what does this body has to offer?
the occasional piss in the sink, the toilet is too far from it
the occasional kisses and caresses **************
dizziness sweat weight loss of unknown source
crazy dancing imperfect guitar strumming ever smelling dirty feet ear wax zits stubble not dense enough
gas not bringing me closer to the nature of a star what does this body have to offer
dish-washing skills childish calligraphy thin arms
mirror reflections sincere smile
a fruit ever ripening inside of me
the weight i lose is the strength i gain
what does this body has to offer? nothing, that's the intended beauty of it
luni, 14 decembrie 2015
luni, 30 noiembrie 2015
marți, 13 octombrie 2015
I am the son/And the heir/Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar/I am the son/An the heir/Of nothing in particular
sunt mândrul posesor al unui pașaport pe care încă n-am la ce-l folosi
și al unei rezoluții pe care încă nu o pot implementa
sunt mândrul posesor al unui cearșaf prea gros, prea pătrat și care-mi folosește mai bine ca pernă
am o furculiță, o lingură, o farfurie, un cuțit, o cană
și o tensiune fizico-emoțională drept la inimioară
vreau ca singura continuare a genelor mele pe acest pământ să fie doar prin grămezile de fire de păr ce-mi cad
sunt mândrul posesor al unei imense abilități creative limitată de faptul că materia primă pentru creație e pe raftul de sus
nimic nu are sens și nimic nu e cert până nu dai seen pe fb și nu citești sms-ul așteptat
și pân atunci zaci într-o caldă și stricată atmosferă ca atunci când fierbeai lapte la țară și el deja se înăcrise și nici cafea cu lapte nu mai puteai face și nici iaurt
și totul merge spre o dureroasă certitudine când slaba ta inimioră
care te-a durut de 2 ori înainte să intri azi la curs
te năclăiește cu o neliniște tristă
și-ți pui telefonu pe silent
și al unei rezoluții pe care încă nu o pot implementa
sunt mândrul posesor al unui cearșaf prea gros, prea pătrat și care-mi folosește mai bine ca pernă
am o furculiță, o lingură, o farfurie, un cuțit, o cană
și o tensiune fizico-emoțională drept la inimioară
vreau ca singura continuare a genelor mele pe acest pământ să fie doar prin grămezile de fire de păr ce-mi cad
sunt mândrul posesor al unei imense abilități creative limitată de faptul că materia primă pentru creație e pe raftul de sus
nimic nu are sens și nimic nu e cert până nu dai seen pe fb și nu citești sms-ul așteptat
și pân atunci zaci într-o caldă și stricată atmosferă ca atunci când fierbeai lapte la țară și el deja se înăcrise și nici cafea cu lapte nu mai puteai face și nici iaurt
și totul merge spre o dureroasă certitudine când slaba ta inimioră
care te-a durut de 2 ori înainte să intri azi la curs
te năclăiește cu o neliniște tristă
și-ți pui telefonu pe silent
vineri, 25 septembrie 2015
vineri, 11 septembrie 2015
vineri, 28 august 2015
joi, 16 iulie 2015
vineri, 26 iunie 2015
there are too many security gates
and the window in my room doesn't fully open
for "security reasons"
a.k.a please kills yourself in another place
I always have a pen and a copybook with me to write something, except I don't
and when I want to, I don't have paper nor ink
there's this machine in the bathroom that sucks all the smell and steam
I leave the room dirty and when I come back
I find it clean
the cigarettes are either too strong or too weak
and I'm the last one to get to the filter
I saw only one redhead since I got here
and it's not you
I started drying banana peels
there's a blood stain on my pillow and I want to know its story
and the window in my room doesn't fully open
for "security reasons"
a.k.a please kills yourself in another place
I always have a pen and a copybook with me to write something, except I don't
and when I want to, I don't have paper nor ink
there's this machine in the bathroom that sucks all the smell and steam
I leave the room dirty and when I come back
I find it clean
the cigarettes are either too strong or too weak
and I'm the last one to get to the filter
I saw only one redhead since I got here
and it's not you
I started drying banana peels
there's a blood stain on my pillow and I want to know its story
luni, 18 mai 2015
luni, 4 mai 2015
doi ciuvăcei în chiloți tetra
se scobesc în nas și așteaptă să se răcească berea.
el își pune un prosop soios în poală
"ca să nu se murdărească";
mănâncă cu furculița și cuțitul.
toarnă bere în paharul murdar de vin
pahar în care se vindea votkă ambalată, ieftină
și ca pe tărie, o dă peste cap
paharele se lipesc de masa unsuroasă
mucurile de marlboro se zvârcolesc ca râmele în conserva de la balcon.
se scobesc în nas și așteaptă să se răcească berea.
el își pune un prosop soios în poală
"ca să nu se murdărească";
mănâncă cu furculița și cuțitul.
toarnă bere în paharul murdar de vin
pahar în care se vindea votkă ambalată, ieftină
și ca pe tărie, o dă peste cap
paharele se lipesc de masa unsuroasă
mucurile de marlboro se zvârcolesc ca râmele în conserva de la balcon.
duminică, 3 mai 2015
Tweet
Here’s how it all happened. They all got bored
at a certain point. The spectators.
One dog-kid is chasing the cat-kid trying to bite him.
A pair of dog-kids are dry-humping each other.
And the kids, they don’t know what’s really going on, because they think they’re a dog or a cat or a tree or a bee. They truly believe, with the naivety of their minds and the purity of their hearts and the chemical superiority of the drug messing with their sponge-brains. They truly believe they are what we told them they are.
Ephemeral schizophrenia is what this drug is.
At a certain point, all the actors
sucked. The game was on and nobody wanted to watch and nobody wanted to play.
And there were fewer spectators in the theatre than there were actors.
Now, all the seats in the theatre are taken. Everybody loves coming to the theatre now. Don’t think of it as cultural boom.
Think of it as illegal dog fighting, corridas, cock fighting, illegal boxing, all that crap. Only much better.
Think of it as people paying loads to see legal crime.
This is nothing more than buying the experience of live human suffering.
Now, all the seats in the theatre are taken. Everybody loves coming to the theatre now. Don’t think of it as cultural boom.
Think of it as illegal dog fighting, corridas, cock fighting, illegal boxing, all that crap. Only much better.
Think of it as people paying loads to see legal crime.
This is nothing more than buying the experience of live human suffering.
How we achieved this is, there’s this drug
that works wonders. This is how all
these spectators can flag a content smile of bestiality at the scent of human
bloodshed.
This is why there is a lake of child feces and small intestine dissolving in chlorhydric acid on stage.
This is why there is a lake of child feces and small intestine dissolving in chlorhydric acid on stage.
Nowadays junkies don’t have to go robbing
people to get money for dope.
If you’re in need of money, Come to the theatre, take the drug and go on stage. We are hiring.
Nowadays junkies are called actors and nowadays actors are junkies.
There’s no talent behind these creative impersonators of human emotions, there’s only the drug that makes you believe that is your real life. They have no idea that they are impersonating characters in front of an audience.
If you’re in need of money, Come to the theatre, take the drug and go on stage. We are hiring.
Nowadays junkies are called actors and nowadays actors are junkies.
There’s no talent behind these creative impersonators of human emotions, there’s only the drug that makes you believe that is your real life. They have no idea that they are impersonating characters in front of an audience.
Fuck 3D.
Fuck TV.
This drug – it’s the new deal. And it’s only legal in this theatre. Pardon me. It’s only available in this theatre.
This drug – it’s the renaissance of drama.
Fuck TV.
This drug – it’s the new deal. And it’s only legal in this theatre. Pardon me. It’s only available in this theatre.
This drug – it’s the renaissance of drama.
Fuck soap operas.
Fuck the circus.
This is the real freak show. The Greek theatre is history and that history is buried in books and those books are buried in shelves and those shelves are buried in libraries and nobody knows what those are because all they care about it this theatre.
Fuck the circus.
This is the real freak show. The Greek theatre is history and that history is buried in books and those books are buried in shelves and those shelves are buried in libraries and nobody knows what those are because all they care about it this theatre.
The previous play directed in this theatre was
really bad. This was the whole point. It
was so wrong that they all came to see it.
Oh, the actors’ performance was immaculate. I mean, they really identified themselves with the roles they had to play.
The advertising posters just said “Children”.
The spectators don’t want children playing the Christmas stories, they want the live reenactment of the crucifixion.
Oh, the actors’ performance was immaculate. I mean, they really identified themselves with the roles they had to play.
The advertising posters just said “Children”.
The spectators don’t want children playing the Christmas stories, they want the live reenactment of the crucifixion.
These kids, they go on stage, dressed as a cat
and some dogs and a tree and a bee. I mean, it’s a play done by children, what
did you expect.
Veins throbbing with the imagination unleashed by the drug we gave them.
Picture that you have been holding inside you, for a week, a massive shit. Picture the shit hitting the toilet bowl after that time. This is how the drug enters their young bodies. Knife through butter.
Veins throbbing with the imagination unleashed by the drug we gave them.
Picture that you have been holding inside you, for a week, a massive shit. Picture the shit hitting the toilet bowl after that time. This is how the drug enters their young bodies. Knife through butter.
It’s no biggie if you forget your lines. The
lyrics don’t matter when you’ve got a gory video.
One dog-kid is chasing the cat-kid trying to bite him.
