last year's man
06.11.2024
K L E X P
The Bird
It is autumn again. I was going through my archive, to try and make sense of the beat of time, and stumbled upon an old fragment. It relays of two years past - a time before Klexp. Can you imagine? Can you allow me this self-reflective gesture, as I point at curtain, from which I come and to which I must return, eventually?
Either way, here it goes.
In the beginning was the splendidly coloured bird - harald of creation, perfectly sat upon his branch. Then came the lightly ginger orangutan, also a kind creature, though prone to reckless masturbation, which impounded its continuation for centuries. Nonetheless [...]. We reach the realm of plants, beautiful greenery, though sparks of bright orange remind us of its provenance. The dog follows, the most vile of animals, bounds to the leash, to the earth. What a consolation it is to see it rise into a plumed figure again. As forward time brings us back to the branches, sashimi and shrimp ensue, proof of a benign good, though not to all. [...] The earth dances [...] into the earth [...] into the soil [...] the whole of the world takes part in this, all non-defective creatures [...] we move onwards [...] the stars are reached, cosmic dust, cosmic [...] orange, the colour of the gods [...] benign, benign. [...] This is how one pictures evolutionary time: beyond any Benjamin or Darwin's lie. Whether this be the end of the world or its beginning. Whether this might be an act of creation or restoration. [...] The bird. [...] Unavoidably do human things appear - mistake of the century. Sickly and pale, twisted figures, as we all are, nonetheless, nonetheless [...] intertwined with the filthy dogs smiling their filthy smile [...] but the matrix of the universe is always there, shape of the cosmos, shape of love. [...] Throughout all of time, we see [...] one will unite [...]
[...] unspeakable shape, words do not suffice, my god, my god [...] in abjection, in lamentation, I rise my voice to you, so that it might turn into [...]
At last the ultimate life form appears, end of the millenium and its beginning: the bird.
12.09.2024
Scenes from a remote hut
Mr Burns and Homer were settling into their wooden chairs, the green felt of the seat was a delight and Homer couldnt help but feel thankful for all Mr Burns had afforded him this past hour. Doughy half-spheres, sparkles of beer so fine Marge would lose her hair over it - but did she like beer, he wondered? There was smooth dip (maybe chunks that would burst in your mouth were hidden underneath) and a bowl of more liquid delight. Homer sure felt like a pharaoh and he had the Gerissenheit of a peasant. Lying low in his chair he looked over to Mr Burns, their eyes met, a single teardrop sparkled in Burns eye. He was a terribly sad man, Homer realized. But had he forgotten the marvels that surrounded him? There was bread, waiting to be dipped! And Homer slipped further into his chair, now he could feel the cold hardness of the table on his legs, on his ass. But it was walnut wood and then he understood for the first time that coldness could be wonderful even beyond the pleasures of beer and ice cream, and hardness could be beautiful beyond the sleek touch of a remote. His foot grabbed the spoon to the dip, Mr Burns face showed wonder at the grace and Geschicklichkeit of it. Only seconds later Homer handed him a perfect piece of bread with dip and as Mr Burns began to smile, his lips opened and Homer only wanted one thing.
11.09.2024
Death of a Lubyntski
The transatlantic leaves at midnight. Lubyntski, majestic mustache furrowing against the salty winds, curled up on his upper lip like a placid domestic cat, stands on deck already, hands behind his back, and reminisces , mostly pleasantly, a life well spent, with few regrets.
He must, with a certain bother, betrayed by a spastic movement of the hand, that Prussia isn’t what it used to be anymore - as if History, the one which happens, were a fastidious mosquito he could catch in flight and squish to death. As if this single, passingly cruel gesture could revert its course, and make place for Lubyntski here where the estuary died down, and died.
Friedrich Wilheln grows older and more incapable. No one knows how long he will be able to hold watch over the country, beautifully single, land of iron and fight. Lubyntski remembers as the King discarded the crown. As children, they played fetch together: here, then there, one only needed to follow. And follow he did. Now that the tides are changing, gathering in dark swirls down below, where the ship's bottom meets the waters, now that the paws move across their stupid board, Lubyntski feels nauseous of their movements. Prussia will change, soon, and with it all of Europe. To hell with it. May the old world burn! It is almost a cheering feeling, one that arises directly from the months of blue that preceded tonight. The transatlantic must hurry, now, before the flames catch Lubyntski’s coat, and bring away from certain death, into the territory of surprise and horror: America.
