I have a crush on someone I’ve never seen. I don’t even know his face or name, but I love what he writes. Definitely, he has a special wittiness and an awesome sense of humor.
What does he look like?
What colours are his eyes?
Does he shave every day?
How does his voice sounds like?
How does he smell?
Have we ever shared a bus ride or being together on the same place at the same time without even notice it?
How would it feel to caress his skin with my lips?
How would it be fucking him?
I have a crush on someone I’ve never seen and who completely ignores me. Still last night I touched myself thinking about him and I will do it again after I finish writing this.
It is ten years, now, since we rowed to Children’s Island.
The sun flamed straight down that noon on the water off Marblehead.
That summer we wore black glasses to hide our eyes.
We were always crying, in our spare rooms, little put-upon sisters,
In the two, huge, white, handsome houses in Swampscott.
When the sweetheart from England appeared, with her cream skin and Yardley cosmetics,
I had to sleep in the same room with the baby on a too-short cot,
And the seven-year-old wouldn’t go out unless his jersey stripes
Matched the stripes of his socks.
Or it was richness! —- eleven rooms and a yacht
With a polished mahogany stair to let into the water
And a cabin boy who could decorate cakes in six-colored frosting.
But I didn’t know how to cook, and babies depressed me.
Nights, I wrote in my diary spitefully, my fingers red
With triangular scorch marks from ironing tiny ruchings and puffed sleeves.
When the sporty wife and her doctor husband went on one of their cruises
They left me a borrowed maid named Ellen, “for protection,”
And a small Dalmation.
In your house, the main house, you were better off.
You had a rose garden and a guest cottage and a model apothecary shop
And a cook and a maid, and knew about the key to the bourbon.
I remember you playing “Ja-Da” in a pink piqué dress
On the game-room piano, when the “big people” were out,
And the maid smoked and shot pool under a green shaded lamp.
The cook had one walleye and couldn’t sleep, she was so nervous.
On trial, from Ireland, she burned batch after batch of cookies
Till she was fired.
O what has come over us, my sister!
On that day-off the two of us cried so hard to get
We lifted a sugared ham and a pineapple from the grownups’ icebox
And rented an old green boat. I rowed. You read
Aloud, cross-legged on the stern seat, from the Generation of Vipers.
So we bobbed out to the island. It was deserted —-
A gallery of creaking porches and still interiors,
Stopped and awful as a photograph of somebody laughing
But ten years dead.
The bold gulls dove as if they owned it all.
We picked up sticks of driftwood and beat them off,
Then stepped down the steep beach shelf and into the water.
We kicked and talked. The thick salt kept us up.
I see us floating there yet, inseparable—two cork dolls.
What keyhole have we slipped through, what door has shut?
The shadows of the grasses inched round like hands of a clock,
And from our opposite continents we wave and call.
Everything has happened.
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time—-
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been sacred of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.
If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
I love this guy! If you understand any spanish you will laugh your ass off with this!
Ayer domingo, se quemaron en simultaneo dos lamparitas de ambos veladores del dormitorio. Como no podía quedar a oscuras y por el día y hora era imposible conseguir una lamparita, me decidí por sacar una lámpara del aplique del techo que tenía tres. Cuando me disponía a desenroscar una de estas me sorprendió un fogonazo que me hizo recordar antiguas bengalas navideñas.
Totalmente a oscuras, cual Borges sin bastón; me puse a buscar una linterna asistido por mi celular que alumbraba mi camino. Ya con linterna en mano me puse a revisar los tapones. Estos parecían bien sin embargo los saqué, los miré como buscando descifrar un secreto, volví a colocarlos y no había luz.
en eso “my sweet darling” me dice: ¿No serán los tapones del sótano? ¿Que sótano? -dije yo -. Vivimos en un departamento, ¡no hay sótano!
La oscuridad ya era mas intensa y también mis nervios y ansiedad. En eso decido llamar con un S.O.S a quien entendía del tema y me dio instrucciones de tomar los fusibles de los tapones y unir los bornes por fuera con un alambra de cobre ya que lo mas probable es que se hubiese cortado el filamento interno.
Homenajeando a todas las hacendosas conductoras de Utilísima, me puse a pelar cable, enrollar cobre y unir los bornes. Con los fusibles “encobrados” los coloqué en las cápsulas y levanté el switch…
… seguíamos sin luz….