A pair of dog-kids are dry-humping each other.
And the kids, they don’t know what’s really going on, because they think they’re a dog or a cat or a tree or a bee. They truly believe, with the naivety of their minds and the purity of their hearts and the chemical superiority of the drug messing with their sponge-brains. They truly believe they are what we told them they are.
And would you like some more blood with that
violence, sir?
They're all drooling over this bone under the name of theatre.
The rich, blood-thirsty businessmen, kids who grew weary of videogame violence and needed something more, housewives boiling with anger inside, craving someone else’s misery, penniless artists, in search of new experiences.
The rich, blood-thirsty businessmen, kids who grew weary of videogame violence and needed something more, housewives boiling with anger inside, craving someone else’s misery, penniless artists, in search of new experiences.
Ephemeral schizophrenia is what this drug is.
Meet me. I’m the
guy who benefited the most from this drug. I’m the artist in search of new
experiences. I’m the kid who got bored of videogame gruesomeness. And now, I’m
the blood-thirsty, rich guy. I’m the former schizophrenic. I was the prisoner
of my foul imagination and they cured me and I didn’t like that one bit. I used
to be Hitler. There were voices in my head and they chased them away.
All I was left with was this longing. Long story short, it is me who invented this drug. I revolutionized the world of theatre. I struck it rich.
I shat a diamond.
The actors on the scene and the spectators in the seats and on the stairs, all of them are my actors. I’m the director and soon I’ll be the dictator. I’m the only real spectator in the play I’m directing. These will be my followers.
All I was left with was this longing. Long story short, it is me who invented this drug. I revolutionized the world of theatre. I struck it rich.
I shat a diamond.
The actors on the scene and the spectators in the seats and on the stairs, all of them are my actors. I’m the director and soon I’ll be the dictator. I’m the only real spectator in the play I’m directing. These will be my followers.
I’ll spare you the scientific data, the
chemical recipe regarding the drug. What needs to be proclaimed is - it works.
You take the pill and you read the name of the character you’re supposed to impersonate,
and there is no more you. There is only the character. You are him.
You improvise, only you don’t.
You improvise, only you don’t.
I gave the bee-kid the drug, and all he knows
is he is bee. Therefore he buzzes, collects pollen and stings the intruders.
And the tree-kid. He just is, he barely moves. Depending on his imagination, he may have stopped breathing.
Oh, don’t get it up in your pants. Don’t think that the tree-kid will start taking in CO2 and produce oxygen and glucose.
However, the bee-kid does see the flower-hands of the tree-kid and chews on them as to pollinate them. The body of the tree-kid reacts, so the bee-kid tries to sting the tree-kid.
Before the play, we inserted a long needle filled with venom inside the bee-kid’s anus, just to make it more realistic. Inside the bee-kid’s butt, attached to the needle, is a polyethylene tube filled with chlorhydric acid. This was needed because the insides rupture when the bee stings.
And the tree-kid. He just is, he barely moves. Depending on his imagination, he may have stopped breathing.
Oh, don’t get it up in your pants. Don’t think that the tree-kid will start taking in CO2 and produce oxygen and glucose.
However, the bee-kid does see the flower-hands of the tree-kid and chews on them as to pollinate them. The body of the tree-kid reacts, so the bee-kid tries to sting the tree-kid.
Before the play, we inserted a long needle filled with venom inside the bee-kid’s anus, just to make it more realistic. Inside the bee-kid’s butt, attached to the needle, is a polyethylene tube filled with chlorhydric acid. This was needed because the insides rupture when the bee stings.
When the drug was first introduced in this
theatre, the former director strongly opposed.
The masses have had a taste of human blood and they thirsted for more, so he needed to be persuaded. I drugged him and I sent him a letter and he was to be the lover in Romeo and Juliet.
Yes, I know, I know, how childish and dull of me.
He had to play Romeo because he was Romeo. Such passion in that man. Went all the way through.
Totally stuck with the script.
The masses have had a taste of human blood and they thirsted for more, so he needed to be persuaded. I drugged him and I sent him a letter and he was to be the lover in Romeo and Juliet.
Yes, I know, I know, how childish and dull of me.
He had to play Romeo because he was Romeo. Such passion in that man. Went all the way through.
Totally stuck with the script.
And this is how I became the theatre director.
The bee-kid with the intestines and anus
melted in acid. My idea.
The tree-kid gone into a venom-induced come.
The cat-kid with the teeth marks all over and his Van Gogh-shaped ears.
Tonight’s play. All my ideas.
The tree-kid gone into a venom-induced come.
The cat-kid with the teeth marks all over and his Van Gogh-shaped ears.
Tonight’s play. All my ideas.
Wrestling is your conservative, lame dad
travelling in public transport.
This theatre is your rocker, bounty hunter, cool uncle on a Harley Davidson.
This theatre is your rocker, bounty hunter, cool uncle on a Harley Davidson.
What you need to know now is the drug I give
the actors is not so pure. It lasts for 3 hours at most.
The real product I created while in the mental hospital is supposed to have permanent effect.
Think of it as the opposite of all the drugs they used to combat schizophrenia.
This product - I have it. I have no patience for try-outs, experimenting and whatnot. Tonight I use it for the first time, and so are the spectators. Don’t tell them that, it’s a surprise.
Now, the drug and the actors on stage are not the most expensive, hard-to-get things to make these plays work. This high-quality entertainment requires tremendous effort.
Since I can’t serve popcorn in a theatre. Since I can’t serve crackers to someone who just paid enough money to end world hunger.
I have to serve the ultimate food.
Ortolans, they are called, these tiny delicious songbirds. Illegal to sell as food. Captured live and force-fed till they are ready to pop. Then they are quickly drowned in Armagnac, plucked and roasted whole. They are eaten in one mouthful - guts, bones and all.
The real product I created while in the mental hospital is supposed to have permanent effect.
Think of it as the opposite of all the drugs they used to combat schizophrenia.
This product - I have it. I have no patience for try-outs, experimenting and whatnot. Tonight I use it for the first time, and so are the spectators. Don’t tell them that, it’s a surprise.
Now, the drug and the actors on stage are not the most expensive, hard-to-get things to make these plays work. This high-quality entertainment requires tremendous effort.
Since I can’t serve popcorn in a theatre. Since I can’t serve crackers to someone who just paid enough money to end world hunger.
I have to serve the ultimate food.
Ortolans, they are called, these tiny delicious songbirds. Illegal to sell as food. Captured live and force-fed till they are ready to pop. Then they are quickly drowned in Armagnac, plucked and roasted whole. They are eaten in one mouthful - guts, bones and all.
In case you’re wondering why all the
spectators and some of the actors are wearing gas masks, it’s because tonight
is also about caution.
See, the actors who are not wearing masks are impersonating Jews. Pardon me, were impersonating Jews.
I’ll spare you the arguments of why this is right. You can find them in my book, “Mein Kampf”.
Jesus promised to come back, he didn’t. Hitler didn’t promise, but he will by means of tonight’s play.
Tonight's theatrical props are:
-a special syringe for myself, containing the purified, permanent drug.
- special inhalers within the gas masks, containing the purified, permanent drug in gas form, ready to be breathed in when I press this button.
-special instructions that are to be passed on to all the spectators. And reading the will be mandatory.
When the time comes, I will inject myself, looking at the paper that says Adolf Hitler, and I will press the button that will drug the audience as they read my instructions.
See, the actors who are not wearing masks are impersonating Jews. Pardon me, were impersonating Jews.
I’ll spare you the arguments of why this is right. You can find them in my book, “Mein Kampf”.
Jesus promised to come back, he didn’t. Hitler didn’t promise, but he will by means of tonight’s play.
Tonight's theatrical props are:
-a special syringe for myself, containing the purified, permanent drug.
- special inhalers within the gas masks, containing the purified, permanent drug in gas form, ready to be breathed in when I press this button.
-special instructions that are to be passed on to all the spectators. And reading the will be mandatory.
When the time comes, I will inject myself, looking at the paper that says Adolf Hitler, and I will press the button that will drug the audience as they read my instructions.
Now, as the rest of the Jews are shot on
stage, the chefs are preparing the delicacies. The last 3000 of their species,
the Ortolans, for the 3000 spectators in this massive theatre.
The trick is, the audience won’t get to eat the birds. As the audience is served at the end of this act, they will have to read the instructions before they commence the feast. The instruction plus the drug they will breathe will turn them into loyal followers of Adolf Hitler, and that’s me.
As of tonight, I will have an army.
The trick is, the audience won’t get to eat the birds. As the audience is served at the end of this act, they will have to read the instructions before they commence the feast. The instruction plus the drug they will breathe will turn them into loyal followers of Adolf Hitler, and that’s me.
As of tonight, I will have an army.
At the moment, the Ortolans are brought in
front of every spectator. They all take the instructions on the plate. Their
masks are on, I inject myself and I press the button. I’m dying to hear the
whole audience erupt in a deafening Sieg Heil.
And the audience. They all start to tweet and
chirp like birds. Some of them are moving their hands as though trying to flap
wings.
So I grab the instruction from a plate, near the burning bird. And I read it.
The Ortolan, or Ortolan bunting, is a bird in the bunting family Emberizidae, also called the gardener bird. It is a gastronomical delicacy, being protected by law against extinction and inhuman treatment.
