Talking to myself at night behind a cigarette

Beware of a man who can tie his own tie.

“Nice moves.” I thought, referring to the smoke.
The windows being closed, that cunning dancer, originating from so many a nicotine sticks had nowhere to go. Nowhere but up, that is. While slowly and unwillingly being soaked up by the pale ceiling itself it moved seductively, almost rhythmically shaking its dim, transparent body in front of my eyes. A thin layer of it decided to hang up there for a while, like the mist around twisted eggs in one of those Alien movies, just waiting to hatch. You could almost touch it, the dirty bastard.
“Give me a fucking knife, and I’ll cut straight through the fucker, serving the pieces on the plates, like jelly. The air was thicker then a mentally retarded child and my lungs started taunting my barely functioning brain. Impulse after impulse after impulse, they’d send, the lungs, almost screaming “Give us some fucking air, will ya?”
But the laziness was strong with me.
Everyone had left. They were long gone and all around me were traces of human remains. I’m not talking about dust of human skin, nails and hair, nothing that fancy, no. Butts, semi-empty glasses, a couple of red wine stains on my yellow carpet and indecent scent of men and women I’d never wanted to smell, ever again. Flash forward, a couple of minutes later, I’ve managed to turn all those glasses empty. Spirits, wine, black – white, you name it, but there was no beer left. For some reason, people always drink the fucking beer, as if their poor, pitiful lives depended on it.
“All this bother and effort, for a few hours of showing and throwing respect towards them and all for nothing. A couple of fun hours pass and here I am, yet again, left alone in a puddle of beer, wine, ash and/or puke and piss inspired by those.” I said.
“If you’re really lucky, someone will get to shit your bed. But you won’t be able to blame the fucker tomorrow, oh no, because he wasn’t himself. As if I cared about state of his sorry fucking mind at any given moment. I’ve never made a mess out of someone’s lair. I’m not fucking proud of it. I don’t take pride in such things. You don’t get any extra points for all the walls you haven’t wiped your shit across, it’s something that’s expected from you.”
I was disappointed, borderline angry, even. But what was the bottom of it? Was it because I was left alone? Surely, it was that. No one likes to be left alone, and yet, everyone always is.
“I mean, you grow and speed through this existence, picking up hitchhikers alongside that crazy little road called life, shoveling them into your huge fucking trunk. But they all seem to jump the fuck out, make a couple of rolls and bounces on the filthy road in the hot, dry sun of the route 666, and when the dust is gone, they’re all gone. Why? Because they’ve reached their fucking destination, that’s why. Everyone is born alone and dies alone, and before you mumble a few words of disapproval, let me explain: we, the people, feed upon all kinds of different shit, metaphorically speaking. We feast on love, jealousy, spite, tender kisses, soft touches and an occasional sexual intercourse. We eat complements for breakfast, and go to sleep with our fat fucking tummies full of wrongly interpreted impulses, words and whatnot. And then we wake up, our eyes bleary as hell, accompanied by open mouths, craving for reasons to keep on going, making zombie-like growls. And then, all we end up with is our own sorrow. One needs his own fucking sorrow, and that is the only thing he truly owns. You don’t posses that car, that fancy shirt, that man or those women. You don’t own anything but your own sorrow. Even that fucker is taken away when you die. The moment when you’re completely satisfied with your life is the moment you actually realize you’re bugged with your current state. If everything is too perfect, it is too something, and too anything is never good.” My mind wondered, and my vocal cords spoke.
“But what about creativity? Do you not own that? What the hell is creativity if not a product of sorrow. Have you ever seen a musician create something meaningful out of happiness? A writer writing something writeworthy out of bliss and flowers and shit? A poet producing a poem as a result of blue skies and unicorn puke? Fuck no. Life breeds sorrow, sorrow breeds art. Simple as that.”

“Call me a fucking asshole, but you know I’m right.” I said to my imaginary unimaginable interlocutor.

“Ain’t no fucking prick is gonna watch that freak show in my midst. They say monsters don’t exist, but what would you call a person that feeds upon someone else’s desperation, pathos, tears and humiliation. I’d rather finger a flock of warewolves than chose to have a decent conversation with such a prick.”

It’s not the twisted television act, that was to happen soon, that was disgusting, but the fact that those filthy animals, that dare call themselves human, are more than eager to watch and feed upon it. Shameful, hateful and evil, is what it is.

“It all started with reality TV, and look what it turned into.” I whispered in silent agony.

