Botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore envy have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you had. These limits you reached when you were bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom

Fuck me, I'm Maurice Papon

A fucking incompetent, and febrile un-fevered from the depth of a bunker-come-take-me all in wood. I don't drink anymore. I don't dream either and I have no envy, I'm not alive. As occupied as a toilet. I don't use drugs anymore. Not substantial ones. Occupied by the invading, I have devastating antibiotics. It is like that, doing a little of everything, it gives much of anything. It stinks incapacity, disability dressed as an ace on his forehead.
It lays eggs in truth-gilded shells painted as skulls. Making ourselves Aztec priests, the jaws stuck in a ridiculously large mask. Disproportionate. Yet we refrain good dream, you invent a contempt for the ostensible utopia to provide a reasonable air, concentrated, intelligent or intelligible. To better puncture the dental caries of resignation, we invented pragmatism, and thinks borrowing dignity despite our pants down on our ankles, buttocks and our grasses are calls for rape. Cut on golden ages that no one has known. We are sellers, workers and psychologists, we are a profession, we like to be defined by the way we are exploited / fucked. Proud as a child who is in his pot for the first time. I never forget this grotesque smile, I see on all sides. we still offer each other gifts, huh. We love each other, we meet with our charge of indifference, there fussing like flies on the shit of a world-corpse we will eventually exploit. I open a mine in your flesh, I am a contractor if I want.
I have a concept, gonna eat market share defilement as a puppy. In the meantime appropriations I do, I go files and I find out about debt relief measures, we know the world is cruel with genius. On the size of lords in this world of cockroaches. I reigns on beetles-sir. Ties or wings, it's being the right side of the class struggle. Because the fight is class. As much as a T-Shirt Stalin in a congress of the MEDEF. Class as a badge "Fuck me I'm Maurice Papon" in a congressional of the Revolutionary Communist League. It is a concept, dropped I say, you're really not equipped to talk with me. I'll get my face beaten just to receive justice charges. We survive as we can, most malign are repeating the teeth to resell their jaws price of gold, even eat soup of caviar until the end of the world. We will call it insecurity, I will have a bureau with my name in the offices of SkyNews, I'll be familiar with the receptionist, and I will sell here the name of the winner of the next real TV show before you have time to see the commentator's face. Whore of a martyr is going to bleed to the brain to redeem your sins, on the steps of temples to break the audience "with teeth". Deeply war, the real, in the meantime, how bugged we are. This is the crisis.

The dark story of Patrick G.

He has eaten his heart, and he rote. Brightly cooked, the meat - it was nicely marinated in a lifetime all kinds of moods, and even love, it seems. So he has eaten. He drank his liver and smoked his lungs, then. Just like condemned to his last feast, his last drink. The next day, all the "guttery" in bulk, of course. Hangover not good in the mirror, strange white skin, just like old newspaper, or the nests of wasps. Hangover friable, he left in tatters the bottom of the basin, while shavin'. On the biggest flaps, there was an article printed, a fact that various talks about a granny raped in a suburb of Rome. It's fun, because in the ashtray, when it came to burn, this piece of paper gray and dry swinging a pretty pink smoke with a sweet smell of cotton candy, certainly the perfume used by the granny to cover her smell old, this smell of urine, ammonia and old leather. This is probably the fragrance that attracted rapists lack of affection.

The perfumer was interviewed by the carabinieri. He says it couldn't be the fault of the perfume, because any celebrations smell cotton candy, and that there are no more rapes - well, not more than elsewhere. Or in retirement homes, at least. It's funny saying that. But everyone knows this is not true. Celebrations is something to get young girl's legs broken, and also for young boys not hairy yet. Serious studies tend to show that being filthy - well, being physically outside, or the opposite of the canons of physical beauty of his time - to be ugly, whatever, does not guarantee not to be violated. Especially in the celebrations. On the contrary, faced with a beautiful woman, the rapist may be afraid not to make the fit, sexually. While an ugly girl, it get laid like an old comfortable sweater, he can even pretend this is a service, a strategy that can play at trial.

