Pointless Pills #11

There was a time when he couldn’t wear anything white, otherwise the blood would have showed up everywhere. At that time he didn’t know what was going on in his life. But he liked to dress in black anyway, and that kept him going.

Another time, for a while, he really believed he was like everyone else. What he thought was normal. A job he didn’t like, a car he didn’t need, a woman he didn’t love. At that time he didn’t ask himself too many questions, and that kept him going.

Then, the time when time disappeared. He was living in the desert then, although he couldn’t remember its name. Nothing was wrong, nothing was right. He tried to learn the language of the stars. He failed, but trying kept him going.

And so many others. Plus the forgotten ones. So many moments, whispering from nowhere.

And what, now. They say the present is the most important moment. Does he agree?

He stops what he is doing. His eyes fly through the restaurant’s window. Outside there is Spring, deep, hard spring. Almost 10pm and everything is shining in Renaissance oil colors. His shift is almost done and he’ll have to run to his second job, the real one. The one that keep him awake at night. And keep him going.

The supervisor pops up over his shoulder, ehy mate, you alive?

And maybe he’s smiling, but he doesn’t know that.

“I’ll be in five minutes.”

 

Kire

 

Yard time

“So? Do we still have to walk a lot?

The Rationality spoke with.a firm and annoyed voice. Although it was a normal working day, her desk up on the antepenultimate floor was still full of practices to deal with. Moods and emotions were always making her lose an huge amount of time, and the worst thing was that there was no way of getting rid of them.

“No?”

Replied the Doubt, with his ancient and floating voice.

“We should be almost there…but you never know for sure down here, right?”

The tiny corridor obliged them to walk in a line, the Doubt first, his wizen nose popping out the hood and slicing the lazy light coming from the neons in the ceiling. On the side walls, a myriad of small white doors lied locked and silent. The Rationality looked at them, reassured by the silence. She tried not to think about the cacophony of cries, laughters, screams, songs and curses that were actually happening behind these doors. The soundproofing system was working perfectly, and that was enough for her.

“Here we are, sister.”

She almost crashed into the Doubt, who suddenly stopped at a door, this one wide open, revealing a tiny empty room, the white ceramic walls covered by countless squirts of blood, both random and organized in complex images and phrases.

(per stillicidia emittere animam)

The Rationality carefully looked at them, one by one, while the Doubt started to enounce his report.

“Ambition. Here since some years…seven? Maybe ten. Sick. Unstable. Dangerous? They tried to restrain her with warnings and leashes, but she became only more aggressive. She had a violent argument with a comrade, and they decided to lock her up here. If this is an here. After all, this place doesn’t even exist, right?”

(He who ask timidly, teachs to reject)

“What was the argument?”

“Silly reasons. The Common sense was making fun of her. He said – If you were to make it, you would already have -, or something like that.”

“And?”

“ She chew his throat off, and then she tried to rape him. He never fully recovered, poor guy.”

(Se attacchi un re, poi devi ucciderlo)

“How was she able to escape?”

“It’s not known? I certainly don’t know. It’s your duty, to hunt prisoners and anwers. My duty is to keep an eye on you. I hate my job.”

“Keep an eye on ME? You should have…”

The first wave hit them in a way that surpassed the physical faltering . It was a conceptual violence, it was like attending to something that can not happen. A subtle sensation of movement began to bite the sides of reality.

“We’re moving!”, squeaked the Doubt, “The Omni is walking! It can’t be, but it is. Amazing!”

“Silence, sleep eater!” ,shouted the Rationality, “I don’t know how, but someone desecrated the temple. We have to go to the last floor, now!”

The second wave roared his satisfaction, while the two of them started running back in the corridor. The doors began to fell, while the prisoners started exiting the cells. A lost love, blind and naked, was dancing in the passage, blocking the way. The Rationality hit him with force in the stomach, making him collapse on the floor. Other bearded regrets were crawling outside, long and dirty fingernails anxious to dive into the eyes of some young hope. From behind, fears and awarenesses of every kind marched quickly toward an apathetic freedom. The Rationality and the Doubt fought together with fierceness, barely being able to escape the maze of the nightly whispers. They made their way to the painted stairs, which led them up to the last floor, while the shockwaves continued to flatter, always more stronger and rhythmic.

They found her there, tiptoing over the precipice, her eyes on where before were the doors of the temple, now open for the first time in a very long time. Outside, the unexplicable whirling of the External Sea was devouring himself, while he shouted his questions to the eternity, without even caring for possible answers.

“Look who we have here. The bastard son of Knowledge, and the spinster queen, cheater of the senses. A lovely little wind today, don’t you think? Perfect for a walk!”

Calm and sinuated, so it sounded the voice of Ambition. And for a moment, a long, intense moment loaded with eventuality, it really looked like that things were going to fit in togheter, in a satisfying ending.