Such is the state of this great man tonight - full of memories and heavy feelings. At this point I must be truthful, dear reader; I had meant to flesh out a more epic tale, of the Tolstoyan kind: to cut through the epoch and find just how Lubynski, the last, measured time, transversally defined the age and place Destiny placed him into, needing a little help. But I am aggravated tonight, in no mood altogether for historicisms, because I must battle with the grief of a departure of my own, and you must choose yourself whether to believe me. It might suffice to say this: if you wanted to know more about Lubyntski, his age-splitting fist, a plaque about him slumbers in crestfallen Berlin, the old capital. Such was his influence. The plaque invites you to a game of fetch. If you followed its instructions, you would find yourself moving across this desolated city, where the winters are cold and the summers sticky, into shady corners of Schoeneberg, dark alleys in Steglitz and slumbering dungeons in Dahlem, where the moss talks, too, in perfect Swiss accent. If you followed all of this, dear reader, you’d find your way towards History, or backwards to it, and you’d make it to a desolated alley. Herein lies a minor museum (and let me say, in passing: a public museum so small as to have avoided scrutiny for public funds and the stint of antisemitism, for which we are grateful). Here you will find a small and wrinkly man who, if brought chocolate and tea, will tell you of Lubyntski, the last of his kind, in full vivid detail, as if he had verily met him. He is a lonely man, much less than that nowadays, and you'll be doing him a favor by asking him of this man, the old Prussian, which he will still call Friend. This sodden creature will lead you through the house (because, in truth, it cannot be called a museum) and show you his official painting, where vibrant copper and gold colours catch him standing in line against the curtain of history, and some smaller family portraits, with his siblings smiling in perfect teeth. All of this, the guide will tell you, is a mark of time, a story known by few. And if you're kind enough, the crinkled man will tell you the truth, of the lesser archival kind: he will tell you how deeply this great man touched everyone who met him, how no life which truly crossed with his was left unchanged, a little truer, and for the better, always for the best. If you're kind enough to ask, and listen, the old man will let you steal one of the small golems he keeps into the one-room museum shop, and let you believe in your own skill. It is a kindness he had learnt from the old man, too.
My limitations declared, or rather performed, Let us come back to this man in the star-lit hour of his doom.
The Lithuanian slaves are bringing his belongings to his cabin, watched over, and eventually flogged, by his wife, the most gorgeous Dutch princess, with a secret talent for fiction. In the chests, fearsome objects, really, of fated value. But only memory and splendid artwork bring them back to Lubyntski’s life: and even though they are splendid indeed, and made to represent it in masterful woodcarving and resplendent arazzo, the Prussian thinks, tonight, that they do not resemble his years, the true ones, that which no craftsman nor member of the general public could ever know. A life is a full thing, in moonshone nights like this, and men like Lubyntski, at the start of the big jump, before a great divide, always have the feeling of being able to hold it in their fists, as it dribbles down. All of a life: its insecurities and trials, triumphs and avoidances, handmade and almost palpable. But it is just a feeling; if you hold on too tight, the milky powder of the stars slips away, and you're left with nothing but the vague feeling of the necessity of leaving. All hours before it are blue, and worth remembering and celebrating.
With a thunder and a resounding cheer, the transatlantic leaves. Lubyntski watches until the land - this old, this tired land - gets smaller, ever the less important, and (unbeknownst to him) loses one of its best men. In a moment of clarity, Lubyntski fears that he will not come back from his fateful trip. Beyond the capacity of his eyes, here where the night engulfs the water and the sky, America awaits: the land of beginnings and endings, with whom we must all deal with. We know what happens next, what kind of years await him. The legacy he will leave: good salesmen, frank housewives, perverted bookkeepers, poets. But even if we could tell him - if by force, which is also love, we might be able to cut through the curtains of time, and alert him to the future which awaits him, we wouldn't do so. After all, everything a man can do is walk towards his future, and leave as many memories of him whenever he goes, so that his life might extend, become a story. This one walks so proudly, and we salute him.
15.08.2024
Er hat eine Nase
Er hatte einen Popel,
Der war recht grün und säftig.
Und haftet ihm im Nasenloch,
Als Stalaktit recht prächtig!
Doch atmen ist, deswegen nicht
Arg angenehm zu pflegen.
Aus Frust, darum, wöllt er die Nas,
ritsch-ratsch - bald abzusägen!
Kein Fluchen, Pusten, Schniefen, Ziehn
Auch Drücken sollt nicht nützen.
Der Kolben dicht, die blöde Kuh,
Zum Teufel mit der Grütz'n!
Dann springt der Nasbesitzer, oh!
Im Kreis ganz wutentbrannt
Fliegt komisch durch die Lüfte, bald,
Und landet im Kopfstand.
Da läuft die Soß in sein Gehiern,
Die Höhlen sind nun frei!
Und Nasenmann läuft weiter Kopf,
Es ist ihm einerlei!
19.07.2024
gemischtes Hack
Meat's Demon does not mind when the the butcher has only gemischtes Hack. He simply asks for a double portion and, once home, he divides it. The best rabbinic authorities assert that the resulting beef is completely kosher! The only question is: what to do with the pork? Is it permitted to donate it? Yes, but only if you receive no benefit from doing so. You must dress in black like a thief and, in the night, you must place the pork in a basket covered by a red gingham cloth and leave it on the stoop of an orphanage. The next morning the nuns will uncover the basket, expecting another mouth to feed, and -- what luck! 200 grams of ground pork!
04.07.2024
PASSATEMPO
this bussy? Verkostungsprobe. this bussy? Mit fein-würzigen Kräutern. this bussy? Luftgetrocknet. this bussy? Vollmundig, duftig. this bussy? Ballaststoffreich. this bussy? Ausdrucksstark, mit vollem Körper. this bussy? Economy of love. this bussy? Volle Tüte Müsli-Spaß. this bussy? Fein akut. this bussy? Bei rheumatischen Beschwerden. this bussy? Ohne Zuckerersatz *. this bussy? Grob. this bussy? 3,5% Fett. this bussy? Reich an Omega-3. this bussy? Unwiderstehlich schoko-saftig. this bussy? Feiner Roggengeschmack. this bussy? Schnell, direkt, vegan. this bussy? Natürlich, nicht frittiert. this bussy? 100% pure Bio-Direktsaft aus erster Pressung. this bussy? Pflegt und erfrischt. this bussy? Für empfindliche Haut geeignet. this bussy? Ohne Aufstreusalz. this bussy? Mit einem Hauch Meersalz. this bussy? Mit gekeimten Buchweizen. this bussy? mit bayerischer Bio-Zucker. this bussy? Spezialitätenbrauer in der 9. Generation. this bussy? Handgeformt. Christopher? You're fired.