After, it was the same. He had finished digesting its heart, he laid down a little piece of coal, and then, the various facts, he could play eyelids without fighting. When a little old lady got raped, he could even polish his cock, with the newspaper, without feeling guilty, without saying that he was not dreaming of an old lady raped. He would have been able to do it himself, because he had not eaten his sex, yet. He would not delay, its old dead dick, while wondering what good taste it could have. She had marinated in love, too, but in love for money. Note, this love he can buy, and operate like a consumer. He requires, he chose the little hole, and a few shouts, please ma'am. Only whores eighty four years, this course not sidewalks.

He dreamed of nylon on varicose veins, he was never hidden, but nobody had ever asked him what he really preferred. Nobody wanted to know. Even more cops interrogators. So he has eaten his heart, bit by bit, by chewing well not to vomit, because the meat of his heart, it was so hard.

a LuSiD night #4 : Najhian Meathology

This is my color-die, my tamed snake wild and almost ! One night, again and yet another toast to the next ones, like on a chain. Lay your leg on every coin, do what you have to, happen what's rotten. Morituri te salutant. Here on the counter, it's the cold color of my illegal drunkness. I'm subversive as a last copy of the Pravda in the New York Museum. My life, the pins it and you know that this butterfly there, with its wings colored psyche half rotten, it's Oscar Najh, I got his address and number of non-social security. Instead of searching the bottom of my DNA and retrieve my carbon footprints, fuck it, get only a can of beans over and give it my name.

Now you will share the warmth of my non-intimate morning, as a doc 'animal on discovery channel when you're falling asleep in front of your TV. Some of these wild beasts shaking and stretching without addressing their dicks hard as steel, of their damn body of tawny refreshed. We don a clean boxer on our own morning erection, we spit some of our nightly breath in the toilet - your face you rinse it off in beer that remains, and will embrace the latest cigarette butt you've been loving in the ashtray. Love always overflow the ashtray. Calcined, gray, stinking, but love. Hearing the stupidity of this word refers specifically to the bullshit of it's associate state, this fucking "not want this and not gonna piss in the jar of honey. The attack of the first sandwich, Murphy's laws to support it.

I'll never make you this trick of the stained tie when I'm late and pressed. This thing can occur only in a life carefully scripted, orchestrated, timed in a set of causes and consequences smooth and logical. I get my lunch naked and I it's my skin I stain. I'm not late, as this day was not specially expecting me. They got discouraged with me, just we welcome in the morning, only when we pass. I takes the time to wash me, here, with my tub and my straps, while lookin' cars passing with their load of late stained ties, and trucks full of workers disgusted by Mondays. I derided the arrogant luxury of my bowl of steaming coffee chipped, and debauchery of my free time layabout. I dry on the stones and the guardrails, smoking in the hay with my air cattle. I'm just the first of a crowd of onlookers who gather, talking about how the world will collapse. Sometimes we fuck, and other times - more rarely, we take a certain pleasure. But more often, lack pleasure.

I'm gonna mystify your life in no time, in not a flounder. Lay a complete pantheon, all-inclusive-option-its-race, all in soft plastic. A god of the supermarket, heroes that drive caddies and demigods who straighten purchasing power. With triumphant back home in the village and tutti-quanti, it is not prudish. If nobody takes the time to write the legend of our existence, it is truly a century of shit. There is a lack of dragons and monsters, initiative quests and symbolic enigma. You can break your fear, but I must draw it a face first.

My dragons are the guards of the supermarket. Gold will be fat and sugar. The trial, it is theft: the quest, your release. I would put as rotten oracle some TV, and you will have the vision of your destiny with "Temptation Island" or "Bullshit of the year". There will be epic wars and we will ride the desert of streets for years. Curses and martyrs. Prophecies on our faces, fucking destinies, real destinies, just better than a consumer credit, a pact with the devil or a gift for research.