Dirt. Dirt, dirt, dirt and filth. The sky is all fucked up, gray and black, and it sheds drops of piss right on the top of your ugly heads. Like an umbrella’s gonna save you from the stench of it. The rivers of yellow stream towards the manholes soaked in shit. Yellow, running for brown. You, running for evil. As each and every second goes by, the smell is a tad more unbearable. Did I mention the butts? Oh, hell yes, those diminutive suckers, that once were naughty little bastards, you frequently suck on, don’t even get me started on those. They give you these handsome looking cardboard boxes, which so clearly read “I will fucking kill you, man.”, just for you to suck. And then you inhale for the first time, and it fucking aches. I mean, your throat burns and stings, and then you get some ash into your eyes, and the moisture runs down your cheek as you press your finger upon your eye, as if that would help you with the pain. But it passes. And then your throat feels fine. So, like a test monkey, you decide to try again. I mean, why not try and press that button again, maybe this time it won’t send a bunch of volts through your body. That’s how monkeys think, that’s how you think, all soaked in piss, not even aware of it. Not conscious of the fact, the very world your exploiting is killing you. And then, once you’re done sucking out the life out of those white suckers you choose to toss the remains into that very same manhole gap, to pile on top of piss and shit, like a cherry would, on a cake. Disgusting. And then the gods, or whatever’s running this place send a warning in form of a lightning strike. Now lightning strikes, are marvelous things. You see, they hit you, not only dismembering your evil ass, but scaring the shit out of assholes in the vicinity. Then, there’s the lightning’s old pal, the thunder. Oh, they get along swell. And this motherfucker will get those poor souls, out of your vicinity, thinking about death, trust me. And, as if that weren’t enough, you got to read all about it in the papers many a time, because the lightning strikes people so rarely, they start contemplating on the fact that it might be a myth. You know, I bet, if they really do exist, the creatures above are laughing their timeless asses off every time they see those surprised, ugly faces of yours’. Hateful, very hateful.
Another nasty fucker is the wind. Apart from the fact that he blows those heavy drops of piss right into your face, it blows your fucking hat off. Yes, your hat, your umbrella, whatever’s covering your bald miserable head. Oh yes, and it makes sure that that three piece suit of yours’ is soaking wet, from each and every side. The heavy rain makes sure that even your underpants are wet as if you jizzed into your pants again. There is no escape from the judge, my perverted, corrupted friend, whoever he might be. That poor slave holding an umbrella over your head is not going to help you. He has to, against his will, but he cannot. Like a homing missile that has taken so many lives and wrecked three times as much on your authority, it will find it’s way right into your evil, red eyes, into your nose, deafed-up ears, everywhere. And the limo, it will not cover up the smell entirely. You may be safe from the laws of men, from the laws of Gods, from the moral rules of our existence, but in the end, you will be left alone with nothing inside but bones. You will rot slowly, even before your corpse kicks in. Because, even in that ugly brain of yours’ rests conscience. Burried, like you’ll be, sooner than you can comprehend, somewhere deep, deep inside, yes, but, it’s still there. And then, you will be alone, under the ground, eaten away physically by those you have shat on. And in that septic pool you are going to inhabit, you will have all the time to think about and regret every sick thing you’ve done for your entire miserable, fucking life. Because, conscience is your best friend, until it’s your archenemy. Call it karma, call it Lucy, for all I care, you’ll see.
Me, I love the rain. I love the pale skies, embroidered with clouds, the smell of smog and the look of the recently lit, dim lights. I love the cigarettes, I enjoy their smoke, the way they’re burning their way towards my poor lungs, cutting my sore throat on the way there. I love the smell of piss and the gooey feel of shit on my dirty boots.
But those things don’t love you. They don’t like your faces, your campaigns, your billboards, your TV and internet commercials, posters, showbills, or the lies you are feeding us.
The rain will piss upon your faces, the wind blow them away from our billboards, walls and media. The cigarettes will smash onto your posters and they will burn, in spite of the rain. And everything will go down the manhole, right into the sewers and, imbued with shit, those will be the only things, miserable enough to visit your coffins.
So do, please poison our minds. But remember, nothing reeks worse than your own corpse.

Once upon a time there was a man. That man loved his guitar. It was only satiric that the guitar was the last thing he ever clenched.
Once upon a time there was a fire and that fire started at the top of the building. Having no where to burn but down, her flames devoured apartments as if they were made of mud.
At the bottom floor lived the man. Delirious he never heard the screams of agony, due to the sounds of beautiful agony that was his guitar. He never heard the crackling of the fire above, due to crackling of the sixth cord. He felt a large disturbance in his room only when a huge burning object hit him, killing his beloved guitar, paralyzing him completely. Helplessly, he watched his palms being burned by the flaming, new guest in his room.

The man woke up to a beeping sound of hospital machinery. Though he could not move anything but his throbbing head, he felt warmth on his palms. The doctors told him what he already knew, and after months of excruciating trainings for the wheelchair, he was to spend the rest of his pitiful life in, it finally hit him that he drew the long straw. Which was funny, borderline ridiculous really, because a long straw of sorts was his only mean of interference with that wretched wheelchair.

