was like. And that’s what today is like. Nothing changes. When you’re a kid. When you’re an adult. Life drains away into the sea through a sewer pipe. Thank goodness the sea is green, the colour of my brother Bruno’s eyes. His eyes are clear, free of suffering. If you don’t suffer, you’re not alive. If you’re alive, you eat French fries. It’s a good thing there are always French fries to ease the burden. The days are all alike and keep repeating themselves. No one ever asks nicely if they can enter my life, but they always find an excuse to leave. Neon veins remind me of the signs I saw in New York with Rimbaud. Now that would make a good chapter title: the poets in New York. I can see myself lost in Columbia University or even in Harlem. Here we go: I’d be the king of Harlem. I’d screw the little Jewish chicks and kill the Irish bootleggers. Then I’d say: this is my motherfucking territory, bitch!
I take my pills with a Coke. The coconut sweets travel up my veins. The peanut brittle arrived dirty. Some idiot might think I’m lost in this party, dancing with the fattest girl in the room. I wanted to dance with Clarissa. I wanted to dance with the psychologist. But Granny lets loose, dancing down on the ground. Can she get back up? Only with a winch.
Call the paramedics, quickly, please. Actually, better call the cops.
Focus. Out of focus. I’m blind.
Deaf and dumb. My nerves are lit up but everything’s dark.
Fearsome Madman appears in my dreams. He says Rosebud killed me. My head’s exploding. Who killed Fearsome? The foetid veins in my head scan my speech. Rimbaud wants to marry me. Baudelaire is neurasthenic; he’s always distant, even at the party. He’s not going to found modernity with that perspective.
So I say to him: let’s be modern, Baudelaire.
It was only then that he saw the girl passing by him. She was the passante . Later he told me that he never saw her again. God, Baudelaire is difficult! He likes to watch the girls go by in skimpy bikinis on the beach. It was only after Baudelaire that Vínicius de Moraes wrote ‘The Girl from Ipanema’. The girl who when she passes, makes each one she passes go Ahh is the passer-by, for fuck’s sake! The sea always beats down on the rocks of illness. The Lexotan 6 green sea. The Haldol 5 blue sky. The Rivotril white clouds. Everything is illness in mental illness, even the lovely Girl from Ipanema. Why haven’t they come up with a cure for my illness?
Why are they building rockets to go into space?
I have a delusional episode while Alfonso appears and tells me he’s going to Paracambi. God, that guy should just go fuck off.
To keep repeating that ditty.
Poor thing.
I wouldn’t wish being pitied, being seen as a poor bastard, on anyone. I’m not asking to have a place in heaven because I’m a poor bastard – far from it. I want to have the same look in my eyes that a lynx has for its prey. That Rimbaud has for his Abyssinia. Baudelaire’s movement and his beautiful flowers. I can’t stand taking the role of the victim. My role is the toilet roll. I’m a child and I don’t know the truth. The truth, out there, is in the eyes of my brother Bruno, who doesn’t know or care about anything. He lives happily with his nothingness. Everyone has nothingness.
I’m not nothing, Rimbaud. Want a cigarette?
I’ll never be nothing. I can’t want to be nothing.
Besides, I’ve got all the pills in the world inside me.
Rimbaud, I’ll always be the one ‘who wasn’t born for this’, I’ll always be the one who waited for a door to open up for him in a wall without a door.
Rimbaud, we’re bored of this party now, right? Baudelaire even wrote a poem. As for us, nothing. Although that story about New York might be interesting. What do you think?
The fat girl who danced with me explodes à la Mr Creosote.
Her body, her guts, displayed on my chest. Her chest on my chest. She keeps dancing. Just her legs. Granny keeps dancing and
I take my pills with a Coke. The coconut sweets travel up my veins. The peanut brittle arrived dirty. Some idiot might think I’m lost in this party, dancing with the fattest girl in the room. I wanted to dance with Clarissa. I wanted to dance with the psychologist. But Granny lets loose, dancing down on the ground. Can she get back up? Only with a winch.
Call the paramedics, quickly, please. Actually, better call the cops.
Focus. Out of focus. I’m blind.
Deaf and dumb. My nerves are lit up but everything’s dark.
Fearsome Madman appears in my dreams. He says Rosebud killed me. My head’s exploding. Who killed Fearsome? The foetid veins in my head scan my speech. Rimbaud wants to marry me. Baudelaire is neurasthenic; he’s always distant, even at the party. He’s not going to found modernity with that perspective.
So I say to him: let’s be modern, Baudelaire.
It was only then that he saw the girl passing by him. She was the passante . Later he told me that he never saw her again. God, Baudelaire is difficult! He likes to watch the girls go by in skimpy bikinis on the beach. It was only after Baudelaire that Vínicius de Moraes wrote ‘The Girl from Ipanema’. The girl who when she passes, makes each one she passes go Ahh is the passer-by, for fuck’s sake! The sea always beats down on the rocks of illness. The Lexotan 6 green sea. The Haldol 5 blue sky. The Rivotril white clouds. Everything is illness in mental illness, even the lovely Girl from Ipanema. Why haven’t they come up with a cure for my illness?
Why are they building rockets to go into space?
I have a delusional episode while Alfonso appears and tells me he’s going to Paracambi. God, that guy should just go fuck off.
To keep repeating that ditty.
Poor thing.
I wouldn’t wish being pitied, being seen as a poor bastard, on anyone. I’m not asking to have a place in heaven because I’m a poor bastard – far from it. I want to have the same look in my eyes that a lynx has for its prey. That Rimbaud has for his Abyssinia. Baudelaire’s movement and his beautiful flowers. I can’t stand taking the role of the victim. My role is the toilet roll. I’m a child and I don’t know the truth. The truth, out there, is in the eyes of my brother Bruno, who doesn’t know or care about anything. He lives happily with his nothingness. Everyone has nothingness.
I’m not nothing, Rimbaud. Want a cigarette?
I’ll never be nothing. I can’t want to be nothing.
Besides, I’ve got all the pills in the world inside me.
Rimbaud, I’ll always be the one ‘who wasn’t born for this’, I’ll always be the one who waited for a door to open up for him in a wall without a door.
Rimbaud, we’re bored of this party now, right? Baudelaire even wrote a poem. As for us, nothing. Although that story about New York might be interesting. What do you think?
The fat girl who danced with me explodes à la Mr Creosote.
Her body, her guts, displayed on my chest. Her chest on my chest. She keeps dancing. Just her legs. Granny keeps dancing and
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