So I grab the instruction from a plate, near the burning bird. And I read it.
The Ortolan, or Ortolan bunting, is a bird in the bunting family Emberizidae, also called the gardener bird. It is a gastronomical delicacy, being protected by law against extinction and inhuman treatment.
Fuck.
And.
Jews were definitely involved in this disaster.
And.
Jews were definitely involved in this disaster.
duminică, 26 aprilie 2015
F(e)asting
(dragostea trece prin stomac)
înainte de culcare
mă devorez
cu regularitate
intru în stomac
și rămân acolo
să mă alterez
{gura îmi pute a eu}
când eram mic
înghițeam guma de mestecat
înainte de culcare
mă devorez
cu regularitate
intru în stomac
și rămân acolo
să mă alterez
{gura îmi pute a eu}
când eram mic
înghițeam guma de mestecat
duminică, 19 aprilie 2015
luni, 6 aprilie 2015
femeile care inspiră devin după un timp femei expirate
ferește-te de ele ca de o piaz(d)ă rea.
ți se depune ceara în urechi ca-n stup
(tu râvnești miere)
ți se depune cenușa în piept
săruri pe retină
nebunia la colțurile personalității
și
visele în airbag
atunci când mă voi pizdăni de ceva
my past resolutions will be there to break my fall or break my neck.
cernez les cernes sur mon visage entouré par des rayons
les cratères sur la face cachée de la lune -
c'est la où je voudrais dormir.
ferește-te de ele ca de o piaz(d)ă rea.
ți se depune ceara în urechi ca-n stup
(tu râvnești miere)
ți se depune cenușa în piept
săruri pe retină
nebunia la colțurile personalității
și
visele în airbag
atunci când mă voi pizdăni de ceva
my past resolutions will be there to break my fall or break my neck.
cernez les cernes sur mon visage entouré par des rayons
les cratères sur la face cachée de la lune -
c'est la où je voudrais dormir.
duminică, 5 aprilie 2015
duminică, 29 martie 2015
marți, 24 martie 2015
autop(oe)sie
morticianul cu bisturiul în mână
și noi lângă el, împrejurul "cadavrului".
organismul de pe masă nu e doar suma părților sale
dar morticianului nu-i pasă
scoate și ne arată inima mortului din care țâșnește sânge
are o inimă mare, deci era omenos, zice
era deștept, zice
și pune creierul pe cântar.
nu vă vom învăța să nașteți
nu vă vom învăța să salvați
aici facem autopsii
luați bisturiul
înfigeți-vă ghearele profane în trupul cald.
tăiem în poezie
ca-n carne vie.
și noi lângă el, împrejurul "cadavrului".
organismul de pe masă nu e doar suma părților sale
dar morticianului nu-i pasă
scoate și ne arată inima mortului din care țâșnește sânge
are o inimă mare, deci era omenos, zice
era deștept, zice
și pune creierul pe cântar.
nu vă vom învăța să nașteți
nu vă vom învăța să salvați
aici facem autopsii
luați bisturiul
înfigeți-vă ghearele profane în trupul cald.
tăiem în poezie
ca-n carne vie.
joi, 19 martie 2015
vorbe de la colțuri de stradă
- crize de isterie, adică râs fără motivație
- a grăi asta-i cu țâța mamii în gură
- _care este rolul fumului în viață? ce se poate de fumat? canabis șî marijuană, așă-i?
- tutunul este o plantă care la uscare și prelucrare se confecționează țigări
- an zîs o discuție așa, prietenoasă, dar să fie cu alură inteligentă, cu bună-simț
- cu diferite miroase
- și din sânge, se duce cu sânge în creier
- fetelor vă rog măi băieți
- _ ca de exemplu, euforie; ca dimpotrivă, depresie.
- la paranoie, îți pare că fiecare din noi este napoleon
- costă mult, dar nu prea
- să nu tentați marea cu degetul
- chestii diestea de fumare
- te depresează
- familii binestante
- moarte subită pe loc
- lighioaie poftitoare de carne
- perioadă de vreme
- îi fut una di-i bag nasu-ntri nări
- Curcanul tot se gânde, șî și-o pățât? a? balada curcanului
- _da voi și-așteptaț?
_apocalipsa. - mie boală de gripă nu-ni trebu
- intelectualijime
- și ti chinui, fa dragî?
- toate drumurile duc spre cristi
- de-atâta c-așa!
- degetele sunt într-o corelație cu mâna...
- te doresc la tablă
- detailat
- pe mine mă enervește chestia asta
- dans le parc "Dalina Roz"
- o mî gî clor (OMgCl)
- oghealu-i așa de cald, parcă ești în gură la dumnezeu
- așela pe care-l exorcitează
- _daite 4 rublea...
_kakoe rublea, u nas lei! - să fac o faptă supra-eroică
- eu îl montajăz
- all and every single everyone of you
- _treziți-vă, mergeți parcă sunteți niște păpădii
parcă sunteți niște molecule - dă norocu și vă căsătoriți
- posedați un nivel frumos de cunoștințe
- jucărele
- slava domnului, iaca amu cu voi încep să mă încălzesc
- pân nu dai foc nu ardi casa
- concluzii mai profunde se cer
- este sintetic de-atâta fiindcă nu este natural
- îmi placeți de dumneavoastră
- ori este ce este, ori nu este ce este
- ascensiune în sus
- fierbințel
- vrei să dai într-un caîine șî dai într-un avocat
miercuri, 11 martie 2015
breathe slowly
to me
writing is like taking huge breaths
the ones that fill your lungs
the ones that make your lungs feel like
this is it. this is the climax of our existence. this is the most we'll get from this life.
as if, the lungs fill with the sun.
and
to me
not writing
is like taking huge breaths
of something resembling air
but
my lungs aren't fullfilled.
and so
maybe i should quit smoking.
writing is like taking huge breaths
the ones that fill your lungs
the ones that make your lungs feel like
this is it. this is the climax of our existence. this is the most we'll get from this life.
as if, the lungs fill with the sun.
and
to me
not writing
is like taking huge breaths
of something resembling air
but
my lungs aren't fullfilled.
and so
maybe i should quit smoking.
luni, 9 martie 2015
F(art)
torni apă fiartă peste viitorul zaț din termos
și o numești cafea.
supe-praf la pachet cu covrigi.
mâncare furată din frigiderul comun.
(nu sunt ceea ce mănânc
viața mea nu e praf)
un stomac făcut pumn (în cap)
înnodat ca un laț marinăresc.
pastile de răceală.
vin și vreo 5 de marlboro.
și o numești cafea.
supe-praf la pachet cu covrigi.
mâncare furată din frigiderul comun.
(nu sunt ceea ce mănânc
viața mea nu e praf)
un stomac făcut pumn (în cap)
înnodat ca un laț marinăresc.
pastile de răceală.
vin și vreo 5 de marlboro.
luni, 2 martie 2015
smell is the oldest sense developed in the animal world. even a single cell organism can identify the
chemical composition of the environment- it’s called chemodetection. those
damned artists will tell you that sight
or hearing or the sense of touch is the most important – you know, because of
the art and all that shit. what a bunch of ignorant sissies.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that one can learn more about a person by the way they smell, not by the way they look, or what they say. because people lie, and they tell you they ate foie gras for dinner, they wear armani suits and louis vuitton purses, but you can smell through their lies. you can smell they ate fries and garlic bread and their rags stink of infantile, illegal, third world labor.
this man next to me – he’s Cuckoo. Wacko. call him as you wish. Moonstruck. the given circumstances fail to prove otherwise. Not in his right mind. Nut case. you couldn’t hide that if you put on a mask, like he has. Lunatic. a bag full of explosives at his feet, a Colt.45 painted green in his left hand and a pink lollipop in his right, and every doubt is removed. Nuts. Screwball. Loony.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that smell is crucial in the process of reproduction. because of the pheromones. they tell the women to masturbate using only their fingers, then apply the “female juice” on their neck and behind their ears. it drives the men insane. it takes their testosterone levels for a climb of the everest. their testicles go to university and get a job so they could afford taking that woman on a date.
this man next to me – he sometimes puts his gun on his lap, takes off his mask, puts the lollipop in his mouth, sucks on it for a while, then puts the mask back on. long enough for that chick in the corner to almost finish his portrait. long enough for that photographer to take about 20 shots of his face. this man next to me – he doesn’t seem to care. he says, it’s useless. any information regarding my looks will be of no use to the police, he says. no need for visual reminders of this groundbreaking event of your maggot lives.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that shutting one or more senses enhances the others. they tell you, there was a monk who pulled out the eyes from his sockets, boiled his tongue and sealed his ear holes with wax. they tell you, this monk experience tremendous pleasure on by smelling and touching. until he died from high intracranial pressure.
this man next to me, he says, might as well shut your eyes.
then, why the mask, we ask. the native americans used to paint their faces before going to battle, he says. war-paint. many african tribes wore painted masks when performing rituals. that, and I’m a huge joker fan. you know, the whole “ why so serious” scenes. then, why not face-paint, we ask. and he says, I’m allergic to face-paint. wouldn’t want to die all ugly, red and swollen. but you already are, I say. so he turns towards me, winks and whispers, I know. his lollipop breath smells of a diabetic-candy lover, bleeding gums and a recently-quit smoker.
