30 September 2011


“hey. been trying to meet you.”
“hey. must be a devil between us. or whores in my head.”
“whores at the door?”
“whore in my bed.”
“but hey, where have you been? if you go I will surely die. we're chained.”

uh said the man to the lady, uh said the lady to the man she adored. and the whores like a choir go uh uh all night. and, mary, ain't you tired of this uh as the sound that the mother makes with a fake embrace?

New home

25 September 2011

Gay = happy

the gayest possible music insinuates itself into my consciousness through the ether. grand gestures are being made all around me by a flock of people, grand gestures like firm palms bouncing off chests bearing joyous hearts to point into a distant above. where the hell am I?

I walk through the smoke filled, dimly lit, spaced out room onto the terrace. the cold, moist air strangles my body to wrap around itself as I lean to an iron balustrade, lighting a black cigarette. the thought of the brand name, black devil, amuses me warm when I place the sugary flavored tip on my lips. 

as I turn my gaze away from the glimmering city lights, I notice a blind girl sitting on the ground, leaning her arched back to an amphora shielding alluring dahlias from the slight fall wind. either she's not aware of my presence or then I am hearing her soliloquize,

the dark nights let the stars begin their shine
   affirming the reflection of mine in the sky

can count a hundred things thought in unison
   sharing a sphere but not the same horizon

suddenly, I recognize this place. I am where everything appears extraordinarily real through being structured to form ever so sensible, solipsistic space. I am inside of my mind.

my metamorphosis into the devil's hound began after sleeping with gogol. the memoirs of a mad man looped all night somewhere in the back of my mind without having the form of a language, but an indescribable sense of the reality reflected in them by a long ago dead, crazy russian,

“oh, what cunning creatures these women are! now I have found out what a woman really is. hitherto no one knew whom a woman really loves; I am the first to discover it - she loves the devil. yes, joking apart, learned men write nonsense when they pronounce that she is this and that; she loves the devil - that is all. you see a woman looking through her lorgnette from a box in the front row. one thinks she is watching that stout gentleman who wears an order. not a bit of it! she is watching the devil who stands behind his back. he has hidden himself there, and beckons to her with his finger. and she marries him - actually - she marries him!”

16 September 2011

Roma - Helsinki

the vague sounds produced by a piano somewhere behind my wall wake me up to damp coldness. apparently when I left my consciousness I also left the window open for the air embracing the rotten tiber to run through the streets of the night to my bedroom. laughing at the images created by my half asleep mind, I hold my head and hit something warm with my elbow - oh - the devil, too, is on my bed. sleeping.

I focus my eyes on a huge tattoo depicting a snake on her back, a snake curled and twisted to be as three dimensional as possible. I reach my cold hand to touch the soft skin of her back, to see if the snake can bite me to death. instead, the coldness of my fingers spreads goosebumps all over the scarlet colored, poisonous looking creature. she, sound asleep under the image of the predator, makes a couple of discontent sounds and adjusts her position. I better get off the bed.

I pull a sweater to cover my naked body and sit on the windowsill to smoke. it is raining quietly outside. as far as I've managed to pay attention, it has rained nonstop for the past three days. that's january in rome for you. the back of my neck and head feel as if they were filled with some unknown liquid - piss, for all I care.

turning to look at her, I try to remember where the hell did she come from. I remember myself going to mr pucci after work, for an aperitivo. I remember meeting a bunch of american film makers. I remember we ordered few bottles of champagne to the terrace table. I remember talking to a blonde californian girl with the whitest of teeth. and then... god damn.

I've met the devil in the past, too, but never has it resided in the body of a woman before. the joke around has been; what kind of trousers does the devil wear? 

thus, in the past it has been surprisingly safe an adventure to get drunk with the devil. but now I see a miniskirt on the floor, next to the bed. 

