Prior to exhibiting the paintings during the next exhibition on the 30th May 2014 at Xarolla Windmill, Zurrieq, I shall be publishing extracts I wrote back in 2011. Entitled "Time for Wreckage", this was a series of loose writings centered around a doomed, sexist, male figure who is existing in a bleak postmodern city.
The moon shines through the kitchen window. It’s 3 am in the morning and I’m sipping tea feeling bored and empty.
A redhead is alone in the park across the window. I guess she lives in my block. I can tell off her face she’s a slut. A very dirty slut. She looks like a transvestite in those clothes and her new haircut. A very sexy one I must say. She’s sitting there alone, smoking and talking to herself. Or maybe to the moon. How I wish I could go down there, feeling cool and cocky and introduce myself and take her hand in mine and tell her that we are heading for a disaster and that we are (not) going to live happily ever after.
I can still smell her perfume. Cheap perfume. School girl perfume. The kind that reminds me of cheap soap bars produced locally. The kind that her hair used to smell of. Yummy. I miss her. I’m not drunk enough. Would you come and drink with me? We can just coke up later, and turn into posters and fuck so that we can produce star babies.
The moon shines through the kitchen window. It’s 3 am in the morning and I’m sipping tea feeling bored and empty.
A redhead is alone in the park across the window. I guess she lives in my block. I can tell off her face she’s a slut. A very dirty slut. She looks like a transvestite in those clothes and her new haircut. A very sexy one I must say. She’s sitting there alone, smoking and talking to herself. Or maybe to the moon. How I wish I could go down there, feeling cool and cocky and introduce myself and take her hand in mine and tell her that we are heading for a disaster and that we are (not) going to live happily ever after.
I can still smell her perfume. Cheap perfume. School girl perfume. The kind that reminds me of cheap soap bars produced locally. The kind that her hair used to smell of. Yummy. I miss her. I’m not drunk enough. Would you come and drink with me? We can just coke up later, and turn into posters and fuck so that we can produce star babies.
You
like the idea?
(I
know you do)
Bring
your sexy friend along, I’m sure she can handle some good stuff.
“Have
you seen her lately?”
“No”
“Has she got married?”
“Maybe”
“Where
is she living?”
“I
dunno, maybe in this very block, maybe in Berlin, maybe in South Africa
“I
miss her”
“I
miss her too”
“She
had a lovely tummy”
“So
do you”
“I
got a beer belly”
“So
do I”
“So
what?”
“Sexy
time?”
I
forgot to sterilize the sheets, down in the deep fryer we go. She doesn’t seem to mind, her blonde hair all sticky and tangled, her brown
eyes in ecstasy.
Her
tits are two pills, which I swallow immediately, leaving nothing for her. I laugh in her face as she fades away. I’m not gonna fade away. I’m gonna burn out with one big bang.
No comments:
Post a Comment