The aftermath of this unfortunate event.

The following was written somewhere between total inebriation and the end of the headache on the far end of a three-day bender:

I’ve had enough, I’m done. I ain’t gonna wage this war. There’s a limit to what I can bear. In all these years I’ve been the fucking knight in crazy Shining armour. Here’s Johnny with the laughter and the goddamn axe again. Fuck him, and fuck this. There’s no reason for this distress. You reanimate yourself and feed on my three-day bender with no chance of a proper bed to sleep on. No job, no life’s work, no good intentions. All the grace and profitability I ever had to give to the ones I love (or fuck, hump, or whatever else) goes straight out the window, only to be eaten by hogs and police hounds hungry for blood. THIS is not my fucking war. Let somebody else take the beating.


NOTES ON BRAZILIAN FIELD OBSERVATIONS: It’s a jungle out there. As you move through dense trees with great skin and limber branches, be careful not to touch. Most of these specimen are intoxicated. Some bear great fruits, while others have succumbed to inertia and simply stand there, slighty slouched. Lost all the strength in their backbone. As temperature rises, observations of a sonic boom and a great amount of rustle. There’s a certain sensual humidity to this place. Density of leaf on leaf, deep roots and fertility of ground and spores. Careful not to step in poison ivy though. In circumstances such as these, death is hiding just around the corner.

I’m a man without prospect. When everything else fails, when the angry hangover becomes standard practice, that’s when you cash in the chips you’ve left. No more spinning the wheel. No more mr. Nice Guy. Death is closer than paradise. A fit of rage lead to bouts of wildflower abces turning my body into a botanical mess. Yet with all this upset stomach and dirty mind, I get fucked up over the ghost of christmas past, an apparition so horrid that my bones shiver to this day since I first gazed upon her. Nobody knows you when you’re down and out. Nobody knows you. Nobody knows.

Like the argonauts could not close their ears to the Sirenes, I cannot close myself off from what is bearing down upon me. This weight wears me down worse than a fat chick in a handcart. Stick a needle in my brain, doc, I’m giving it all to science. Lobotomise the past. Give one half to charity, one half burned at the stake. Let it be cast in stone that my cock will serve anatomy lessons for drunken halflings. Halfwits may disect my liver for kicks. Shits and giggles will be on the house from now on. Just consult my attorney on matters of Necrophilia. Like me mentor always said: You can never be against anything you haven’t seen the wrong end of.

OBSERVATIONS #2: The jungle is full of tricks. I see a party of eggplants escalate and nearly eat me alive. Chew disgruntedly and spit me back out. Too hairy. I got out with less than I brought to the table. Left a little dignity there, a spot of sobriety on the mantle, all in the nature of a fool’s errand. I slip out the door and let the war be the war, the jungle be the jungle and the illusions just that. Tell the taxi drive to keep the change and hop on the train. But while you can get the man out of the warzone, the jungle and the girl, you can never get the girl or the jungle or the warzone out of the man.

Le Clochard Noctambule

Snooze (fucked if you do...)

ShhhhhHHHKK. Quick release of a low pass filter. Fade-in day 239 of the party equilibrium. Groundhog day for the happy masses. The morning is bright, the morning’s shiny. And the dreary sky is seemingly finding it’s way directly into my nausea. The couch is too short and the beer was of the cheap variety. Oh yes, arty student parties. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t. My frontal lobe is shrieking and throwing dishes at me. Sound of shattering china hits me right in the nerve centre. Enough to knock out a deaf elephant.

I’m surrounded by what appears to be a host of mutated foetal twins, joint at the hips and covered in canvas, as if to say: color us in, we’re still untouched. In reality, these are fully developed byproducts of human interaction. ORDERLY: “No way we can throw ‘em out with the badwater now, doc, they’re protected under the copyright of procreation”
DOC: “This is just exactly what is wrong with this country. We’re growing social abces like weeds on an unrestricted, fertile yard. Nobody cares to do anything about it. Round ‘em up and ship ‘em off I say. They’re only here so we have something to hate. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t.



Meanwhile my phone is filling up on moral downfall and burning desire from another timezone. There’s about a 3 year timelag, but those inhabiting their own dreams seem like a most blissful species. They were discovered around 11 pm last night by a group of raving biologists who care for nothing but their next hit of Ayahuasca to put some coherence in their research statistics. Life science, people, live it or leave it. Do the human thing. Redefine the species in a sweaty state of excitement. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t. Any given definition of the human condition is an escape from facing life in itself. The deal is: we spend our lives searching for an answer. We don’t find IT, but the wild guesses and rough estimates are what drives our existence. Even the most inspiring, clear-headed wisdom you happen to stumble upon while you’re getting your genitals hosed down is no reason for CASE CLOSED. No post-game rep, no final assessment. Just put your pen down and keep searching. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t.

Meanwhile Karl Marx has come and gone, leaving polystyrene dandruff all over the place. Stench of stale beer on an empty stumach. Aromatherapy from hell. Captain Smalltalk is still down in the trenches, laughing maniacally as he shoots the breeze with a double-barrel sawed-off shotgun. It’s not standard issue, but then again, what is? Gotye is singing Somebody That I Used To Know with a slight lisp. There’s a cardboard box in the middle of the room. There’s a sighting of spotted banana with perfect curve. Mathmaticians stroke out with a smile in their eyes as they gaze upon her. 42 turns out to be the co-efficiënt of this one banana’s curve. Whether it’s worth gazing upon her has led to many debates in academic whorehouses and local Wholefoods stores. The University of Hangover has published an official press release containing the official, authorised consensus: “Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t,” But fearing the demise of all scientific institutions, they continue by adding: “The Board is fairly certain that it solves many a problem for mathmaticians. Life is hard on them as it is, so we fully support their newfound luxury to end it on a high note. But it’s still untested and we have no certainty as to the effects it has on commoners and Humanities students.”

I look around. No perfect curves here. Closes thing to it is the butt on the girl who's sleeping with upskirt and, apparently, no underwear. Great legs, great butt. Don't ask, don't tell. Let's never speak of it again. Sound of wind blowing. Distant rumble of cars. Slow flares of light, shot shivers out of focus, fade out. Snooze.