why are you doing this, a fat girl asks, sobbing. they cancelled my favorite tv show, he laughs. that, and I have a point to make. that, and I want change. can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. and the fat chick start babbling something about how she’s gonna change, how she’s gonna start eating healthy and exercising more.
this man next to me, he puts the lollipop on his lap, takes off his cheap mask and puts his gun near his mouth. maybe the others think, this is it. soon, they get to escape. the police will give them warm blankets, some oxygen masks, the press will give them attention, maybe they’ll even be on television.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you each person has a distinct smell. our sweat has it’s own fingerprint. unique. the chemical components in the sweat, they are the result of our diet, interactions with other people, our emotions. you are what you eat. you are how you smell like.
they all think, this will be over soon. all with the cost of a little stress and a ruined pair of underwear. the obese girl, she stopped sobbing and is now smiling. no more exercise for her. getting back to those crappy, rich in carbs foods. getting back to being a couch potato, satisfied in her own misery, like a pig in the mud. a happy life obtained with the cost of extremely low expectations and the abortion of all aspirations. this man next to me, he touches the gun with his lips, looks at me and winks. kisses the gun and then shoots the fat girl in the stomach. 10 points for Gryffindor, he shouts. and I say, you could have gotten 20 had you aimed for the brain.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you, you can smell fear.
but I did hit the brain, he says, and giggles. it starts to smell an awful lot like fear in here. the others, they stare at the brown spot covering the girl’s ass, getting bigger. the spot, not the ass. it gains ground like an oil spill in the ocean. I know they all smell it. I can smell them smell it. they smell of disgust and fear.
they tell you about an experiment they conducted. they had some men watch horror movies, their reactions and emotional states recorded, and they collected their sweat individually. each sweat was sprayed in a different room with a woman inside, doing day-do-day activities. the chemicals in the men’s sweat caused the women to experience the same emotions as the men watching the movies – fear or disgust, mostly.
I can smell the fear and disgust, but I won’t give in to it. no, this is far too interesting to experience these kind of emotions. that, and I have been trained. the others, they smell the remains of the fat girl’s last meals. I don’t smell it because I choose not to.
at X classes, as we call the, they tell you, there is crap everywhere. you cannot avoid it. what you can avoid is, at least, the smell of human feces. this is why these classes are held in a public toilet. or so they say.
this man next to me, he smells like peeled oranges, urine and toothpaste.
they tell you that you are most vulnerable when you sleep. because when you are asleep, your sense of smell shuts down. at X classes, they never answer questions. they never tell you how come ammonia wakes you up after you faint. how come your roommate wakes you after you fart that thai food into a balloon and release it right in his face. all they teach at X classes, it’s been scientifically proven. or so they say.
the man next to me smells like it’s all going according to plan. the blood of the dying girl smells like vitamin C, iodine and repressed self-loathing. this man, he turns toward me and whispers, you guys haven’t asked my name yet. his breath smells like he was the weird, home-schooled kid who wore glasses. his mask smells like rebellion. and we ask, what is your name. and he says, just call me G. and everybody smells like the don’t give a shit about why he wants to be called G. so I say, why G? and he says, because a lot of people are looking for me, and think they will pleased when they find me. and he winks again and he smells like self-confidence. I must smell like I’m finding this very entertaining. indeed, I do.
we call those classes “x”. X, short for Eccs. Eccs, short for Evening Classes for the Consolidation of Smell. short for, you are a loser with no job who finds a promising add in the paper. 1000 dollars just to attend some classes of “self-improvement”. short for, you know there is a great chance your organs will get harvested or you’ll end up sucking and taking dicks up your ass forcefully. short for, you have been eating nothing but cheese puffs for the last week and you don’t really give a fuck anymore and your survival instinct is pretty much as active as your sex life.
yeah, maybe G really aimed for the brain of that fat girl. when your gut starts growling, you forget you are an evolved being that lives in a complex society. you forget you have parents, if you can call them so. you forget there is such a thing as social aid. you forget there are shops to steal from and you forget that web-cam sex pays good.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that disobeying the instincts dictated by your nose is either a demonstration of true power or lack of dignity. they tell you, during the holocaust, the jews swallowed their jewelries when taken into ghettoes and concentration camp. the jews, they ate whole diamonds and golden necklaces and rubies and sapphires. and then they shat it all. they tell you, it’s not an easy task, shitting diamonds in a poorly improvised toilet in a jewish concentration camp. most of them didn’t have the time to retrieve all their riches from their shit. they tell you, a severe diarrhea was like betting on red or on black in a casino. if the diarrhea went in the shithole, you just lost a fortune. if you weren’t fully retarded and you didn’t shit in the hole, you saved your long life savings. and the nazi guards noticed how the jews collected the riches from their shit. they tell you, most of them jumped right into the pool of shit, ignoring all the stink, and dug in, looking for diamonds. the smell of shit, covered only by the smell of annihilated dignity. they tell you, the nose really knows what’s best for you.
you shit on the millions of years of evolution and the circumvolutions on the brain.
it’s your stomach who’s in charge, and there’s nothing you can do but go to those damned classes. the stranger-dangers ads don’t work. so you call. you go to the X classes and you get the 1000 dollars as soon as you enter that public bathroom.
and they tell you, from now on, you are free to stop coming here. they say, you are also free to keep coming to these classes and do something with your life. smells like cheap convincing skills coming from a loser salesman who works in a public toilet. still, you keep coming. it smells intriguing. you keep coming for such a long time, you are a veteran. and they notice you and they think, you come in a public toilet 3 times a week to hear interesting facts about smell. they think, you come here because you are loyal, because you have principles. and they promise you, someday, you will get to meet the Perfumist. they test you. start giving you a thousand bucks every time you come to those classes. maybe when you’re rich enough, you’ll stop coming. maybe you’re not so loyal after all. you can smell them trying to trick you. you get richer every week, you keep coming, and they tell you, the Perfumist is interested in your personality.
that’s what they all say, they are interested in your personality.
G, he leans toward me and whispers, do you know who I am. his breath smells like severe acne during teen years, self-help books and the villain everybody likes. he asks, do you like art, and I nod, no, and he says, I can smell you lying. he shouts, are there any artists in here? I can smell a monologue and an already prepared answer to his own question. the others smell danger. G smells like the weak crust of dried blood on the wound that you know you shouldn’t touch, because you’ll only make it worse, but you still tear it, because it’s interesting.
yes or no. any artists in here? 2 choices, 2 outcomes of the situation. live or die. and the chick with the pencil and the paper, in the corner, she lifts her hand shyly and says, yes, I’m an artist. wrong answer, shouts G. lollipop on his lap, gun to his lips, boom, boom, boom. her brains splashed all over the paper. and G says, the drawing needed more color anyway.
his bitten-to-the-blood, moving lips smell like they are about to give birth to a manifesto. And he explodes - see, we’re taught that artists are these sensitive, gifted, misunderstood beings. heroes born in the wrong time. goddamned unicorns. beautiful souls. fucking pandas. they sure as fuck are not. drawing pretty curves with a crayon and writing rhymes don’t make you no goddamn artist. whether all of us are artists, or none of us are. we’re all born in the gutter. staring with melancholy at the pretty sky don’t make you special. it makes you an ignorant, narcissist moron. bonnie and clyde were more of an artist than shakespeare. the 50 y.o. mexican immigrant joggling 5 kids and 3 part-time jobs is more of a fucking artist than lord-fucking-byron. a wonder kid getting a guitar at his 4th birthday is not a fucking artist. now, are there any fucking artists in here?
G, he shouts angrily at me: DO YOU FUCKING KNOW WHO AM I?
forget what they taught you in X classes.
you can shit yourself and you can smell it. it smells beyond bad, beyond physical. It doesn’t smell like teen spirit. it smells like fear and a bad surprise. and I thought he liked me.
I am the terrorist and the antichrist of modern art, He shouts. I am the atheist of the process of creation, of inspiration and of art galleries. The hit-and-run of the commercialization of underground art. The bully and the unorthodox priest and the disobedient child. Me and My rebellion – We are the spiritual leaders of My creative impulses. Destroying art is My understanding of making art.
His gun on his lap, His mask off, His lollipop in His mouth. Looney. Madman. the smell of gasoline evaporated long ago from His hands and the ashes of the galleries burnt by Him.
and He keeps shouting. I am the one who devours and the one who synthesizes lesser art.
and you get to meet the Perfumist. you figured, you’ll shed light on this whole mystery. you thought, no more secrets. you thought, once the mystery is revealed, it will stop being entertaining.
G, He smells like rage built up inside.
and He says, I am the urine on the snow of the decrepit artistic standards.
I don’t even give a shit about the others anymore. my nose is entirely focused on G, and He smells like the fucking madeleine of proust, and He reminds me of the most intense event of my life. me first meeting the Perfumist.
the Perfumist – he didn’t smell. not in the sense that he didn’t smell bad or that wasn’t a very intense distinct smell. no. he had no scent at all. It’s like he wasn’t there. at all. no body odor. no sweat. no bad or pleasant breath. judging by his name, you’d expect the specialized sensory cells of your nasal cavity to have an orgy. you’d expect, first time meeting the Perfumist, your nostril becoming a portal into nirvana. you’d expect the ultimate orgasm. the delight of the sense of smell inflicted on all the other senses. you’d expect… you had hoped. you were starting to believe in all that crap that they told you at X classes and that you didn’t understand. you found none of what you expected and got more than you could have expected. and he says, you are gifted. and you keep thinking, how come he doesn’t have a smell. maybe it’s some kind of amazing power that keeps the others from smelling him. or maybe his scent is so advanced that normal people can’t smell it. like fucking ultrasounds.
the Perfumist is here in the open, the mystery seems revealed, but his no-smell-mask makes him fucking fantômas. you enter the theatre to see a play and the curtain falls. and that’s the Perfumist.
and he says he’s interested in my personality.
and he says I’m gifted and I am more special than I could ever imagine.
and my sweat fucking stinks.
