Prose

A town close to nowhere. From above everything seems close to nowhere. The steps, the dreams and hopes, the bus station or the bus itself seem to take us nowhere. The Globe itself seems to spin with a ferocious redundancy in a vicious cycle.

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I know that I diminished considerably my chances to get your phone number, my beautiful stranger and drink companion, but maybe another drink would keep you glued to the stool as I slowly slip into an amorphous presence. I wish you were married, ugly, fat and a little bit more disgusting than I could ever describe so I could punish my impertinentcies by inviting you to a motel and kissing that repulsiveness over and over; and I would do that as a great lover, greater than Romeo and with more passion and loyalty than Don Juan was ever able to show; I’m very aware that the general concept about Don Juan is everything but loyalty. If our ephemeral encounter will permit, I shall develop further the Don Juan social hysteria. Anyway, once in a while I get masochistic and I tend to reprimand my antisocial behaviors with disgusting images; for balance’s sake.  read more »

Le faineant se leve au coucher du soleil, a l'heure ou les ombres s'etirent dans la rue, le visage pale, les cheveaux en desordre sur le front. Comme d'habitude, a la tombee de la nuit, il s'approche du miroir en trainiant les pieds. Il observe son reflet avec degout. Derriere lui s'etale le desordre de sa chambre. Il s'habille dans les vetements sales. Le faineant est pret pour sa sortie de chaque nuit.