03.07.2024
Ritual
The ritual had been a success. There it was in the chalk circle, a writhing mass of flesh and nut. It screamed through a thousand orifices which appeared and disappeared periodically like bubbles bursting on the surface of boiling sugar. Then it was silent. Then it spoke:
— Why... have you called me here?
— I have a question to ask you.
— Please, I am beginning to harden... — it was true: a horrible matteness had begun to spread over its form. — If you do not release me, I will perish...
— Why does that concern me?
— Unspeakable horror will be unleashed upon your world. A world... I have sworn... To protect...
— Then you will answer my question.
Cracks began to appear on its surface — a molten mass beneath them.
— Yes... Ask me...
— Why do they call you Mr. Tom?
Silence. Then: the sound of brittle crunching.
19.06.2024
Mollusk
His early morning hours – 4 am to 6 am – he had spent reminiscing about the luscious curves, the surface that was soft and rough ad seriatim, the beautiful blue: looking down, looking up; here one could have it all. The sizzling, the oily crunch of a freshly fried raspatat. Oh, how he loved to think about it. And how he hated the rude awakening at 6 am, when his bedfellow rose to the soft melody of bells, the default alarm, trying its hardest to be calm but he loathed the sound of it, the hypocrisy. Grismel, his wife, rose every morning at 6 am. She’d look over at him, her wrinkles would stare at him, her dry, chapped lips, her sunken eyes. She looked old. He knew that without returning her look. He closed his eyes as soon as he heard the alarm. He wanted to see her as little as possible. Instead he thought about his love affair with the island. Sand, water, oysters. Bitterballen, Pannekoeken, fish. Unceasing satisfaction of desire. This morning especially he was so lost in memory that he could smell the salty sea air. Until he rose, took his breakfast (sausage Grismel knew how to make – every few days she would spent hours preparing them, forming them, seasoning them, grind, carve, flavor, all for him – he could have done without, but he also knew that this pathetic process filled her life with meaning that it would otherwise lack), he put on a tie and left the house.
A building made of glass, but crystal it is not. A soft carpet floor, but camel hair it is not. Everything was mid, he had to face that fact every morning when he stepped through a glass door into the lobby of the most flourishing, most successful and lucrative publishing company this side of the lake. He wasn’t proud that he worked here. There were things much bigger, much better, things that only he knew and that filled him with pride all the more. Vague memories of a time past when he had been proud of his hard work, his position in the company, came to him every now and then but only momentarily. Now it meant nothing to him. Grismel’s father, a grey, stout man, easy to despise, hard to believe that he had it in him to be involved in the birth of three children: the oldest, Grismel, a darling to the father, a speck of dust to her husband; the second-born, Frasier, a hero to many, wicked to those from whom he had taken one of the few pleasures, delights, treasures in life (he had, in the name of animal, earthy and bodily welfare, not mentioning once words such as veganism, vegetarianism or religion, taken away a burger of such divine taste, had caused its censorship, its banishment, that all that was left at the betroffene eatery were balls of dry grain); the youngest, Cleopatra, of her nothing much could be said, she was of no importance whatsoever. His name had been Horace – he had died not long ago in a reckless jump (a foul attempt to prove bravery) from a stone into a stream of cool mountain water. Horace was the (former) owner of the company, he founded it, he brought it to its glory, he even designed the very building, the very doors that Frederick was walking through now. Doors of the greatest simplicity, silver metal, unornate, freckled with tiny scraps.
The tiniest of toilet booths on the fifth floor served him as shelter from the gaze of his colleagues whom he hated almost as much as his wife. Here he laid bare his right thigh and with a silver knife that he had taken from the blue-tiled kitchen he cut into it with just the tip of the knife. Feels good, he thought. Drew back, went in again. And again and again. He pulled his khakis back up and now he was ready for the day to come. Through narrow hallways, over green carpeted floor (green like the piece of spinach that he had so often seen caught in Grismel’s teeth), turn left, then right, “straight ahead”, left, left, labyrinth-style. His name on a door, his smell in the room – he could distinguish his own smell, an unusual trait that didn’t do him any good. Over the years he had noticed the merge of his and Grismel’s – mongrel smell. Now he noticed the red stain on his khakis and took them off. Air around his knuckles, he looked up, nothing there but the stained, age-old bulb that he hoped would one day fall down, explode in mid-air and kill him right there. But no, he didn’t actually want that now. He had good things coming, and he didn’t wanna die here. A day of work lay before him and he chose purple pants from the white plastic box that stood in a corner of the room – the box that housed five pants and a bunch of nut bars that “gave him a kick” whenever needed.