The Ambition didn’t go for a walk. Her gracile figure didn’t vanish between the tides of the entrophy below, dragging the entire temple with her. The great doors began to close slowly, while the shockwaves diminuished by number and intensity. She turned and started walking back, passing through the Rationality and the Doubt without even looking at them.

“I just wanted some fresh air.” , she said. “I’m going back down to bleed now. If you need me, you know where I am.”

Everything was motionless, again, like it was supposed to be.

Kire

 

 

Ora d'Aria - by Anna (theannuz@gmail.com)

Ora d’Aria – by Anna ([email protected])

Steven Bauer

The advertise man says be your own boss.
I have been my own boss and then I missed somebody to tell me what to do. Who wants to be president when you can have the easy life of a Domino delivery guy running through the city on your tiny bike bringing happiness to overweight families and overboard students?
The advertise man tells me the keys of success: believe it, aim your point.

What’s the name of the guy who played Manny in Scarface?

At the moment my point is to run over the hill each Saturday and burn some fat because people keep asking you getting fat?
It’s not that it bothers me. It’s the question itself that drives me mad. What are you asking? A fair question? My opinion on my own appearance? Are you trying to be sarcastic? Are you rhetorical?
Anyway it’s true, I am getting fat but you know, it comes with the age.

Steven Bauer.

The advertise man asks about my child dream, what did you dream to become? Are you close enough?
I dreamed to become a comedian and I feel as I was very close to be one, I worked twenty-two years in the fish market and even if you won’t believe me, it is a very funny and humorist environment.
The advertise man suggests to me to buy his book, it’s just 5.99, free delivery if you buy more than two copies. He says.
I picked up the phone and I ordered four copies.
Sir, there’s no such a thing as Cap ‘n Crunch’s Bank, I can’t accept your card. Says the lady at the phone.
Well, that pisses me off.
I turn off the telly after six days.

I move my ass out in the streets.

Is that guy eating shit? Oh no, it’s a Lebanese meat stick.
The air is dizzy and the sky is black and seriously, the Lebanese meat stick looks like a big huge turd.
I am direct to Shaun’s place. Shaun is the most stereotypical peace-boy-trees-fucker you can ever imagine. It has been three years he’s planning to bomb a Tesco supermarket and I am not joking, his house is full of notes, planes, pictures of the Tesco at the corner and other freaking wannabe terrorist material.
He’s gotta do it one day soon but he won’t kill a soul, it’s just a demonstrative act, he says. You know that kind of thing fuck your corporate and fuck your fake food. Go organic!
Whatever the fuck it means.
Shaun is a pain in the arse but he shares.

When Shaun open the door I can’t do anything else to heat his bloody pale face and the dirty Rasta pending down to his butt hole.
Hey come in.
The house smells like a bad novel. First thing I notice is a poster of an Atomic Bomb Mushrooms Cloud, there’s written “
NO MORE! even if it doesn’t happen so often. No need to shout.
Shaun offers me this joint rolled with this grass from Ecuador made by local people while they sing love songs and there never rains, the weather is sunny and enjoyable and there are not gypsy at all.
He probably paid that stuff half of his monthly benefits ensuring a good number of meals at the KFC for his white drug dealer.
It is good.
Shaun’s dog lies on the floor belly up showing his balls at the ceiling. That dog is always so fucking wasted.
My mind is relaxed and thank God Shaun passes away very soon.
I start wondering what would be a nice thing, lose weight, be young again and finally be a delivery pizza guy or world peace, why not? Maybe that poster isn’t so wrong, look at what is happening in Syria and around there. Wouldn’t be nice if it will just stop, one day to another?
But for do that you need real power, a powerful power. You should go to the mighty people on the planet, somebody like Quentin Tarantino.
I am pretty convinced that Quentin Tarantino is the Key for the world peace and he doesn’t know or doesn’t care.
Why?
Just take any mediocre B movie shot in the seventies with five hundred dollars budget and actors found in a rehab clinic. Nobody gives a fuck about it ‘till Tarantino says oh that shit is good, and everybody realizes that he’s right, they agree with him and they love it and they buy the DVD and then the blue-ray and the director who now works as KP in a kebab shop becomes famous and he doesn’t even remember the title of that piece of shit but he finally earns the money for buying a electrolarynx for his poor wife.
All this because Quentin spoke.
And it’ll work with everything.
If Quentin would say that pork ribs are the best food he has ever eaten, Jews and Muslims will seat to eat them together.
If Quentin would say that Cap ‘n Crunch’s Bank is the best bank since the invention of banks then I could buy all the shits I want.
But He doesn’t do it and it’s getting late, and I am still fat and far distant from the modern man’s dream: The Domino delivery guy.
Somebody shouts in the street, Shaun wakes up, he cleans his nose with a rasta and says good morning.
It is morning, another day and I am just a dreamer.