Months later, on some party for cripples, he met a girl. Her legs were useless, all fucked up and sitting at an awkward angle, but her hair was beautiful and her eyes piercing. A few such gatherings later, he asked her to put his own hand on herself, only to create the illusion of touching her beautiful hair. Smiling on the edge, she did so and he felt the thin strings of his guitar on the tips of his fingers. As if this wasn’t enough, she seized and fell out of her wheelchair and casually stood up. Moments passed before she realized her legs regained their use. After giving him the most emotional kiss he’d ever experienced, she made a vow to never leave his side. A vow she was eager to break only months later. But it was alright, he could understand. She was a free bird, that could now fly and it was only natural that she did so, even though it was to result in her leaving him. But that is how flying works and fly away she did.

Alone in the night the man wanted to get drunk, which was impossible for more than obvious reasons. The man wanted to run it off, which is what he’d always do in times of despair. Thinking back on his thoughts, he recalled being asked what he’d do if he was to know he was going to die 15 minutes from that moment. ‘I’d run.’ he had answered without a blink. Running was a treasure he could no longer afford. Then there was the guitar. Creating music with her did not exactly clear his thoughts, but it gave him emptiness, a moment of peace and silence of thoughts, for when he’d play her, his mind did not draw pictures of anything else, but pure music. ‘She is dead now.’ he thought.

The nurse appointed to him put the man’s hands on numerous parts of his own body in hope of a repeated miracle, but it didn’t work. Then, looking into his eyes, with her beautiful pair, she put his warm palms on her bare breasts, for apparently she had breast cancer. Again, he felt nothing but guitar strings and, again it worked. She came to him bearing nothing but good news. Nothing but good news for her own self, that is, for her cancer had been cured. She insisted on staying with him forever and ever and ever, but he smiled and told her to get lost. Insulted, but grateful, she left him while he gazed upon her beautiful behind. ‘Some women are at the top of their beauty only when they’re walking out on you.’ he thought.

Days have passed and the entire building, he was now inhabiting got to know of this gift of his. People ranging from those with the utmost curious diseases, to those with sicknesses as boring as sore throat came to him and put his hot palms on their foreheads, arms, legs, bald heads, hairy feet, sore nipples, dry vaginas, ugly penises, infected bellybuttons and so on and on and on. Blind people cried their dimly eyes, deaf people muttering stupidly, mutes with their hands waving idiotically, fingerless, legless, toeless. Mentally ill, droopy, screenwriters having trouble with inspiration, movie directors asking for advice, soon quite more people then those of his apartment block knew of the man’s newfound ability. They called him many names, everything from Jesus, to the son of the son of God; Alah, Buddha, even God himself. Some that thought he was alien embraced him, some the police, which was by now his most faithful an escort, was obliged and more than happy to stop and beat up. So many people, so many voices, so many thank you’s, and yet none of them thought of him as anything but a healing instrument. Most his palms healed, some remained sick. His friends could no longer bare the pressure and very soon he was entirely alone.

The state law stated that every prisoner shall receive an equal treatment, even if the one in question is on a death sentence. Nobody even asked him if he wanted to heal anyone by now. Resistance was futile, so he’d succumb, powerless to so much as move. And so, the authorities brought him to the prison. See, by then, the man was an international phenomena, and every single prisoner knew about him. Large number of inmates were intimidated and frightened by him, for he was the hand of God. Namely, they thought, if he was to touch the sinners, they’d burn and turn into ashes or green slime or shit and their souls will be sent to the deepest, darkest and hottest levels of Hell. Fear is a dangerous weapon, and one should always be wary, even afraid of fear itself. An important lesson, the warden seemingly missed. And so, chaos broke out. Riots were started, the burning toilet paper was thrown and soon a couple of guards were on fire. Being pushed by the warden himself, towards the cellblock for those on a death sentence, the man felt no fear. Suddenly the wheelchair started slowing down and coming up from behind a terribly sick – looking inmate appeared. Judging by the immense quantity of blood on his prison hospital gown the man realized the warden was long gone. The weakening inmate pushed him into some room and having walked over in front of him he suddenly fell.

“I c…c…can’t move…” the inmate cried
“That’s alright, neither can I.” the man, he kindly spoke
“Stroll the f…f…fuck down from that wheelchair, and heal me!”
“And why should I do that?”
“I’m dying, asshole, d…do it, r…r…right fucking now!”
“I don’t understand, why should you care? You do realize you’re on a death sentence?”
“Heal me, freak!”
“That is no way to talk to your Lord the savior.”
“Heal me, now!”
“No. Talk to me. I haven’t been talked to in years. What keeps you from committing suicide? Isn’t that easier? Why not succumb to your illness? Doesn’t that create the illusion that, in the end, you actually were in control over your life?”