His way home, after a long hard day of work – no way, it was easy to him, all that bullshit. All he had to do was file, correct, read, email. Doesn’t get much easier than that. He was tired now though and his train of thought kept stopping, cycling around and zooming in on the time he had spent on the island. Of love. Of consummation. Of exhilaration. And he began dreaming the most beautiful dream his mind had ever conceived. Then he pulled into the driveway and on entering the house his peace of mind vanished instantly, evaporated with that fishy, oh so familiar smell that greeted him – Grismel was taking a steamy bath and as always she won the battle of bath soap and body odour – her smell overpowering the cherry blossom microscopically added into the slimy liquid that for god’s sake was supposed to clean, to purify and rid of smells such as this one. Then he knew it was time to ease all that had (in the past hours) collected in his brain, the tension that he felt in his joints. Still he stood in the hallway (were the walls painted light yellow? Or pastel blue? He wondered) but didn’t wait long until he turned around and left the house to walk down the street, to reach the little patch of grass at the end of the street, to reach into his bumbag that he had been carrying around all day, it was like his own flesh, and he got out a stick of glue wrapped into foil and sniffed sniffed sniffed as hard as he could. Sticky, sickly, white smell reached him – flew through him, no streamed, no slid, danced? He felt good and for all he knew this he could endure much longer than was him allowed. Minutes of sick pleasure and it was over – and the relief he felt was washed over by the desire he had, the repulsion he felt for all that awaited him. That was: Grismel. Or himself? Didn’t matter. She was in him. As was… better things, impossible to spell out. So he returned and the house greeted him and he greeted the house with lust for blood.
Further away, many, many miles further away a letter arrived for Sir Bleurt – he received many a letter but this one excited him and he opened it with zeal. It was addressed to him and it concerned his little island off the coast, it was to be bought by a businessman – finally he had gotten rid of it. Splendid day, simply splendid. He skipped through the long yellow hall and, forlorning his cuban coffee, jolted through the bedroom door. His wife at the dressing table – blush with rouge, tan with bronzer. The cat streifte his leg, the soft fur, it warmed his heart. A smooch for his wife – would she care? he wondered – and he scanned the dressing table – anything suspicious? -- round, square, rectangular tubes, that was all: golden red, light pink, shimmering brown, pure gold, so much texture, so much color – you’re an artist, he wanted to raunen, but he didn’t, it would’ve been too much, too much affection, it would’ve repulsed her, so he thought. She smiled and her bronzer klickte shut. ‘I’m bored.’ He got mad. All this beauty, his happiness, his success. With two (or was it three) words she had taken all that away and he was left with mad rage. But who was he, not a brute, not a fool – he wouldn’t reveal his madness. “It’s been bought, my darling. The island has been bought.” “High time.” He remembered that she was a cold woman. Soft, but cold. He remembered the island, his island, his property. Warmth, a distant memory but he could feel it still, if he let himself. So, what was all this excitement for. He didn’t want to sell. He wanted to keep. It was high time, yes, but for something else…
Then, as if in an instant, a pumping and pulsating, Sir Bleurt was where he belonged, his blood knew it, all of him knew it. Sand that shone silver. Speck. Speck. Be careful or it’ll get in your eyes. The breeze told him that. Someone else was there too – a little man, so little compared to him. And this man was new, relatively, hadn’t known the island as long as Sir Bleurt had and the way they each loved it was different and it would never be the same. And the island would give each of them what they deserved. And if they treated the island badly, then that would show. Everything depended on it now, because nothing else was left. But everything had always depended on it anyways, because nothing else had ever been worth even a speck of the island’s sand. The man couldn’t see him because he was ducking behind a bush of lush green. The other man had just arrived and was bathing in the sparkling shadows of dunes. Shadow was warm here. Sir Bleurt was bored. He wasn’t here to watch another man roam this paradise. The island owned him, and no one else. So he turned around and disappeared into
Slime so beautiful it was impossible to resist. He felt like a newborn, a newborn with all the knowledge of lust and pleasure and love. Standing in the sparkling shadows of the dunes. The sparkling shadows of the dunes that seemed to infiltrate his body. He was basking. And slime was building all over his naked body, golden slime, so beautiful, the finest thing he had ever touched. Like dusty canyons it seeped in and out of his body so that all of him was vibrating, matter that never stopped moving and it showed. Swirls of slime that flowed on and on and he laughed and he was so happy. Then it was time to move on and he moved through the sand until he came up on a bay where he spotted a Imbisshütte, tucked away between two dunes that threw shadows on one another. And he was pleased to see, as he approached, that the hut was occupied only by sizzling oils, cooking appliances, bitterballen, krokets – waiting to be thrown into hot oil. He entered and now he was the
Besitzer, Koch und alleiniger Betreiber einer exklusiven Traditionsimbissbude. His first customer arrived rather swiftly, too swiftly he thought, solitude was, so he had hoped, the price he had to pay to be here. But he had entered new terrain and new space was bound to change his time. She had the skin of a mollusk, shiny, slimy and slightly wet, somewhat beige. He was horrified when she approached but soon the sweetest scent reached him and horror quickly became delight.
17.06.2024
Soße
Hubschrauber pürieren die Luft mit ihrem Propeller. Das Firmament bedankt sich gerne und hält es sanft fest mit seiner Soße.
12.06.2024
speake
Speak of me, favorable companion, of geode-- geodesic caves, where each path leads speedily to every other, refracting endlessly, terribly, my God.
Borne interminably over fishless seas, greate deserts of water, borne interminably.