G says, you kill a person, especially someone who stands out, and there’s public sufferance. pity. condolences. then they all forget. they all seem to care because they feel like it’s their moral, human duty to feel bad. they don’t, but they act like it for so long, they even fool themselves. and He looks at me and says, but just try and burn a painting. shatter a sculpture.
I am the heretic.
and G smells like petrichor after a summer rain.
I am the fermentation of the sugary and of the sweet artistic beliefs.
I am the wine and the moonshine.
still looking at me, He goes on – just try and napalm an art gallery. sabotage the instruments of a quartet before a classical concert. publicly disdain a piece of modern “art”. and the public opinion goes woo-whoo. public outrage. and, unlike the homicide, they remember this kind of destruction forever.
you become public enemy number one.
the most hunted serial killer of art.
I am the apostate.
and G shouts, have any of you motherfucker heard of ying-yang?
and He shouts, how come none of you motherfuckers give credit to satan? why don’t you worship the bully who shat on your self-esteem in school and made you feel hated and made you feel like you’re worth nothing.
I am the destroyer of “art”.
the arch nemesis of Hollywood standards.
how come didn’t any of you motherfuckers cut the throats that awed and praised your crappy childhood painting and the disreputable rhymes and the plasticine sculptures? how come you didn’t spit in their faces for making you feel good about your “art”?
I am the IKEA chair in the XVth century furniture exposition.
and why, why didn’t they slap the fuck out of you when you glued some spaghetti on paper that poorly resembled some birds and some flowers?
why didn’t they beat the shit out of you. and why, why didn’t they force you to eat those glued spaghetti.
I am the death sentence that is one’s true birth.
the Perfumist, and we call him, He tells you, they spray a specific perfume inside a car about to be sold, and the smell lasts for about 6 weeks. He tells you, that’s what give it “the new car smell”. the sound of the engine, the smooth leather seats, the resistance posed by the gas pedal when pushed – that’s not what actually attracts the buyer. it’s the new car fragrance, sprayed inside.
even if it fades away after a while, the attraction caused by this new car fragrance is so intense, that it is forever stamped in your emotional memory.
the kilometers on the board adding up. someone scratching the hood. the leather chairs giving in some of their color to the ass that sits on them. but you still love the car because of how it smelled at first. and He says, remember this, this is very, very important. and I smell like apprentice and like the disciple taking notes before embarking on a quest. it smells like a sense of purpose.
and G’s monologue goes on - I am the locust of god.
I am the plagues intended to wake up the masses.
I am the ephemeral butterfly and I am the creator of the butterfly effect.
I am becoming something more than myself.
and G smells like the chrysalis.
the Perfumist tells me, my curse is, I don’t have body odor. my body is the instrument of the torture inflicted on me. he tells me, my childhood was part boredom, part rage. boredom constantly enraged me and rage slowly bored me. he tells me, my parents thought I was talented, so they gave an acoustic guitar at my 4th birthday. they sent me to a special kindergarten. he tells me, instead of playing with fire trucks and eating our own snot and making puzzles, we analyzed the 3D structure of the fire truck model and we crated our own kinds of eco-paint and we analyzed every line and shade of famous paintings. he tells me, they taught us that inspiration can be faked. they told us that the mechanization of the process of creation can, with time, be considered inspiration.
fake it till you make it.
fake it till you become it.
he says, that’s my motto.
G, he says, how come these maggots dare to criticize my actions and beliefs?
He faces me and shouts, DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? and, WILL YOU EVER REMEMBER THE MAN I AM RIGHT NOW?
I smell metamorphosis. the smell of the phoenix burning.
I am the water that breaks. I am V. V for Vendetta. and G puts on his mask. I am the garlic and the silver and the holy water and the crucifix. and these fucking so-called artists are the vampires.
and he says, I am the proselytizer.
I am the face I draw in the mirror.
I am the breast reduction operation that makes women more beautiful.
I am the two-leaved shamrock.
I am the gum stuck under the table.
and the Perfumist says, I went to art school after. and then I became, of course, a small worker in a huge company. and there was no art.
and then I made and impressive career. I made my way to the top. I came to own the company, and then many others.
and I became fed up with everything. and the only thing resembling art in my work was the perfume my company made. and I was disgusted by it. the commercialization of it. I criticized everything about it, I became the fiercest critic of my own “creation”. I wanted to be hated. and the board of directors, they loved me more, said, I was striving for perfection, said, I was the engine of the company growth.
and I was raging.
and I got bored.
G finishes his lollipop, takes out his pink tongue and licks the gun painted green. and he smells like the pupa ready to hatch.
I am the mud stain on the perfect wedding dress.
and the Perfumist tells me, I feel I can be more than myself. says, my first girlfriend, she dumped me, said it was because there was madness inside of me that I was unable to express. she said, what a terrible loss. what a waste of potential.
and the Perfumist says, she was such a beautiful soul, and her “art” was so ugly that I could not hate it. and she told me, my paintings were too pretty.
she told me, I was too nice and she left and she burned all my paintings.
she wanted to make the greatest painting, that she wanted to get pregnant and she wanted to start loving the unborn fetus and desire to keep it and she wanted to abort it and she wanted to apply it on the canvas. said, that would be real art, and she never told me if she had the abortion.
I am the doodle drawn on the back of a Picasso.
I am Van Gogh’s ear transplant.
and the Perfumist looks at me with awe and says, I do not know why I don’t have body odor. and, she was the only one who could smell me. he says, the doctors can’t explain this medical mystery of the lack of scent. and he goes on, I saw her cry once, and her tears smelled like the deep-blue sea.
and the Perfumist started smelling kinda pathetic.
and he says, your eyes are the exact same color as hers.
I am the worm in the eco, non-biodegradable apple.
I am the zit on the passport photo of Mona Lisa.
I am the banana peel on the street.
he asks, do you know why I created the X classes?
and he says, I am bored of my rage and enraged with my boredom. I want to change. and, do you know why I need you? I’m looking for someone. I am looking for a guy, let’s call him G. and he says, I am also searching for myself.
G, he smells like thunder and storm and freshly baked ozone.
and He says, I am the new car smell.
I am the peremptory breaking news.
the Perfumist smells like the sinner in a church confessional, and I’m the priest.
and he says, I want to be able to burn a painting, like she has. I want to destroy the instruments used in a classical concert. I want to blow up an art gallery.
and he says, I want metamorphosis, and, I want to change, and, I want to be somebody else.
I want to be public enemy number one.
I want to be remembered.
and, I want to smell.
the Perfumist shouts, I want to be the new car smell.
me, I look at the Perfumist and I see a desperate man. and I say, I smell potential. and the Perfumist smiles and says, you smell just like your mother.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that one can learn more about a person by the way they smell, not by the way they look, or what they say. because people lie, and they tell you they ate foie gras for dinner, they wear armani suits and louis vuitton purses, but you can smell through their lies. you can smell they ate fries and garlic bread and their rags stink of infantile, illegal, third world labor.
this man next to me – he’s Cuckoo. Wacko. call him as you wish. Moonstruck. the given circumstances fail to prove otherwise. Not in his right mind. Nut case. you couldn’t hide that if you put on a mask, like he has. Lunatic. a bag full of explosives at his feet, a Colt.45 painted green in his left hand and a pink lollipop in his right, and every doubt is removed. Nuts. Screwball. Loony.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that smell is crucial in the process of reproduction. because of the pheromones. they tell the women to masturbate using only their fingers, then apply the “female juice” on their neck and behind their ears. it drives the men insane. it takes their testosterone levels for a climb of the everest. their testicles go to university and get a job so they could afford taking that woman on a date.
this man next to me – he sometimes puts his gun on his lap, takes off his mask, puts the lollipop in his mouth, sucks on it for a while, then puts the mask back on. long enough for that chick in the corner to almost finish his portrait. long enough for that photographer to take about 20 shots of his face. this man next to me – he doesn’t seem to care. he says, it’s useless. any information regarding my looks will be of no use to the police, he says. no need for visual reminders of this groundbreaking event of your maggot lives.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that shutting one or more senses enhances the others. they tell you, there was a monk who pulled out the eyes from his sockets, boiled his tongue and sealed his ear holes with wax. they tell you, this monk experience tremendous pleasure on by smelling and touching. until he died from high intracranial pressure.
this man next to me, he says, might as well shut your eyes.
then, why the mask, we ask. the native americans used to paint their faces before going to battle, he says. war-paint. many african tribes wore painted masks when performing rituals. that, and I’m a huge joker fan. you know, the whole “ why so serious” scenes. then, why not face-paint, we ask. and he says, I’m allergic to face-paint. wouldn’t want to die all ugly, red and swollen. but you already are, I say. so he turns towards me, winks and whispers, I know. his lollipop breath smells of a diabetic-candy lover, bleeding gums and a recently-quit smoker.