“Alright. I’ll play your game. I’m not a fucking pussy. I ain’t goin’ out like that. Ain’t gonna give ‘em the pleasure of early death. If I go out, I’m gonna make some damage. Even if the damage is only to the stomachs of the witnesses to my death. I wanna go out with a fighting chance, using every last breath to stay on this shit hole.”

“There is no fighting chance, you idiot!” the man spoke mockingly, “There is only an illusion of it, and you know it. You will never get out of here, you will never be free again, you will die, like a criminal, a disrespectful death. Whether or not you’re guilty is not important, you will die anyway. The only thin fucking thread tying you to the edge of this existence is some stupid law sparing you of death, until the preordered time of it arrives.”

“You… You’re so smart.” the inmate spoke after a pause, “Tell me now, smartass, isn’t just that the definition of life? Isn’t life just an incurable fucking deadly STD? Would you please fucking heal me now, so I can await my death in peace, or whatever’s fuckin’ left of it in this God forsaken prison?”

“That was the longest conversation I have had in years and to you, I am grateful for it. Thank you.” the man calmly spoke.
“HEAL ME, ASSHOLE! Heal me, please…”
“You really don’t know, do you, you poor bastard?”
”Just say it!”
“I cannot move. You think the wheelchair is just for a parade?” he laughed, “You sorry-ass bastard.”

Desperate, two immobilized men sat and lied inside a dark room. The echoes of an angry mob were slowly turning into chants, and soon they were to walk in and kill the savior.

Feeling the guitar strings on the tips of his fingers again, the man smirked and then slowly spoke:
“A relief for one man is a death sentence for the other.”

Cruelty often beats niceness, as it is more helpful in terms of questioning oneself. The irony of it lies in the fact that it seldom comes from a friend, the cruelty. The best advice comes from an enemy, in disguise.

I was very young when I met her, and by that time, she was already an experienced lover.
Her curves were so perfect and she knew it. She swung them very skillfully and called me out to grab her gently but roughly. She always took the lead because I was an inexperienced dancer.

Sometimes I’d trip and fall over. Sometimes, for the sake of my own balance, I’d twitch her beautiful strings of hair unwillingly, so she’d scream. I was thoughtfully rough, and she played me like a blind man. Every time she’d howl I’d get scared that I’m hurting her, but she was already used to it. I’d play with her strings of hair and she’d make uncomfortable, but addictive noises. She’d moan awkwardly for hours, until I wasn’t sure if I’d learned something about her species or if I just got used to the pinching noise anymore. She was always heading straight for the orgasm, but she could never reach the climax and that was her curse.

When her first string of hair fell off, I felt sorry for her. She was but an injured angel, wings half-burned. Still she’d fly beautifully, but she wasn’t complete. So I sewed her up, and she was ready for my beauty-hungry eyes again.

She was very classy and cunning. An old-school lady.

She had such an innocently disfigured face with short strings of hair that were so inappropriately combed, and yet combined with perfectly straight, long strings of hair, going all the way over the neck, to her lower back and buttocks. Her curves were so amazing, it was as if they were specifically designed for my lap. She loved sitting in my lap. I guess it felt comfortable for both of us. I guess that’s why we were perfect for each other. Her spine cords were so flawlessly revealed, that I’d get a unique pleasure when moving my soft fingers all the way from her face to her lower back, stopping just when her moaning would turn into squealing. I enjoyed giving her massages all night long and she liked to giggle when I’d do something clumsy. Soon my soft fingers became rougher and the petting turned into teasing. I felt uncomfortable and that made her gleam. She fed upon my inexperience, but she knew that I’d tame her sooner or later, so she used up every single moment of my weakness.

You’d expect me to hate that, but I loved being awkward with her.
I loved singing with her. She’d let me lead, and I’d miss the notes, the chords, my voice would tremble. But she knew she was doing me a favor.

Just as she started falling in love with me, they’d informed me that she is to be taken away from me. Suddenly, I realized I was in a soap opera all the time.

Now I started paying even more attention, knowingly falling in love with her. We started bonding.
She enjoyed giving me pinpricks with her badly combed hair, but now she decided to stick the ends of her strings directly into my veins, and pour the melodic poison of love right in. We found new ways of making love and satisfied each other in the same old new way each and every time. I’d close my eyes, but she’d get offended and complain awkwardly. She needed my full attention.

She can feel what is inevitably coming now and she desperately tries to grab onto my soul, but I won’t let her. I can’t. I shouldn’t. But the more I look at her, the more I let her take a new glimpse into my darkest place.

She isn’t alive, but she is real. She has no heart, but she’s got soul. She’s got strings instead of hair. She isn’t perfect, she’s my little piece of imperfection.

Hate yourself on the track, love yourself while making love, but art takes both hate and love to satisfy one’s needs.