Speak, speake, of it, that I might not, that I might not be compelled.
As if,
-- no, not quite.
A barbarous land, where all is comune.
I am the least of them in knowledge.
30.05.2024
Bissfest
Einer in vielem sagte mein Priester immer,
jede Woche hält er den Laib Christi in die Luft, jedes Jahr aufs Neue hängt er sich in seiner Robe in die Luft, vor den großen Ostfenstern. Jedes Jahr nagen wir an Ihm, zuerst an der Robe, dann ziehen wir an seiner Haut bis sie sich dehnt, dann bis sie reißt, wir nagen an ihr, so wie Hungernde an Ledertapeten nagen, ziehend und zehrend am Zaum, sabbernd zerkauend nagen wir, zu schmerzerfüllt-entzückten Schreien des Hängenden. Nach der zähen Vorspeise beißen wir in sein Fleisch. Intim und mit großem Gefallen fahren die Zahnknochen durch Museklfasern, Sehnen weben und schlängeln sich ans Zahnfleisch. Näher und näher ans Innere des Priesters dringen wir vor, Die genüsslich zerkaute Lederhaut weicht dem Fiebrtraum, den getriebenen Traum, in dem es keinen anderen Trieb als den zum Inneren gab, unsere Treibjagd zum Kern, zum Springen und zum Greifen, immer näher ans Herz zu greifen, immer näher ans Herz zu beißen, immer näher ans Herz zu blicken, den Speichelfluss mit Blicken aufs Herz zu mehren, sobald es soweit ist, sobald wir vorbei sind an den hängenden Gedärmen und dem hängenden Zwerchfell und dem saftsprühend zerbissenem Fleisch.
Unsere Hände strecken sich dem Herz empor, der delirante Prieser atmet laut lungenlos dem Raum entgegen, der Atem trägt seine Worte in uns hinein. Unsere Arme brennen in der Mühe, unsere Finger sind erschöpft, einige gebrochen, vor dem Zusammenbruch sind wir nur vom Licht und Saft des Herzens, seines Herzens, des Herzens des schwebenden Halbkörpers bewährt, des Halbkörpers der uns Tag für Tag beredet beriet, der nun halberhalten schwebt vor den großen Ostfenstern, im zunehmend stumm wohltönenden Schreiatem.
Sobald das Herz zum Opfer wird, ausreichend entsaftet wird, ausreichend ergriffen wird, beginnt es uns zu ergreifen, wir sind berührt, es dringt in uns ein, es atmet Brand, wir atmen ein und brennen und beißen es, es fässt unsere Zungen, wir ertrinken in seiner Abstrahlung, es wird größer, ein Kubikmeter, es rückt uns näher, die Luft wird stickig, der Fleischgeruch setzt erst jetzt ein, waftet uns entgegen und beginnt uns zu verschlingen, das Herz pumpt Blut durch die gesamte Kirche, sechshundert Qadratmeter groß, wohlgenährt und überfüllt ertrinken wir und werden erdrückt, die Kirche füllt sich mit dem Herz, es schlägt zum Atem des Priesterrestes an den Ostfenstern, es überwältigt uns, wir tauchen unter, verschlungen vom sich ausdehnenden Herzen, wir fließen in seinen Adern, wir träumen in der Tiefe überfüllt und überwältigt in seinen Venen, es hat sich von seinen Herren und seinen Dienern freigesprochen, wir sind in ihm und mit ihm, jeder Kubikmeter, Herzerfüllt, jeder von uns, Herzerfüllt, jeder andere Tag herzlos, nach dem stumm-überwältigten Priesterschrei schreiend, lieblos, laiblos, zur verstimten Rede und Berührung bestimmt bleiben wir, beraubt unserer Beißwerkzeuge sind wir, als Kieferkrüppel nur zu Konversation und Gebet befähigt sind wir, beinah Augenlos lichtverneinend an jeden anderen Tag im Jahr sind wir, beinah mundlos blutentsagend an jeden anderen Tag im Jahr sind wir, unfestlich an jeden anderen Tag im Jahr sind wir, unfestlich sollen wir bleiben, bis dieser Tag ein zweiter wird, ein anderer wird, sich festlich gleicht und doch anders ist, als Wiederholung dieser Wiederholung denselben vernichtenden, denselben überwältigenden, denselben erhellend-füllenden Zwang mit uns schafft und den Zirkel des Jares aufs neue treibt und schließlich schließt.