why are you doing this, a fat girl asks, sobbing. they cancelled my favorite tv show, he laughs. that, and I have a point to make. that, and I want change. can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. and the fat chick start babbling something about how she’s gonna change, how she’s gonna start eating healthy and exercising more.
this man next to me, he puts the lollipop on his lap, takes off his cheap mask and puts his gun near his mouth. maybe the others think, this is it. soon, they get to escape. the police will give them warm blankets, some oxygen masks, the press will give them attention, maybe they’ll even be on television.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you each person has a distinct smell. our sweat has it’s own fingerprint. unique. the chemical components in the sweat, they are the result of our diet, interactions with other people, our emotions. you are what you eat. you are how you smell like.
they all think, this will be over soon. all with the cost of a little stress and a ruined pair of underwear. the obese girl, she stopped sobbing and is now smiling. no more exercise for her. getting back to those crappy, rich in carbs foods. getting back to being a couch potato, satisfied in her own misery, like a pig in the mud. a happy life obtained with the cost of extremely low expectations and the abortion of all aspirations. this man next to me, he touches the gun with his lips, looks at me and winks. kisses the gun and then shoots the fat girl in the stomach. 10 points for Gryffindor, he shouts. and I say, you could have gotten 20 had you aimed for the brain.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you, you can smell fear.
but I did hit the brain, he says, and giggles. it starts to smell an awful lot like fear in here. the others, they stare at the brown spot covering the girl’s ass, getting bigger. the spot, not the ass. it gains ground like an oil spill in the ocean. I know they all smell it. I can smell them smell it. they smell of disgust and fear.
they tell you about an experiment they conducted. they had some men watch horror movies, their reactions and emotional states recorded, and they collected their sweat individually. each sweat was sprayed in a different room with a woman inside, doing day-do-day activities. the chemicals in the men’s sweat caused the women to experience the same emotions as the men watching the movies – fear or disgust, mostly.
I can smell the fear and disgust, but I won’t give in to it. no, this is far too interesting to experience these kind of emotions. that, and I have been trained. the others, they smell the remains of the fat girl’s last meals. I don’t smell it because I choose not to.
at X classes, as we call the, they tell you, there is crap everywhere. you cannot avoid it. what you can avoid is, at least, the smell of human feces. this is why these classes are held in a public toilet. or so they say.
this man next to me, he smells like peeled oranges, urine and toothpaste.
they tell you that you are most vulnerable when you sleep. because when you are asleep, your sense of smell shuts down. at X classes, they never answer questions. they never tell you how come ammonia wakes you up after you faint. how come your roommate wakes you after you fart that thai food into a balloon and release it right in his face. all they teach at X classes, it’s been scientifically proven. or so they say.
the man next to me smells like it’s all going according to plan. the blood of the dying girl smells like vitamin C, iodine and repressed self-loathing. this man, he turns toward me and whispers, you guys haven’t asked my name yet. his breath smells like he was the weird, home-schooled kid who wore glasses. his mask smells like rebellion. and we ask, what is your name. and he says, just call me G. and everybody smells like the don’t give a shit about why he wants to be called G. so I say, why G? and he says, because a lot of people are looking for me, and think they will pleased when they find me. and he winks again and he smells like self-confidence. I must smell like I’m finding this very entertaining. indeed, I do.
we call those classes “x”. X, short for Eccs. Eccs, short for Evening Classes for the Consolidation of Smell. short for, you are a loser with no job who finds a promising add in the paper. 1000 dollars just to attend some classes of “self-improvement”. short for, you know there is a great chance your organs will get harvested or you’ll end up sucking and taking dicks up your ass forcefully. short for, you have been eating nothing but cheese puffs for the last week and you don’t really give a fuck anymore and your survival instinct is pretty much as active as your sex life.
yeah, maybe G really aimed for the brain of that fat girl. when your gut starts growling, you forget you are an evolved being that lives in a complex society. you forget you have parents, if you can call them so. you forget there is such a thing as social aid. you forget there are shops to steal from and you forget that web-cam sex pays good.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that disobeying the instincts dictated by your nose is either a demonstration of true power or lack of dignity. they tell you, during the holocaust, the jews swallowed their jewelries when taken into ghettoes and concentration camp. the jews, they ate whole diamonds and golden necklaces and rubies and sapphires. and then they shat it all. they tell you, it’s not an easy task, shitting diamonds in a poorly improvised toilet in a jewish concentration camp. most of them didn’t have the time to retrieve all their riches from their shit. they tell you, a severe diarrhea was like betting on red or on black in a casino. if the diarrhea went in the shithole, you just lost a fortune. if you weren’t fully retarded and you didn’t shit in the hole, you saved your long life savings. and the nazi guards noticed how the jews collected the riches from their shit. they tell you, most of them jumped right into the pool of shit, ignoring all the stink, and dug in, looking for diamonds. the smell of shit, covered only by the smell of annihilated dignity. they tell you, the nose really knows what’s best for you.
you shit on the millions of years of evolution and the circumvolutions on the brain.
it’s your stomach who’s in charge, and there’s nothing you can do but go to those damned classes. the stranger-dangers ads don’t work. so you call. you go to the X classes and you get the 1000 dollars as soon as you enter that public bathroom.
and they tell you, from now on, you are free to stop coming here. they say, you are also free to keep coming to these classes and do something with your life. smells like cheap convincing skills coming from a loser salesman who works in a public toilet. still, you keep coming. it smells intriguing. you keep coming for such a long time, you are a veteran. and they notice you and they think, you come in a public toilet 3 times a week to hear interesting facts about smell. they think, you come here because you are loyal, because you have principles. and they promise you, someday, you will get to meet the Perfumist. they test you. start giving you a thousand bucks every time you come to those classes. maybe when you’re rich enough, you’ll stop coming. maybe you’re not so loyal after all. you can smell them trying to trick you. you get richer every week, you keep coming, and they tell you, the Perfumist is interested in your personality.
that’s what they all say, they are interested in your personality.
G, he leans toward me and whispers, do you know who I am. his breath smells like severe acne during teen years, self-help books and the villain everybody likes. he asks, do you like art, and I nod, no, and he says, I can smell you lying. he shouts, are there any artists in here? I can smell a monologue and an already prepared answer to his own question. the others smell danger. G smells like the weak crust of dried blood on the wound that you know you shouldn’t touch, because you’ll only make it worse, but you still tear it, because it’s interesting.
yes or no. any artists in here? 2 choices, 2 outcomes of the situation. live or die. and the chick with the pencil and the paper, in the corner, she lifts her hand shyly and says, yes, I’m an artist. wrong answer, shouts G. lollipop on his lap, gun to his lips, boom, boom, boom. her brains splashed all over the paper. and G says, the drawing needed more color anyway.
his bitten-to-the-blood, moving lips smell like they are about to give birth to a manifesto. And he explodes - see, we’re taught that artists are these sensitive, gifted, misunderstood beings. heroes born in the wrong time. goddamned unicorns. beautiful souls. fucking pandas. they sure as fuck are not. drawing pretty curves with a crayon and writing rhymes don’t make you no goddamn artist. whether all of us are artists, or none of us are. we’re all born in the gutter. staring with melancholy at the pretty sky don’t make you special. it makes you an ignorant, narcissist moron. bonnie and clyde were more of an artist than shakespeare. the 50 y.o. mexican immigrant joggling 5 kids and 3 part-time jobs is more of a fucking artist than lord-fucking-byron. a wonder kid getting a guitar at his 4th birthday is not a fucking artist. now, are there any fucking artists in here?
G, he shouts angrily at me: DO YOU FUCKING KNOW WHO AM I?
forget what they taught you in X classes.
you can shit yourself and you can smell it. it smells beyond bad, beyond physical. It doesn’t smell like teen spirit. it smells like fear and a bad surprise. and I thought he liked me.
I am the terrorist and the antichrist of modern art, He shouts. I am the atheist of the process of creation, of inspiration and of art galleries. The hit-and-run of the commercialization of underground art. The bully and the unorthodox priest and the disobedient child. Me and My rebellion – We are the spiritual leaders of My creative impulses. Destroying art is My understanding of making art.
His gun on his lap, His mask off, His lollipop in His mouth. Looney. Madman. the smell of gasoline evaporated long ago from His hands and the ashes of the galleries burnt by Him.
and He keeps shouting. I am the one who devours and the one who synthesizes lesser art.
and you get to meet the Perfumist. you figured, you’ll shed light on this whole mystery. you thought, no more secrets. you thought, once the mystery is revealed, it will stop being entertaining.
G, He smells like rage built up inside.
and He says, I am the urine on the snow of the decrepit artistic standards.