“My sweet darling” insistió con su teoría ¿No serán lo tapones del sótano? En ese momento, ya descreído de todo; volví a llamar al experto… Este dijo ¿No serán los tapones del sótano o de entrada junto al medidor?. No me quedo más remedio que reconocerlo, “my sweet darling” una vez más tenía razón. Averiguo la ubicación del disyuntor voy a verlo y me encuentro con todos los switches para cada unidad funcional del edificio, busco, busco, busco… 9A, 9B, 9C, 10A, 10B, 10C.. 10B! ahí estaba! pero para mi desconcierto, la tecla estaba indicando “on” por lo que de nuevo estaba desorientado… ante la duda subí y bajé la palanca que decía 10B varias veces y la deje encendida, subo nuevamente al departamento, inserto de nuevo los fusibles y…. nada…
…seguíamos sin luz…
Salgo nuevamente, iba a buscar a la portera a ver si me daba una mano y me acordé que al lado de la tecla del 10B había una marcada como 10C que estaba apagada… me dije… ¿Puede que hayan marcado mal las teclas? Efectivamente… la que estaba marcada como 10B correspondía al 10C y la del 10C al 10B. Subo la tecla del 10C, me aseguro que haya quedado encendida y subo al departamento, coloco los tapones y…
¡TUVIMOS LUZ!
En ese instante me di cuenta de algunas cosas.
1)Siempre tener lamparitas de repuesto
2) Le estuve cortando y dando luz a mi vecina de al lado, la misma pobre mujer a la que mi perro le robó una piña, le mastico una planta, le secuestro un mini-pino y le cagó y meo el balcón. Siento que soy el peor vecino del mundo.
3) No es la primera vez que “my sweet darling” tiene razón en algo y yo la ignoro. Me ha pasado de estar queriendo hacer algo como “derretir chocolate” y ella dándome el beneficio de la duda me pregunta: ¿Estas seguro? y después termino haciendo cagadas, por lo que a partir de ahora aré caso omiso a todas sus instrucciones y reprimiré mi instinto, ¡si la hubiese escuchado habríamos tenido luz una hora y media antes!
This is an awesome short story from a guy I am following and I love most of his pieces! It is written in spanish but is really really cool, so if you know some spanish you will enjoy it.
cheers!
H.
Ahí, sin saberlo me estaba esperando. Salida de las mismísimas brasas del infierno, sudorosa e inmovil; ignoraba por completo lo que estaba por pasar. Gran parte de la mañana la pase planeando ese momento en particular. Las agujas del reloj indicaban que ya era el momento de ir a su encuentro, enseguida la tuve enfrente mío y sin dudarlo tomé el cuchillo y se lo hundí de un solo, pero firme; movimiento.
Su carne era tierna y el cuero mas blando de lo que imaginé. El filo del cuchillo se deslizaba suavemente entre las costillas y con un giro muñeca logre despeguar la carne de la grasa y esta del hueso. La parte aserrada me permitía desgarrar la carne y trozarla.
Era un festín para los ojos ver como se desprendían esos trozos y la sangre chorrearse por el filo de mi cuchillo. Cuidando de no salpicarme, la seguí cortando en trozos. Lamentablemente de vez en cuando me salpicaba alguna gota de sangre, pero no iba a detenerme. No señor, no había lugar para la misericordia, mis ojos se abrían enormes y mi boca salivaba con cada cuchillada certera, entonces decidi sostener con mayor firmeza el tenedor y pinche un trocito de tira de asado. Lo hundí en el puré. El pobre estaba soso y me vi obligado a rociarlo, pero gentilmente; con sal de mesa.
Que hambre tenía! desde media mañana pensando en que almorzar y sin poder levantarme de mi escritorio para rescatar una medialunita o comprar una galletitas. Finalmente se hizo justicia y pude saborear un delicioso, jugoso y bien merecido almuerzo.
Fin
All day she plays at chess with the bones of the world:
Favored (while suddenly the rains begin
Beyond the window) she lies on cushions curled
And nibbles an occasional bonbon of sin.
Prim, pink-breasted, feminine, she nurses
Chocolate fancies in rose-papered rooms
Where polished higboys whisper creaking curses
And hothouse roses shed immortal blooms.
The garnets on her fingers twinkle quick
And blood reflects across the manuscript;
She muses on the odor, sweet and sick,
Of festering gardenias in a crypt,
And lost in subtle metaphor, retreats
From gray child faces crying in the streets.