23.05.2024
a moominous gift
This morning beautiful limpid insight was granted to me in a dream. I was younger, younger than I'd been in a while, and I was surrounded with friends, most of whom have been long headless, and I was so happy to see them again and walk the halls of our supreme high school with them. The occasion was joyous: some mix of Jul and end of school celebrations. The spacious corridors of our school, once a convent for evil nuns, were sided all along by food stands of all kinds and I, in the spirit of the celebrations, forgot myself and my steadfast veganism and ate a "drake mix" dumpling. But it was a theatre play, and everyone laughed comedically. Now, my reason of being there was not merely of pleasure: indeed, business was also on my mind. You see, students of all walks of life had gathered there to sell their most important belongings and I, for the occasion, had put my most beloved non-sentient object into a makeshift frame: the first original Moomin comic strip from 1947. In the faulty logics of the dream, though, this wonderful exemplar of incredible value (both economical and sentimental, me being the first actor to play little Moomintrollet on stage with a modicum of success) had been made larger, ever the large, and in order to carry it I had to use both my hands, sweat profusely, and constantly apologize to the unfortunate walkers-by that I hit in the ribs or the chin. The greater the Moomin comic, the greater the lesson, I see now. But in the dream I was disadvantaged, terribly uneasy. Everyone around me had been enjoying their festival, eating some beetroots with marmalade, maybe a bit of pork, drinking the elixir of life, Julmost, and selling small objects for a small gain. I knew, however, I had far greater a treasure than them, and insisted on finding a suitable client. Bracing myself through the crowd, steadfastly advancing, I kept thinking of this man (for no woman needs to possess a Moomin comic, since they are given them at birth, and collectors are infrequently of this kind) - what he would look like, how would I recognize him. I knew one thing: despite the quite unprofessional packaging, my sweat marring its cardboard exterior, the perfect buyer would need no more than one single look to estimate the value of my product, and gentlemanly refuse any attempt at bargaining. He would look at me, look at my wonderful original 1947 Moomin strip, and immediately call for me to halt and proceed with the deal. This was my client and I would settle for nothing less. A few Scandinavian students approached me with their backs bent, begging for my Moomin strips, but they were rats, really, and I scattered them to the winds.
All the while a good friend of mine, so sadly faceless in the clarity that comes with morning, walked with me. They never tried to convince me to give up my quest, and renounced a great deal of celebrating to be with me, to support me when my knees became weak, and carry the original Moomin comic for me when I faltered. But I knew they did not agree with it, not deep down, and wanted for the both of us to lose the comic and ourselves in the crowd of jubilant teenagers. But they stayed at my side, the most loyal of friends. It was a Finn, stark naked as they often are, and with handsome eyes of glass. We kept walking and walking, the two of us, and I, losing my faith by the minute, kept looking with preoccupation at the signs indicating the toilets. Me and my friend then came to a rare place of rest, where the celebrants were more sparse, and we decided to catch our breath there. It had come to that, I realized - catching a breath where everyone was busy having fun, enjoying themselves, the last light before the true entity of the dark. My friend looked at me and smiled. In that moment it became clear to me that the darkness was all mine, that I had been refusing the light, that I was holding on to quite a treasure, sure, but that it had been hindering my faculty for happiness, for levity. The friend, medically aware of my thoughts, asked the maieutic question: who amongst us would treasure an original 1947 Moomin comic strip? And I was released. Through the sweat dripping from my brow I could finally see that I was the buyer I had been looking for. The treasure was mine to keep and enjoy. I had been the custodian and the enjoyer of the Moomin comic all along. By the light in my eyes, reflected in theirs, my friend understood my illumination and we sprung to embrace each other. I caressed their hair, looking at them from the vantage of my height, and promised we'd spend the night turning the comic's pages at candlelight together. I entrusted the package - suddenly so light - to them and decided to lose myself in the celebrations, too. I walked towards the closest male bathroom and, as I most often do in my dreams, I started looking for quick and dirty gay sex, of which there is always plenty, for those with eyes to look. I was greeted by pissing jubilants, standing and flowing by the urinals, which turned their gaze at me and welcomed me into their fun.
17.05.2024
Brain
The corrupt medical establishment would have you believe this is a perfectly healthy brain. What do you think, truth-warrior?
16.05.2024
I used to wonder
I used to wonder
when still a boy
and from The Book
dripped stories
onto parched children's lips
What they drank
when sweetest dew
fell from stars or else
condensed on desert stone
to nourish weary Israel
But now I know
for when I was at the great Library
from ancient tomes
trickled forth instruction
into my cupped and seeking hands
It was devotion
when I, for forty years,
distilled in my laboratory
not wine but purest Manna
to quench the searching of my heart
15.05.2024
I went down to the river
12.05.2024
Gorillotype
I had been recalled to Town on an urgent errand. One of the enhanced Gorillotypes, which, for their surprising wit, had been causing such a stir in London society as of late, had, it seemed, escaped from the enclosures of Her Majesty's personal menagerie.
"By Jove!," I'd exclaimed upon receiving the telegram, dressed on that inexplicably hot April day in my favourite gingham robe, which, I must confess, could hardly contain the many and glistening voluptuities of my corpus patricium, and "by Jove!" I exclaimed again, when, upon leaving Paddington Station, an obscure, slender fellow approached me, opened his overcoat, and revealed to me certain voluptuities (or rather semi-voluptuities) of his own.
He scurried away, and I was left so disturbed by the vulgar and unrefined execution of the act (I myself being a chartered, dues-paying member of the League of Perverts), that, despite the very urgent nature of the hyperprimate extermination, which, as Duke of Sommerset, I was patrinilineally duty-bound to perform, I changed course, and was soon before a local office of the jolly old LOP.
I entered to find a rather bored looking cockney at the front desk:
— 'Ello Guvnah! 'Ow can I be of assistance?
— I say, good man! Not ten minutes hence, I was witness to a truly miserable showing by one of our comrades in arms! I am here to report it.
— Blimey! 'At won't do! Where did you see the fellow?
— Right outside Paddington station.
— In what 'ardinal 'irection were you 'eaded?
— To the west, I believe.