I don’t even give a shit about the others anymore. my nose is entirely focused on G, and He smells like the fucking madeleine of proust, and He reminds me of the most intense event of my life. me first meeting the Perfumist.
the Perfumist – he didn’t smell. not in the sense that he didn’t smell bad or that wasn’t a very intense distinct smell. no. he had no scent at all. It’s like he wasn’t there. at all. no body odor. no sweat. no bad or pleasant breath. judging by his name, you’d expect the specialized sensory cells of your nasal cavity to have an orgy. you’d expect, first time meeting the Perfumist, your nostril becoming a portal into nirvana. you’d expect the ultimate orgasm. the delight of the sense of smell inflicted on all the other senses. you’d expect… you had hoped. you were starting to believe in all that crap that they told you at X classes and that you didn’t understand. you found none of what you expected and got more than you could have expected. and he says, you are gifted. and you keep thinking, how come he doesn’t have a smell. maybe it’s some kind of amazing power that keeps the others from smelling him. or maybe his scent is so advanced that normal people can’t smell it. like fucking ultrasounds.
the Perfumist is here in the open, the mystery seems revealed, but his no-smell-mask makes him fucking fantômas. you enter the theatre to see a play and the curtain falls. and that’s the Perfumist.
and he says he’s interested in my personality.
and he says I’m gifted and I am more special than I could ever imagine.
and my sweat fucking stinks.
G says, you kill a person, especially someone who stands out, and there’s public sufferance. pity. condolences. then they all forget. they all seem to care because they feel like it’s their moral, human duty to feel bad. they don’t, but they act like it for so long, they even fool themselves. and He looks at me and says, but just try and burn a painting. shatter a sculpture.
I am the heretic.
and G smells like petrichor after a summer rain.
I am the fermentation of the sugary and of the sweet artistic beliefs.
I am the wine and the moonshine.
still looking at me, He goes on – just try and napalm an art gallery. sabotage the instruments of a quartet before a classical concert. publicly disdain a piece of modern “art”. and the public opinion goes woo-whoo. public outrage. and, unlike the homicide, they remember this kind of destruction forever.
you become public enemy number one.
the most hunted serial killer of art.
I am the apostate.
and G shouts, have any of you motherfucker heard of ying-yang?
and He shouts, how come none of you motherfuckers give credit to satan? why don’t you worship the bully who shat on your self-esteem in school and made you feel hated and made you feel like you’re worth nothing.
I am the destroyer of “art”.
the arch nemesis of Hollywood standards.
how come didn’t any of you motherfuckers cut the throats that awed and praised your crappy childhood painting and the disreputable rhymes and the plasticine sculptures? how come you didn’t spit in their faces for making you feel good about your “art”?
I am the IKEA chair in the XVth century furniture exposition.
and why, why didn’t they slap the fuck out of you when you glued some spaghetti on paper that poorly resembled some birds and some flowers?
why didn’t they beat the shit out of you. and why, why didn’t they force you to eat those glued spaghetti.
I am the death sentence that is one’s true birth.
the Perfumist, and we call him, He tells you, they spray a specific perfume inside a car about to be sold, and the smell lasts for about 6 weeks. He tells you, that’s what give it “the new car smell”. the sound of the engine, the smooth leather seats, the resistance posed by the gas pedal when pushed – that’s not what actually attracts the buyer. it’s the new car fragrance, sprayed inside.
even if it fades away after a while, the attraction caused by this new car fragrance is so intense, that it is forever stamped in your emotional memory.
the kilometers on the board adding up. someone scratching the hood. the leather chairs giving in some of their color to the ass that sits on them. but you still love the car because of how it smelled at first. and He says, remember this, this is very, very important. and I smell like apprentice and like the disciple taking notes before embarking on a quest. it smells like a sense of purpose.
and G’s monologue goes on - I am the locust of god.
I am the plagues intended to wake up the masses.
I am the ephemeral butterfly and I am the creator of the butterfly effect.
I am becoming something more than myself.
and G smells like the chrysalis.
the Perfumist tells me, my curse is, I don’t have body odor. my body is the instrument of the torture inflicted on me. he tells me, my childhood was part boredom, part rage. boredom constantly enraged me and rage slowly bored me. he tells me, my parents thought I was talented, so they gave an acoustic guitar at my 4th birthday. they sent me to a special kindergarten. he tells me, instead of playing with fire trucks and eating our own snot and making puzzles, we analyzed the 3D structure of the fire truck model and we crated our own kinds of eco-paint and we analyzed every line and shade of famous paintings. he tells me, they taught us that inspiration can be faked. they told us that the mechanization of the process of creation can, with time, be considered inspiration.
fake it till you make it.
fake it till you become it.
he says, that’s my motto.
G, he says, how come these maggots dare to criticize my actions and beliefs?
He faces me and shouts, DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? and, WILL YOU EVER REMEMBER THE MAN I AM RIGHT NOW?
I smell metamorphosis. the smell of the phoenix burning.
I am the water that breaks. I am V. V for Vendetta. and G puts on his mask. I am the garlic and the silver and the holy water and the crucifix. and these fucking so-called artists are the vampires.
and he says, I am the proselytizer.
I am the face I draw in the mirror.
I am the breast reduction operation that makes women more beautiful.
I am the two-leaved shamrock.
I am the gum stuck under the table.
and the Perfumist says, I went to art school after. and then I became, of course, a small worker in a huge company. and there was no art.
and then I made and impressive career. I made my way to the top. I came to own the company, and then many others.
and I became fed up with everything. and the only thing resembling art in my work was the perfume my company made. and I was disgusted by it. the commercialization of it. I criticized everything about it, I became the fiercest critic of my own “creation”. I wanted to be hated. and the board of directors, they loved me more, said, I was striving for perfection, said, I was the engine of the company growth.
and I was raging.
and I got bored.
G finishes his lollipop, takes out his pink tongue and licks the gun painted green. and he smells like the pupa ready to hatch.
I am the mud stain on the perfect wedding dress.
and the Perfumist tells me, I feel I can be more than myself. says, my first girlfriend, she dumped me, said it was because there was madness inside of me that I was unable to express. she said, what a terrible loss. what a waste of potential.
and the Perfumist says, she was such a beautiful soul, and her “art” was so ugly that I could not hate it. and she told me, my paintings were too pretty.
she told me, I was too nice and she left and she burned all my paintings.
she wanted to make the greatest painting, that she wanted to get pregnant and she wanted to start loving the unborn fetus and desire to keep it and she wanted to abort it and she wanted to apply it on the canvas. said, that would be real art, and she never told me if she had the abortion.
I am the doodle drawn on the back of a Picasso.
I am Van Gogh’s ear transplant.
and the Perfumist looks at me with awe and says, I do not know why I don’t have body odor. and, she was the only one who could smell me. he says, the doctors can’t explain this medical mystery of the lack of scent. and he goes on, I saw her cry once, and her tears smelled like the deep-blue sea.
and the Perfumist started smelling kinda pathetic.
and he says, your eyes are the exact same color as hers.
I am the worm in the eco, non-biodegradable apple.
I am the zit on the passport photo of Mona Lisa.
I am the banana peel on the street.
he asks, do you know why I created the X classes?
and he says, I am bored of my rage and enraged with my boredom. I want to change. and, do you know why I need you? I’m looking for someone. I am looking for a guy, let’s call him G. and he says, I am also searching for myself.
G, he smells like thunder and storm and freshly baked ozone.
and He says, I am the new car smell.
I am the peremptory breaking news.
the Perfumist smells like the sinner in a church confessional, and I’m the priest.
and he says, I want to be able to burn a painting, like she has. I want to destroy the instruments used in a classical concert. I want to blow up an art gallery.
and he says, I want metamorphosis, and, I want to change, and, I want to be somebody else.
I want to be public enemy number one.
I want to be remembered.
and, I want to smell.
the Perfumist shouts, I want to be the new car smell.
me, I look at the Perfumist and I see a desperate man. and I say, I smell potential. and the Perfumist smiles and says, you smell just like your mother.
G says, they spray a specific perfume inside a car
about to be sold, and the smell lasts for about 6 weeks. that’s what gives it
“the new car smell”. the smooth leather seats, the sound of the engine, the
resistance posed by the gas pedal when pushed – that’s not what actually
attracts the buyer. it’s the new car fragrance, sprayed inside.
even if it fades away after a while, the attraction caused by this new car fragrance is so intense, that it is forever stamped in your emotional memory.
someone scratching the hood. the kilometers on the board adding up. the leather chairs giving in some of their color to the ass that sits on them. but you still love the car because of how it smelled at first. and He says, remember this, this is very, very important.
and G smells like a huge, XVth century, hand-written book containing only the words: “Fuck y’all, bitches!”.
G’s mask, it’s a cheap darth vader mask. He smiles, puts it on, turns towards me and says, luke, I am your father.
smells like the shittiest family reunion I ever had.
and I look at Him and I don’t see the Perfumist anymore.
and He says, I have become something more than myself.
even if it fades away after a while, the attraction caused by this new car fragrance is so intense, that it is forever stamped in your emotional memory.
someone scratching the hood. the kilometers on the board adding up. the leather chairs giving in some of their color to the ass that sits on them. but you still love the car because of how it smelled at first. and He says, remember this, this is very, very important.
and G smells like a huge, XVth century, hand-written book containing only the words: “Fuck y’all, bitches!”.
G’s mask, it’s a cheap darth vader mask. He smiles, puts it on, turns towards me and says, luke, I am your father.
smells like the shittiest family reunion I ever had.
and I look at Him and I don’t see the Perfumist anymore.
and He says, I have become something more than myself.
