changing form and costumes and morals and virtues, taking for granted good and bad as divised solely by him. And should it be so, indeed! And not a single upper Leviathan to mind our business up here, just the other one. Yet, here you are stranded with your dancing days all gone, looking so queer. Armless, boneless, chickenless egg. And then off you went on the unfortunate tries to see the lassies smile. But we know that it is not that way, warrior. And then down you went among the pigs, funny rigs and hearty jigs you did sinking your bubbling heart with Paddy’s cure. Whack fool the dull! In the night you dreamed dreams that were only dreams. You dreamed that with the grand all fearful cherub’s light you, in all grace and honor of the world, discovered the plain sight of beauty and good judgement to sit among gods on the throne of Dignity. But surely as the Venice guy remembered with such an eloquence and pride, beauty is the only form of the spiritual we can receive through our senses. Therefore paths shall I take through the same way as to be in plain sight of truth itself, and thereby acknowledge love in its purest form. For it is the duty of man to pursue love, for the lover is more divine than the beloved, we shall as human demonstrate that this is not just a gorgias’ rhetoric for simple women. Pay heed! For there is those who in flambolãno ways are cult and sage writers, cultivating wisdom the whole life and the culture of literature with its meanders, but in Venice are no doubt mere poets and wanderers for some cheap youth. Indeed, if you advance exactly fifty-two pages you shall see that the man for whom the path to the intellect leads through the senses can ever find wisdom and the true dignity of man is a lost man. Form and innocence, rigor and simplicity are the square that will make thee a mad man; and not a felix culpid will balance the turmoil thus made. O, but what matter some saying of some babbling, white-haired, toothless man, the same that disputed and reasoned of clouds and ideas, measuring the feet of a flea and marvelling at the voice of a gnat. Shall thou see with thine own eyes. Shaun I see.


Part 8 - Ending

In the train, starry floor, starry larry merry ladidadi hahaha, waiting the bright of the sun outside or is it another train coming, monotonous blue sky, none stars to show, shattering self-image in mirror mirroring thy mine face all together embraced, mind like this black tunnel swaying memories to memories, trying to find some meaning, no, not meaning, the place, the ungraspable unreachable unknown seductive alluring place. O where art thou woman to guide me, or just to stay close, our mouths one, our lips one, the tongues one, eyes both closed, my sweet love, where art thou?

Some notes about suicide, waahuu woopii, please remember me folks, after this there is no way you don’t react in some way or another, like the piñata in some childish party I am and always was as I know you know, that in a moment… puf! Nor shall thy mother of the sea her short-lived son again receive. But that which contains more reality is better than that which contains less reality, the beast of all possible worlds... No. Just like this? Seriously? Who are you now, some fucking prophet or something, maybe thinking you can fool me, your own self, idiot fuck, I dont give one, one only, one week for all the energy and crying and nonstopping thoughts about ya and O how I miss him so and O the kisses we’ve never had and O, the poet boy? and sleepless nights and adoration and curiousness about your writings and resentment and anxiety and more thoughts O my and O what’ve i done to him and sorries and twentyfour hours so lasting of pure longing and pain and text messages and conversations about the, yes, the one and only, and holy Molly’s words pointed directly unironically passionhearted all erotic at you, me, me, me. Imagine for a minute please the pleasing sound of grief of these poor ones, imagine the so dreamable dainty’s sadistic octic hearing pleasure of all those sufferings and screamings and rubbing corpses burning endlessly for Eva, sorry, a week, for this time is for him, you. Delicious, isntit? Yes, yes intits.

Talkinabout the coming christmas trees filling the space pretending to fill the gaps existing between ourselves and myself my mind my thoughts my slimylittle brain, wondering if it will splapof behind the thick bone, so thick, why always like that o lord, so thick your legs resting soft upon mine’s that evening when your chewing moving mouth were not hesitate to turn off the cream cake to my lips so timid, trying to remember if your hands didindeed after perhaps touching my face, I don’t know anymore this touch, loosened solely to rest in my still frozen legs, don’t move now, wading full naked through the silk only to back your neck givingly, kiss me now honey, yes, and this jump thing, throwing my object body like an object to prove the objectness of the gravity force while trespassing the normal suicidal thing thinking in your blackeyes brownishhair tightcheeks uprightsharpnose semihiddennipples hellishhips modernarquitectureskirts pulphands slowfluidwords brownishhair knottydottyeyes spreadvividneckbones all givingly to me slow passing to gone ways, vertical ways to concrete stone floor.