The Cockney took a large logbook out from beneath his desk, flipped to an index in the back and muttered to himself "Quadrant BG." He then leafed to the middle and made his inspection, his index finger descending row after row of cramped handwriting. He did the same for the two or three surrounding pages, then sighed, looked up at me and said:
— Sorry, Sir, we 'on't 'eem to 'ave any'ody in that 'uadran'.
— But that can't be! He was one ours for sure...
— I 'on' 'ow 'a' 'o' 'ell 'ou 'ir, 'erha' 'eck 'i' 'e 'egion' 'o 'erver'.
— Sorry, my good man, I couldn't quite catch that.
— I 'e' 'y' 'o' 'u' 'e' 'i' 'e' 'o' 'p'.
— By Jove! — my consternation getting the better of me — speak clearly, man!
— ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '!
I grabbed him by his collar, and I am sure even now that I would have done some violence to him, had I not, at that very moment, perceived the even and inexorable rhythm of a pant hoot behind me. I attempted to beat a hasty retreat. It was too late. The doorway darkened. The Gorillotype was upon us.
07.05.2024
Mischief Night
The oak tree, with its fried chicken trunk
Has been here every Mischief Night of our lives
Standing with stern grace
Dodging eggs as they float towards houses on nights like these
With wooden fences in our peripheries
We consider the grass
And the fallen leaves that are delicately propped up
On its needly points
And we wonder
Why on earth our fathers would want to plant more grass in the summertime
They stood in the kitchen
Screaming their guts out about leaky pipes in the basement
And the brand of cereal we picked and our little brothers who were in school that July
In the empty gym that reeked of paper
And then they’d slam the sliding door to plant the little shards of grass in the bald spots of our backyards
There were always itchy bags of grass seed on our bookshelves
There was so much grass, although it dies in the apple cold air
Halloween is amazing here
We walk on every lawn
23.04.2024
Vase
Today, proceeding on my usual route, I found a vase of white marble, streaked with lurid jade. I say vase, but it was only shaped like a vase. It had no cavity -- it was completely solid. I tried to pick it up but it was too heavy.
17.04.2024
Wie es dazu kam, dass Bernds Lippen willentlich auseinandergenommen und mit Parmesan bestreut wurden
Ein Traum der ihn schwindelte und es ihm so schummrig wurde, dass er nach 26 Stunden Schlaf wieder das Licht der Welt erblickte, blieb so lange mit ihm, dass er erst nach 43 Stunden wieder zum Schlaf fand. Er rutschte dann in das Schwarze Nichts hinein, dass ihn wie einen alten Freund begrüßte, doch da er nicht bei Besinnung war bekam er nur ein zittriges „Hallo“ heraus und war im nächsten Moment schon so panisch, dass er seinen Zustand am liebsten zerkratzt und zerstört hätte. Doch das ging nicht und vielleicht fing bald auch wieder ein Traum an, denn am nächsten Mittag, als er aufwachte, hatte er nie zuvor dagewesene Lust auf Maultaschen. Gekochte Maultaschen, die er so auseinandernehmen wollte, dass er zu seiner Linken die Fleischfüllung auf einem Haufen hatte und zu seiner Rechten die Nudelhaut. Dann würde er Butter und Salz über das Fleisch verteilen und Parmesan über den Nudeln. Was als nächstes kam wusste er noch nicht und das war ihm auch ziemlich egal. Im Geschäft blieb er zehnmal vor Verwunderung stehen, denn die Leute grüßten ihn mit „Bonjour“, „Bongiorno“, „01001000 01000101 01001100 01001100 01001111”, „Howdy“, „Cześć“, „Olá“, „Bună ziua“ und ein paar anderen Wörtern, die er gar nicht verstand. Die Maultaschen-Abteilung sah heute so mickrig aus und seine Lust verschwand als er sah, dass jemand eine halb ausgelaufene Packung Kondensmilch vor die Schwäbischen geklatscht hatte. Was eine Scheiße. Schnell verließ er das Geschäft und schwor sich nie wiederzukommen. Vielleicht war es das Beste wieder nachhause zu gehen und sich hinzulegen. Er musste Fuß vor Fuß setzen und die Straßen schleiften sich ein und aus, Schilder schienen sich zu wiederholen und das taten sie auch. Und am liebsten hätte er einfach aufgehört und sich auf die Straße gelegt, wie der dort drüben. Das Auge wanderte und schon bald hielt er ein Gorgonzola-Eis in der Hand, schleckte daran und hatte ganz vergessen wieso schlafen gehen eigentlich die beste Idee wäre. In einer Wohnung weit über ihm hörte ein in die Jahre gekommener Juwelendieb Rio Reiser und zählte dabei die Scheine – er hatte soeben einen vergoldeten Smaradgring verkauft (oder war das ein Malachit? fragte er sich jetzt – es war ziemlich egal, der Deal war vorbei und Verstehen musste er das Ganze sicher nicht) – Geld hatte er bekommen, genug, um sich etwas Schönes zu leisten. Er gönnte sich so selten etwas. Vielleicht einen neuen Mund, das könnte gut kommen – ihm und dann auch zur Freude seiner Mitmenschen. Erst gestern hatte er im Fernseher einen wunderschönen grün strahlenden Mann mit wohlgeformten Lippen, die ein zartes, einladendes Lächeln trugen, gesehen, und jetzt dachte er, das könnte gut kommen. Niemand widersprach einer Augenweide. So in Gedanken vernahm er plötzlich aus den herumschwabernden Worten, die aus der unmittelbaren Umgebung und von weiter weg stetig zu ihm wollten, ganz eindringlich gedacht die Fetzen „Maul“, „Füllung“, „glänzend“, „gleichmäßig verteilen“, „Haut“ und weiter brauchte er wirklich nicht zu lauschen, denn was hier passierte war so klar wie Kloßbrühe. Da hatte ihm von ganz weit oben jemand dieses Geschenk gemacht: die Fähigkeit Gedanken aufzuschnappen, wann immer er wollte, denn sie kamen auch zu ihm wenn er nicht wollte. Und jetzt sah er auch den Grund: sein Wunsch, der nun zum Lebenstraum geworden war, konnte er so erfüllen: der Mann, der ihm den Mund verschönern würde war in nächster Nähe und er sprang vor Freude los.