I smell metamorphosis, the smell of phoenix risen.
and G asks, are
there any artists in here?
and I raise my hand. and he takes off his mask and smiles. and three others raise their hands.
and G shouts, wrong answer.
boom.
boom.
boom.
and I raise my hand. and he takes off his mask and smiles. and three others raise their hands.
and G shouts, wrong answer.
boom.
boom.
boom.
and G and me
smile, and it smells like three more empty seats at some families’ dinner. and
G smells like an achieved self-set challenge. he smells like a finished quest.
and I say, G,
don’t think this is over.
and his gun falls on the ground and he smells like the pathetic Perfumist.
and I say, G, the metamorphosis is not the end of the circle of life. and I say, G, do you want to be remembered? and I say, G, who are you?
and his gun falls on the ground and he smells like the pathetic Perfumist.
and I say, G, the metamorphosis is not the end of the circle of life. and I say, G, do you want to be remembered? and I say, G, who are you?
so he picks up his gun and I can hear him swallow. and
I can hear him shit his pants. he turns toward me and shouts, DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?
and I say, Gee, you smell. Gee, you really fucking
smell.
and I say, G, you are an artist.
and nothing happens, and I say, G, you are a fucking artist.
and he takes off his mark and it falls on the ground, and he tries to kiss the gun but he can’t, because he’s shaking like a dildo.
boom.
and I look at G, his brains mixes with blood erupting like lava from his head, and I can’t but feel sorry for a bit. for me, not for him. all of this was so much fun, and now it ended.
and I say, G, you are an artist.
and nothing happens, and I say, G, you are a fucking artist.
and he takes off his mark and it falls on the ground, and he tries to kiss the gun but he can’t, because he’s shaking like a dildo.
boom.
and I look at G, his brains mixes with blood erupting like lava from his head, and I can’t but feel sorry for a bit. for me, not for him. all of this was so much fun, and now it ended.
and I wonder, why did this ugly, red and swollen man
think he was my father, and that the artist who dumped him was my mother?
and I smell a fortune inherited from the Perfumist. I
smell like the plan has worked. I smell the will made in my name. the
perfumist’s inheritor.
at X classes, as me
and the Perfumist and the guy in charge call them, there are no people coming. just
me and this guy, the loser salesman and the only teacher. the guy in charge, he tells you, we can
make real money. just keep coming. just meet the Perfumist and do whatever he
wants. and we’ll strike it rich, you and I. and I ask, this doesn’t involve, by
any chance, an immoral behavior and breaking the law, does it? and the guy in
charge says, that’s exactly what it requires. and I say, oh, I’m definitely in.
and the guy in charge says, can you smell that? it smells like money.
and I say, it also smells like human feces. and he says, there is crap everywhere. you cannot avoid it. what you can avoid is, at least, the smell of human feces. this is why these classes are held in a public toilet.
and the guy in charge says, can you smell that? it smells like money.
and I say, it also smells like human feces. and he says, there is crap everywhere. you cannot avoid it. what you can avoid is, at least, the smell of human feces. this is why these classes are held in a public toilet.
miercuri, 25 februarie 2015
vineri, 6 februarie 2015
m-am întins pe pervaz
am luat un pachet de chibrituri
am aprins un două trei chibrituri
n-am fumat una două trei ţigări
am numărat nişte ciori pe geam
când iarna se sperie de mormăitul stomacului tău
şi fuge
trece-ţi mâinile prin păr şi fă să ningă
un câine face caca sub copac
eu nu fumez încă o două trei ţigări
de ce poeziile sună mereu mai bine în capul meu?
geamul reflectă creionul de lângă buze
cu care scriu
dar nu-ţi reflectă faţa
dacă aş şti mai bine, aş zice
că-i vreo metaforă ceva
aş zice
că-s nesemnificativ
comparativ
cu instrumentul meu de creaţie
frustrarea mea cea mai mare e că ştiu că-mi pute gura
dar când copiez fazele din filme
când ăia îşi duc mâna căuş la gură şi nas
şi-şi miros respiraţia să vadă/miroase dacă pute
atunci nu miros nimic
poate creierul meu mă apără de propria-mi putoare
or maybe
i don't smell
tipul ăla culege o bucată de fier uzat de lângă copacul
unde s-a căcat câinele atunci când eu
n-am fumat încă o ţigară două trei
melancolia mă trage de mânecă ca copilu pe mă-sa
lângă un magazin de jucării
bine că mă-sa nu vrea să-i cumpere ce e la vitrină
Copile! să ştii că sufletul meu nu e de vânzare
tipul ăla îşi suflă mucii
şi pune bucata de fier uzat în pungă
Tipule! pune-mi sufletul la loc
sufletul meu nu-i de vânzare
câinele se întoarce înapoi cu vădita intenţie de a-şi savura rahatul
ca să bag şi o comparaţie
pe lângă metaforă
câinele se şi mai linge la coaie
ca şi eu când citesc ce-am scris
câinele începe să-şi mănânce rahatul
Câine! pune-mi sufletul la loc
sufletul meu nu e de mâncare
un tip cocoţat pe pervaz se uită chiorâş la soare
bă pulă!
pe cine crezi că intimidezi?
şi se freacă la ochii care zvâcnesc ca nişte inimi
duce mâna la coaie şi o miroase
duce carnetul la nas şi îl miroase
it smells like poetry with balls, he says,
Tipule!
pune-mi sufletul la loc
sufletul meu îşi rezervează debutul într-o carte pe bune,
nu într-un carnet
scrijelit cu creionul
pe o pereche de coaie
pe un pervaz prăfuit
şi
Ah blea!
azi e ziua de făcut curăţenie în cămin
nu mai fumez ultima ţigară pe azi
şi mă pun pe citit
am luat un pachet de chibrituri
am aprins un două trei chibrituri
n-am fumat una două trei ţigări
am numărat nişte ciori pe geam
când iarna se sperie de mormăitul stomacului tău
şi fuge
trece-ţi mâinile prin păr şi fă să ningă
un câine face caca sub copac
eu nu fumez încă o două trei ţigări
de ce poeziile sună mereu mai bine în capul meu?
geamul reflectă creionul de lângă buze
cu care scriu
dar nu-ţi reflectă faţa
dacă aş şti mai bine, aş zice
că-i vreo metaforă ceva
aş zice
că-s nesemnificativ
comparativ
cu instrumentul meu de creaţie
frustrarea mea cea mai mare e că ştiu că-mi pute gura
dar când copiez fazele din filme
când ăia îşi duc mâna căuş la gură şi nas
şi-şi miros respiraţia să vadă/miroase dacă pute
atunci nu miros nimic
poate creierul meu mă apără de propria-mi putoare
or maybe
i don't smell
tipul ăla culege o bucată de fier uzat de lângă copacul
unde s-a căcat câinele atunci când eu
n-am fumat încă o ţigară două trei
melancolia mă trage de mânecă ca copilu pe mă-sa
lângă un magazin de jucării
bine că mă-sa nu vrea să-i cumpere ce e la vitrină
Copile! să ştii că sufletul meu nu e de vânzare
tipul ăla îşi suflă mucii
şi pune bucata de fier uzat în pungă
Tipule! pune-mi sufletul la loc
sufletul meu nu-i de vânzare
câinele se întoarce înapoi cu vădita intenţie de a-şi savura rahatul
ca să bag şi o comparaţie
pe lângă metaforă
câinele se şi mai linge la coaie
ca şi eu când citesc ce-am scris
câinele începe să-şi mănânce rahatul
Câine! pune-mi sufletul la loc
sufletul meu nu e de mâncare
un tip cocoţat pe pervaz se uită chiorâş la soare
bă pulă!
pe cine crezi că intimidezi?
şi se freacă la ochii care zvâcnesc ca nişte inimi
duce mâna la coaie şi o miroase
duce carnetul la nas şi îl miroase
it smells like poetry with balls, he says,
Tipule!
pune-mi sufletul la loc
sufletul meu îşi rezervează debutul într-o carte pe bune,
nu într-un carnet
scrijelit cu creionul
pe o pereche de coaie
pe un pervaz prăfuit
şi
Ah blea!
azi e ziua de făcut curăţenie în cămin
nu mai fumez ultima ţigară pe azi
şi mă pun pe citit
marți, 27 ianuarie 2015
vineri, 23 ianuarie 2015
and i'm afraid of myself
(this void in your chest is the foul fruit of your vacuous mind)
i hope my sweetness won't turn into alcohol all over again
(this heaviness in your stomach is the foul fruit of your imagination)
look in the mirror and hit yourself
(this anemic depression is the foul fruit of your putrid personality)
wear sadness like a mask to hide the nothingness
(this monster under your bed is the foul fruit of your blasphemous angels)
i dream of a parallel universe
where there is no need to dream of parallel universes
i am the hand that fears the burn
but strives for the kiss
(this void in your chest is the foul fruit of your vacuous mind)
i hope my sweetness won't turn into alcohol all over again
(this heaviness in your stomach is the foul fruit of your imagination)
look in the mirror and hit yourself
(this anemic depression is the foul fruit of your putrid personality)
wear sadness like a mask to hide the nothingness
(this monster under your bed is the foul fruit of your blasphemous angels)
i dream of a parallel universe
where there is no need to dream of parallel universes
i am the hand that fears the burn
but strives for the kiss
joi, 15 ianuarie 2015
luni, 12 ianuarie 2015
duminică, 11 ianuarie 2015
vineri, 9 ianuarie 2015
joi, 8 ianuarie 2015
miercuri, 7 ianuarie 2015
marți, 6 ianuarie 2015
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