What was that guy name again?

Slon

Sensation

It is just a sensation.
Nothing more.
Listen to Heather, she has it too.

He kept saying that in his head, as it could make that real. Just a sensation.

Coming back to Heather, she was talking about her leg. It was gone long time now, thirteen years she said, but it was still there, attached to her body. She could feel it. She felt the pain, she felt the touch. The only thing she could not do was seeing it.
Because her leg was gone, thirteen years ago with the incident.

Was the break fault, she said, piece of shit car. So long to the left leg and her husband.
He was driving, fault in the brakes my ass, a man so dumb to marry a boring cunt like Heather shouldn’t be allowed to drive.

He hated Heather or to be more specific, she disgusted him.
A living lamentation of how her fucking phantom leg was just a metaphor of her husband to be still with her, though she couldn’t see his chubby pink face. And she would take his picture from her wallet to show his fat face to everyone else.
Then she cried and Tom, the group leader, would rise from his chair and go to hug her and it was hilarious: Tom left both his arms in Afghanistan, now he had two cheap plastic prostheses that made him look like a mannequin from the mall.
A mannequin embracing a fat old bitch with one leg. After all these meeting were funny, how do you jerk-off Tom?

like Heather he lost a leg too. Wasn’t an accident, cancer did that.
Cut it straight from the quadriceps.

He never minded that, he accepted it as a natural consequence of his sluttish life.
It was not God punishment, more like an eruption. All his life had been a pile- of magma, any bad things he did was accumulated under his skin ‘till the day the magma erupted, as a cancer.
Was just his opinion. if it sounded stupid fuck that, he didn’t care.

The dreams began three months after the surgery.
He dreamed his leg, it was still there and it was disgusting. Far beyond the phantom limb.

A swollen rotted leg was still attached to his body, in the dreams he was in the bed, he just looked down and he could see it: was full of worms been busy eating the dead black flash, three big flies were resting on his foot, shitting more worms, he couldn’t move but if he could he would never touch that horrific thing.
He didn’t feel pain, he didn’t feel anything.

Was just the smell.
Putrid and sweet, it would make you puke your lungs.

When he woke up the smell was still there, attached to him, attached to the bed, it wouldn’t go away. No matter how many times he showered, washed his clothes she sheets. It remained with him.

He was tough, he could handle a bad dream, but he couldn’t resist that smell.
So he started to follow the meetings. Any Tuesday he wore his prosthesis and went there, with the hope that someone else was experiencing that, someone like him who was having dreams.

But he was alone.
The only other cripple who had dreams was Joshua, a big fat black guy.
They had to cut his foot because of’ the diabetes. After that he often dreamed he was running in a field full of flowers.
Diabetes runs in my family, Joshua said often. No one runs in your family you fat shit, he thought every time.

The meetings resulted into a failure for his purpose. They were enjoyable when Tom tried to hug one of the guys and were amusing for making fun of the others but nothing more.
Their purpose was to help to accept the loss of a piece of the body and move on, enjoy your life even with something less than before. In the end they were just cripple whining for their situations.

He didn’t need that, he just wanted to stop dreaming, and he just wanted to breathe fresh air again.

Marta had both her tits cut off; breast cancer.
They had something in common, they were junkies. Didn’t take long before they met outside the meetings, in the same sidewalk.
When he invited her over his place, he was thinking that an overweight forty year old heroin addicted without breast wasn’t the worst woman ever been in his house.

She was sitting on the floor, cooking, he was on the only chair he owned. He put away his prosthesis and looked at her.

Do you dream?
I do?
About your tits?
What do you mean?
When you dream, are they still there?
Yes, and my hair are still black and I’m twenty years younger.
Can you still feel ‘em?
No, do you?
Sort of.
Sort of?
It’s complicated.
Why you are attending the meetings?
I need help.
How?
I want to stop dreaming.
Are these dream so terrible?
Can’t you feel it? this smell?
No.
I can.

She raised on her feet with the syringe in her left hand.

You first, where?

He raised on his only leg, pulled down his treasures and his underwear, then came back to sit.

I think it’s my last vein.
She did him first, then she took it for herself.

Later they were in bed, both naked. He was caressing her scars on her chest, neither could be sure if they had sex, they were silent.
She turned to him and rested her head on his chest.

Above the smell he felt something, a naive sensation, a lonely tear went down from his right eye. And the he said it.

Help me.

She looked at him, kiss his forehead and raised from the bed. She walked to the window, opened it.
He could feel a string of fresh air in the room.

She looked out.

Get dressed, it’s a wonderful night. Let’s go for a walk.

Slon