I throw the stub of the cigarette onto the traffic filled viale di trastevere running underneath the window which I finally close. I let myself fall silently from the windowsill onto the oriental rug on the floor, and crawl the few meters separating me and her to climb back onto the bed. pulling the blanket onto us two, I place myself in line with the devil. I slide my left hand between her breasts, reaching her throat which shows signs of awakening by breathing in two uneven breaths of the coldness still hanging in the air. I breath in the scents lingering around the thickness of her hair to which my face is pressed - the smell of rhubarb and gooseberry are sensible somewhere beyond the stint of sweat and cigarettes. I know she can hear my question,

“where did you come from?”
“from your dreams.”
“no, seriously. I don't know who you are and where you came from. this is my lair and I tend not to have strangers around. so please, wake yourself up a bit and tell me what the hell happened last night.”
“you were in distant, non-existent lands, dreaming yourself away from the life you wish not to lead, and there was I and you asked me to come and stay with you in the awaken moments of boredom.”
“did we meet at pucci's? the last thing I remember is drinking champagne with a big group of americans. you know mr. pucci, the cafeteria slash bar a few blocks away, in piazza mastai?”
“you're confusing me. go back to sleep.”

as if on command I fall off from my consciousness, fall as if dissociating - I see the body of mine tied to hers remain as static figures as I plummet downwards from the bed into the darkness beneath.

in the night of helsinki, I surf through the neon lights of a crowded club. having lost all my friends to the temptations of the night, I decide to leave. first, though - need to go to the men's room.

as I enter the lavatory area, I see I am alone with a woman. my mind takes the time to freeze me to a stagnant position before my consciousness realizes who I am seeing. wearing a dark grey dress with an open back nearly reaching her tailbone, I see the scarlet snake which reminds me of a morning in rome, experienced long ago. slowly, I approach her body leaning over the sink. when I get closer, I see she's washing blood off her hands, blood stretching up to her elbows.

“what happened to you?”
“my boyfriend got into a fight on the dancefloor. needed to defend him.”
“are you hurt?”
“no, I'm not, this is all from the guys.”

I look at the red liquid spreading around the whiteness of the porcelain sink, and in all my scurry go on to ask,

“do you remember me? we met in rome, two years ago? you stayed at my place for some time, in trastevere?”

she turns her head to look at my face, with as baffled an expression as possible. as I begin to feel like a complete idiot, I see her eyes move a few times quickly from left to right, and the gaze she lays on me after they settle gives me the answer necessary.

“I have a bottle of wine in my backpack downstairs. if you want, we could go to the shore and drink it up. for old time's sake, or something like that.”
“why not. the ass I'm with is in a better care than mine for the night anyway.”

I follow her lead downstairs, pick up my backpack from the cloakroom, and head into the night. silently, we walk through the streets of three am. she walks ahead, twisting every single step she takes into a dance which draws the air around into embracing her perfect body. the rhythm of her movements plays a song strong enough to make the sun begin its rise hours early, shedding phosphorous light over the houses representing neoclassical architecture. not for a split second does the scarlet snake on her back loose its contact with my eyes.

as we reach the shoreline next to uspenski cathedral, she sits down onto the concrete and draws the cold saltwater to form circles beneath her feet. I sit next to her, open up the bottle of red, and hand it to her. as she drinks from it the water stills itself in contempt. the forces of nature seem to whimper under her will, just as my nature is drawn to her like that of a dog's.

“tell me, miss devil, what are you made of, and why are you here making the world twist its course to serve your beauty?”
“I am made of all the sins imaginary, and the world as it is perceived by you twists as it should in order to make this experience ever more profound for you, and only for you. so, what is it in your manliness which prevents you from seeing why the object of your desire turns to be ever more amazing, ever more incomprehensible? what is it in the self-esteem of men these days? I haven't had fun since the nineteen twenties!”
“oh, so it is honesty you ask... you need to guide me - that is what you are here for, isn't it? what other reason could one imagine for your fall from the heavens if not to guide the lost?”

she laughs and turns to look into my eyes with the sort of a glare which turns the surroundings of ours into a mass of unrecognizable, dark glow. suddenly, I remember the dream where I first met her. in the dream I was trapped into the suffocating pressure of the deep sea, from which she pulled me up after I promised to grow to be the first man of my time to have what it takes to take her. and then, in the dream, I was courageous enough to smuggle her from the non-existent lands into the sphere of the real - to my roman bed.

“you remember!”
“to highlight - I am here to remind you, men, of the role you need to take in order to serve the purpose built into your divine bodies. the female spirit is intangible and by definition undefinable, and oh so lost! the role of yours is to take an individual female soul and create safe enough surroundings for it to manifest the highest possible ideal built into it. the female spirit is a serving spirit, the sort of which in all its servitude can spread its internal, deeply inherent qualities by manifesting through the male confidence and power. yin and yang. there is nothing to be achieved through strength if the strength itself is not cultivated through the primal instincts only intact in the feminine spirit.

the issue your culture has had for a long time is the emphasis of submissive and mindless females as the ones worth of pursuit - which, of course, they are if one prioritizes “easiness” high. but, instead, the truly victorious men have always gone for the dark and mysterious women who no-one can define with the word dedicated to easy - girl.

the more strong a man wishes to be, the more consciously developed woman he seeks. the feminine strength acquired through conquering the spirit of such a woman is something not possible to achieve through other means. it is this process which makes our culture whisper - behind every great man there's a great woman.

