I’ve got Five Middle Fingers on my single little hand

You know what I don’t have to do?
I don’t have to care.
I can wake up and flash a middle finger at my alarm clock and let the rest of the day be a series of middle finger assaults which’ll invariably all blur into one

That old silver haired crow of a woman that keeps telling me to wear appropriate clothes will be the first to feel the wrath of my middle finger

That pig of a bus driver who looks at me as if we had dirty sex in some dirty alley will be second
Why does he always look like he’s just had clammy sex with a crab smothered in butter?

Beyond that;
faces blur, identities fuse into one another and I fucking swear if my neighbours don’t shut the fuck up I’ll gouge their eyes out with my middle fucking finger goddamn it!

When my aunt (the sprite-narcissist) figured it would be a great idea to take out some dirty laundry during grandma’s funeral I shoved an ugly middle finger right in her face. All my life I’ve been waiting for that moment and I’m rewarded with the rest of the family excommunicating my rogue ass.

Now that I am free I can see clearly now.
This satisfies me.
There will be more attacks and I don’t think I can stop.

Say Aaaah

She’ll let her tooth rot out until it reaches peak-pain and then have it removed

She’s never had rest from her teeth; they’ve brought nothing but misery. From their disorderly alignment to their susceptibility to decay.

In many ways they’ve been a reflection of her own internal rot. No matter how hard she’s swung at the blood thirsty bats of life they get a bite, draw blood, come back for more.

And the professionals say “you should take better care”, what the fuck do they think she’s been doing? Eating rocks?

Two times a day, for two minutes. futile. But the professional with a degree dishes this bullshit advice out like a condom dispenser.

Surround yourself with positive things; don’t fixate on the negative (yeah I can do that, why didn’t i think of it?)

It isn’t at all like cutting yourself really (letting the teeth rot away); the ramifications of that are not as great

She’ll probably end up with dentures before she even touches the age of fifty

If she even cares to make it there

Left handed people on average die sooner than right handed people; she hopes so.

Happy people live longer they say (if only this were true. It isn’t)

She scoops a tiny portion of toothpaste with the tip of her tongue and guides it carefully to the crater in her tooth and dumps the numbing paste into the void.

The tingle dies away; she’ll live to eat another day

Quite jubilent, considering.

Money on a park bench, what good fortune.

Baby in a stroller smiles at me,
what serenity,
and all packed so sweetly,
into such a tiny little body!

Kind old ladies sharing tales of the good times,
when they fell in love,
when they watched their kids, grow,

All delivered in a stream of nostalgia so infectious my own heart swells
like the clouds above,
raining down a shower of glorious emotions.

I cry with a smile on my face.

It’s moments like these when the pure value of life truly shines bright.

I say aah! to be the humming bird flying round and round a plump humming bird.

Such a transcending vision

I cry with my arms open.
Welcoming the world.

[And she built a bonfire to burn her Liar-Liar collection of 1970’s panties, they caught on fire rather quickly, adieu – she said – While dancing to a tape recording of Bach’s ironic harmonica concerto: Die Toten Honig Himmel]

But The Truth is Something Altogether Different

She dreams in clips.
A music video; she’s walking beside a stranger she loves terribly, they’re in an amusement park and laughing, on a rollercoaster and gasping.
Reaching up to the swirling sludge-puppy sky.

The sharp jabbing beeps of her alarm shock her into the deep end of her room.

Left with nothing but a headache and time running out before her boss calls to swoon into her ear his concerns and constructive bullshit, she quickly and inadequately washes up, bites into a piece of last nights pie and has her instant coffee on the go, almost spilling the black liquid down the stairs.

The sun’s too bright, the streets too loud, the walk way too hard, her clothes too close, what she wouldn’t do for a nap right now.

The blur of faces at work remind her of that rollercoaster, that stranger with a red tongue, and the foreign smile on her own face.

She pokes and prods her cheeks – hollow tombs for the flies.

Maybe it all becomes a type of drug, the lies and the ridicule of the world, and you take it all in. It does its job and you piss it out, shit it out.

The Virus of life.

Be Happy.

Sanity Papa, Sanity upon You!

It’s midnight, the birds chirp in their sleep, the moon is a prickly old bastard.

Mother locked father in the closet to protect herself and the neighbourhood from his nightmares which burst out of him at the most inconsiderate of times

She leans against the door and says: “See the bigger picture into the future!”

He sits on a small hill of heels and replies:
“Make big needles in order to thread the droplets of saliva pinned under a blossoming Ox with antlers and wings, with long corkscrew lashes and grandpa ear bristles.”

“There you go off with your Bull again!”

He sings a hymn of giggles and chuckles.

Quiet Kisses and a Date Night at Home

They Kiss Quiet

He kisses quiet and she kisses quiet

Nobody knows when they kiss except them

Any passion in their kiss is shared in private;
They haven’t done the French kiss;

He isn’t a prude, it’s the saliva, and besides – how do you coordinate such a thing?

She isn’t a prude either, it’s that foreign warmth, the texture of a tongue (her own tongue gives her the shivers at the best of times), what more a strangers’?

They watch porn together;
they’re fucking like maniacs, she says

He nods, adding: and so loud,

All of that sweat she concludes

They haven’t had sex, they would like to, theoretically. The idea of losing yourself in the moment, in another person, they both agree that this would be an exciting occasion. Although that’s very Hollywood, that «losing yourselves in the other», what does it actually mean, she wonders

He blunts out a theory, maybe like when a really deep song is playing you close your eyes and for those minutes you’re gone, on a another planet

She adds: In another dimension

They smile, if sex is like that then maybe it won’t be too bad, a few seconds of contemplative facial expressions, wistful even, quickly turn to frowns and furrowed brows

But the smell! And the noises! They both blurt out, laughter rings out in front of the muted TV.

Endless fucking; even in movies without sex, they manage to squeeze in something, be it a pointless relationship or love interest (or brothel, she intercepts). His words hover for a second.

The whole world is a Sex of Noise, she declares,

He smiles, nodding, but frowns immediately.
The porn flick concludes with an “Over the Moon” money shot and fades to black.

She says: I wonder what the rest of her day will be like. Wouldn’t it be funny if she went to visit the family back home and she’s kissing grandma and sister’s daughters.

They laugh and watch Classic Tom & Jerry cartoons into the mid-night and beyond.