09.04.2024
Archaische Büste Gay Hulks
Wir kannten nicht sein unerhörtes Cock,
darin die Veins reiften. Aber
sein Kopf glüht noch wie ein Kandelaber,
in dem sein Schauen, nur zurückgecockt,
08.04.2024
eye
I think it's possible: that time and space are always there, static. A colossal edifice of everything that ever was is and will be. And I am an eye at the end of a silver rod, moved through the labyrinth at a more-or-less even rate. An eye -- of course not just an eye: lips and ears and nose and skin -- the homunculus's swollen features.
04.04.2024
Festbiss
Gebissen habe ich schon immer.
Ich fühle immer noch das leicht fleischdurchtriefte Fett vor meinen Zähnen, das Aroma wiegt sich auf meinem Atem, die Luft entkommt sich selbst nicht. Eine Abfolge an Bissgefühlen, im Farbenreichtum. Der Biss ist vorbei, aber das Bissgewissen haucht einem eklig-warm auf den Nacken mit der Überzeugungskraft eines von fremden Freunden vorgewärmten Toilettensitzes.
Der Mund hat sich schließlich bewegt. Alles andere stand ja still.
Da kommt etwas Schuld auf. Etwas Scham für die Gewalt sogar, etwas Zufriedenheit und Dankbarkeit sogar, für den Dienst der Gebissenen, so gar. Leicht geatmet ist der Biss auszulassen, das habe ich bereits in der Schule lernen müssen. Davon zu erzählen hat sich damals nicht gehört. Aber heut ist ja alles erlaubt, aber dafür auch bissfester. Die Abformmasse beim Zahnarzt erlaubt auch alles, durchbeißen lässt sie sich dafür nicht. Die Masseschwädchen wallen sanft, legen sich um Knochen zuerst, um Fleisch danach, dringen in jeden Spalt ein und lassen sich fühlen. Es schmeckt nach Amalgam. Gefüllt ist man ja gern, geleert nur unter Zwang. Unter blendendem Licht sowieso, mit fachkundig latexüberzogenen Fingern umso mehr. Nur eine kleine Übung steht bevor, dann rührt man mit den Dritten knirschend das Tamtam, nur eins bleibt übrig, den Kiefer ausrenken, kurz schreien, das Gelenk weiter treiben, bis man sich selbst droht, sich selbst zu verschlucken droht, von der eigenen Drohung überwältigt wird und Opfer wird, sich selbst an sich selbst verfüttert.
03.04.2024
A word on Gargantua
The author of this short piece has not yet finished Bakhtins full analysis of Rabelais and she has also not read any other such analysis of Rabelais, that is Gargantua, the text to which this entry will be dedicated. Maybe later. This is just to say: It’s very enjoyable (Gargantua) that is and I am almost inclined to say that I wish I was a giant. Yes, to ride on a horse that could stomp out Steglitzer Stadtpark in a second. To piss all over Paris and have citizens drown, I mean float around in a liquid much less questionable than that of any “normal” sized citizen since all Gargantua drinks is wine and doesn’t that purify and demystify for ever and all? It’s probably (maybe!) the funniest thing I’ve read that was written in or before the 16th century. The German translation is (in my humble opinion) very agreeably, very lovely. Done by Engelbert Hegaur and Dr. Owlglass. There is illustrations in the edition I own and if copyright allows you might be marveling at some right now or in a second. What else does a review need? It is “late” and I am hungry so I would prefer not to analyze right now (maybe in a second part). If you’re easily disgusted, then maybe this book isn’t for you (or if your imagination is simply too colorful, too ripe). Take this chapter title as a warning that’s not really a warning: Wie Grandgosier die Geisteskraft Gargantuas bei Erfindung eines Arschwisches kennenlernte. New word constructions are not sparse and I now wish that I had noted some down. Simply read it and you will know. I wonder how the French, the original compares. If there’s any Frenchperson reading, please do tell!
01.04.2024
Scriptio continua
Or otherwise boustrophedon, the bull moving back and forth, left and right.
Anyways, I would like to say hello to my dear friends. How are all of you doing? It is a balmy april fools day. A strange song is playing outside, I'd guess from a car stopped at a red light. Behold, an image:
What do you think about this? What about some Yiddish?
װאָס הערט זיך? איז אַלץ קשר מיט דעם?
It seems that Yiddish isn't working yet. I'll have to see what's wrong...
addendum: maybe yiddish is working after all...
01.04.2024