Wednesday, September 12, 2007


Fur die Deutschen, die Swedin, die Irlanderin, die Ungarin, die Spanierinnen: Versprechen macht Schulden.
A promise is a promise, dear Gasinska.

For you girls, the first English "bites" of Mangiami l'anima e poi sputala.
See you soon in Berlin.

The asphalt burns under the strokes of a high sun. I can smell its sharp odour while I
batch out my red Corvette along the dry country-side.
Nothing happens.
I plunge my foot into the accelerator. The hot wind is pitiless with my red and yellow
dyed hair.
Nothing happens.
I fly. At least I think.
The hot wind clings to my neck and starts sucking air from my lungs.
I look at my face in the rear-view mirror and the smile, marked only on the left side of my mouth, rises up like the top of a diamond.
The air bustles into my nostrils. And I choke.
I slow down. Hot and crackling motor. I stop at the Gas Station.
"We need gas" I tell Spanky.
I wink at the rear-view mirror.
I grasp the patrol pump and I put it into the sex of my Corvette.
Bent on my car, I hold the patrol pump in my both hands.
I push my feet on the ground to keep my balance. My biceps pull till
the liquid wears out its pressure, disappearing.
I turn the plug in the patrol tank. Some liquid seeps into my stained chocolate skin.
I rub my fingers on my worn out jeans.
My big toe is itching. So I hold it and start a giddy scratch.
I stop only when the graze skin comes off, leaving a trail of red blood.
The motor screams. Once again on the road.
From the sunglasses I see everything is around.
Green fields, green countryside, green bushes gasping up.
I am going to this monastery.
I am going to steal the cross of Saint Damian.
I want to see the face of Jesus Christ talking to me.