We are the antiquity of the future, and we have nothing valid to offer, to submit. This is truly a goddamn crisis, our time will be a blank page in a history book, a sort of tribute to our humanity-that-is-just-nearly-perpetuated. It is not enough to lay fetus, we need damn true miracles to open the mouth of the time. Our posterity is not our austerity, or our posters of Che. May everyone find a quest to accomplish. It's enough to unearth the Holy Grail like cryogenic cells. Only the miseries that we stinks are eternal.

Son of Heineken, god of drunkness, and of Banks, goddess of freedom in 4 times without expenses (excluding fees folder). Daughter of Peanut Butter the happy god of Fat, and of Interim the god of Work. I ride the legendary Metro in the infested caves of Paris's undergrounds. The prayers of the syndicalist preachers of the God Electricity plunge our town in darkness, as if shadows were raining - kings will only have secondary roles. And we will burn your cars, fucking nice offering to my-freedom-right-in-your-face.

Jason steals a golden-fleece-sweater, killing a security guard. David the student crushed by bare hands Goliath-the-Cop. Ulysse the illegal immigrant punctured the eye of customs-Cyclops and will join his Penelope with the family reunification. Hercules in his jail come to the end of its 12 general-interest works. Odin the agitator will pick the runes from 9 nights in the Yggdrasil commissariat. Women would deliver of animated meat, all of them would be promised to a greater destiny ever.

3 sweet treats

ErehwoN

One day, all these things will have no more importance. I Breathe, so breathe me, I smell your sticky future. My breath will die of anguish, my guts twists alone now, flexible shit, resilient, beautiful and shiny. I don't spit anymore, and now my sweat is icy, there on the front, and behind my neck. I sell my nights, nights smelling like knife, tar and lamppost, dirty mucous membranes, sick glands. I sell my nocturnal miscarriages, abortions of my meal, my fingers like knitting needles. I play to make angels, naughty little sidewalk angels. Head in the placenta. I am a class by myself, the liters of passion, and on the walls, sticky in hieroglyphics: "Drunkenness, I write your name."
I experienced the same semblance of love than anyone. And I know that no one cares. Starting with "her" and then it continues with me. I experienced hatred, much more attractive. Hatreds body to body, the hatred cheating, the screwdriver hideout in the race. The arms as chopped meat. The jet red when you have been drinking white wine is it a stigmata ? Or do you think that it's the transfiguration? A lot of time listening to samples of flushing, washing machines, samples of nails into the machine, the crackle of radio: Luigi Russolo.
Here it is. One night with me.

Meat on a No-Postcard

Sleep standing at work, like sleeping in meat, with meat sleeping inside of me. And the break, there's a post there to navigate, should transfer the moron seeking an apartment, I have some urgency to spit. I have to write that my imaginary friends on my blog concrete. News from my vacation, here it is sunny, the neon shine their bleached rays on the moist mouth of my colleagues holidaymakers working in meat. Get a sunbath in the synthetic coldness of the cool room, the heat makes us do neither cold nor hot. My hands are beautiful, peeled by gloves with protective chain mail. They, too, they shine with neon lights and white walls. The meat and I smoke heavily.
This is not a postcard. Here, workers who cross in the corridors are mutually fear, with their dirty white combinations with tiny stains of blood, knife in hand and mask on the face. We are the bleached Army serving stomachs. We deliver battle against the animal kingdom, against the beef plenty, against the fat and the skin. Soldiers from hunger, the mask is not just for hygiene, I am certain.
I slip my blade between offered ratings. The animal have no reaction. Neither do I. I'm gonna sleep on the carcass. My sex as a knife planted in his flesh, such an intimate relationship, and my mask, it's just for hygiene. I'm not certain.