12 September 2011

War song

war song

soldier, in a curious land
   all across a swaying sea,
take her smile and lift her hand -
   have no guilt for me

soldier, when were soldiers gone?
   if she's kind and sweet and gay,
use the wish I send to you -
   lie not lone till day!

only, for the nights that were,
   soldier, and the dawns that came,
when in sleep you turn to her
   call her by my name

dorothy parker, 1944


07 September 2011

We recommend

stoned, she does yoga on an oriental rug dominating a huge, nearly a century old room. next to the window, I sit on a purple arm chair which in the mid-seventies decorated a penthouse suite of a hotel long ago bankrupted. my eyes follow the slowly floating, myrrh scented smoke rising from an incense placed behind chiffon curtains shielding the candle lit room from the strange eyes inhabiting the apartments sharing the same inside courtyard. I couldn't care less. I am invisible even to her.

it has been decades since anyone who I would deem “interesting” lived here. back then I was a young man, and this room had a russian 19th century chandelier hanging from the three meter high ceiling, and a dining table long enough to serve thirty-two. this was a house for parties, parties which were an utter necessity for the man of the house back then. he was a tailor with a firm will to become the best in the business in the only way he knew how to - he made one ladder of the societal hierarchy of this city be his dining room table.

I remember one of the nights around that table in a way which carries me back to my seat, back to my young and tender body, back to the distressful thoughts pounding the back of my traitor mind. a spook for the late kgb, I had swum my way into the vests made by the tailor in order to get drunk with his prestigious clientele. the things I had found out from the oblivious merchants, artists, politicians and their foreign guests, were almost as priceless for the cccp as they were a burden for me. 

in time I've come to realize that the cognitive carriage I dragged behind me as a shadow was something which tricked me into experiencing what I, from my very subjective stance, did on that night. earlier on that hot summer day the only daughter of the tailor had been accepted into the university of helsinki, situated a few blocks away. as a sign of the wealth of the family, she had been able to choose a humanistic field. she was to become an archeologist.

I had seen her but briefly in the past when she brought in more food or beverages from the kitchen, or during the early morning hours when she helped carry the passed out guests from the dining room to one of the only elevators in the capital city of a young country. due to my position, I had only on some vague level of my mind made a mark of her beauty.

her proud father had asked her to join the feast of his clientele on the evening of her admittance, and there she was, sitting across the table from me. she wore a dress cut so as to appear to be melting off of her, a dress made by her father of thin purple fabric embroidered with pearly circles around her sculptural shoulders. I could not say a thing to her in addition to few words of congratulations, because her pale blue eyes appeared to pierce through every living thing and I did not want to draw them to me more than was necessary.

she was seated in between two right wing politicians, who kept on pouring vodka for each others while pulling out more or less imaginary stories of relic hunts from their intoxicated minds. the effort to impress and amuse the young lady squeezed out of air by their cockiness was breathtaking. as I watched the trembling of their bloated, saliva filled cheeks, I decided to have her. she was to be mine for a moment which was made beautiful by my moral impurity demanding a clean canvas to be born anew. 

the cognitive burden on my shoulders must have had an effect on that decision. it must have pushed me towards putting an end to the lie I had come to know my life as, and the only way my deeper being knew how to trick myself out of it was by selecting carefully a target for the most irrational emotion possible, a target which would sing the final song of me from foolish lips to the ears of elders. pity me not. the only time I had her was an equally grand exchange of the primary forces of life as was the beating which left my skull crushed on the ground by the piers not far from this room. 

she, who is now resting her face on her soles in front of me is deserving of similar force directed into her. in the past few days she has proved to the silent witnesses, the walls and me, that she has more control over her physical being than the men in tailored suits ever had of anything around the dining table. 

and so, I descend from the armchair to sit next to her twisted body on the floor, and blow the ice cold wind of my transcendental lungs to her right ear. calmly, she lifts her head to see if the window is open.

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