I am a Cosmonaut

Or a astronaut, well, a drunkonaut, a painonaut, a I'm-going-to-break-my-brains-again-o-naut, honestly, not very clear - a "not to be" prepared and optimized for exploration of things that are the most insignificant. Swimming in gravity. Physical and mental preparation. A combination cleaner and, at least in thought, and the blond hair on the side. I greet my family and jump in my capsule.
Rations carefully aligned of freeze-dried soups, quick done quick drink, easy to vomit, sorted the parts not to make pieces. Exit the Minestrone who finished caked thick on the bottom of bowl. I have mushroom, the velvety field, and that shamanic confined to the bizarre mushroom powder as an infusion and ready to travel. That's all dried, while dry and powdered in any futuristic shiny bags inside, carefully filmed with a film food. High technology. I'm a fucking hi-tech shaman.
Optimize its anxieties and its drunkenness, and wonder what lesson can be drawn - what such a behavior can mean today.

Sally laughed a last time, I kept the slump

"Romantic" mean nothing. It's the pettiness and lies that are overcrowding and that we ignore, from one side to another. Romantic as a torch, romantic as a grenade on which is written "For Ever", or "4 Ever", as inlaid hearts on sleeves shells. Romantic like a Tweety tattooed on the crumpled skin of balls. Like a perfume, scents of bullshit flowers, like the shit poem written after drinking the very first beer. Like whores candles rotten, while we should desire with the flame of a furnace. Romantic as a drunk star who "want to fuck you".

I have not finished with me ! I have no more desire, no more envy, no more willingness of nothing, unwilling to have any envy of desire. I'm not really. It should be a matter of gland, thyroid glands rotten disturbed, too soaked with this and that, too dry, atrophied. I cheat by usual, just a matter of education. Pavlovian seduction, and sometimes I wonder if we are not all rendered at this point. Instincts, here and there. And large cardboard structures all around, movie sets that we walk like pathetic burdens to live the most beautiful missed sex story. One day you realize that the package-decoration is shredded, and that we put nothing more than our dirty socks, infinitely and by the wrong holes yet. The socks are like love, their meshes expand over time.

There are those who miss you until it rip your soul. Those that prevent you saying it is basically nothing, borked illusions, lies missed or poorly made. A wrong dose of testosterone. We never really get how or why. I am a lost princess. She went away with my sex, and I cry in her room of nice sleeping-beauty-wolf-are-you-there. My raped princess dress, it is a book by Queneau that bears her name. I want to be pathetic, just for me. To reassure me about my condition. Provided that there is something to reassure. I'm a bit ashamed to cry out this mud-tears, mud stinking of man with dried glands, mud thick like my poor head of badly broken pin-up. I aged quickly to get back the time lost. Fuck all my life's VHS tape in a dusty VCR. Burning the reminders, must be soaked in oil-vodka. This damned shit don't wanna dry. Wet reminders for dry glands.

I must not realize, fuck it, must not realize that she exists, or not, that she breathe and still think somewhere, she thinks of all these things I can't even understand. I'm a faker, this race caress between my teeth, it's my stigma of mine. It's the cocaine turned in a compact insoluble illusions, nor in time or in alcohol or in the "what a bitch". It erodes your molars, a square in desires, when it will finish with my enamel, I will make myself a great parody of desires with lead. And the more I complain, the more I find it all so pathetic.

Post Majestic Fiction

Or how I spent the night in the allegory of a gutter -

Come pissing on my face, you my dog-thought, defecating on my mouth in dirty constellation, my head all pixelated on the screen. The ideal, the emergency exit, it would be to submit a blank page as "The New Moral World", a philosophical and treat me an impostor. I'm modern and contemporary art, want nothing and no certainty about the use that will be done of me. In detail, there will be many walls and doors of cars in flames.

Our deaths are so violent thatwe don't really bother with dressing up the corpses, bodies wad it in the bag of skin. So, all the makeup of the morgues were recycled in the beauty salons. The fashion will be hopelessly desperate, gothic "glam-dead-fucking-sex". The anglicism is a moral, that's what I read from a blank sheet. We quickly get the sensation to touch, to approach something absolute. Pure, true and perfect. Something stable where to put your mind voluble, a port of thought. But it never comes. Our lives, painted tables upside down, lean on fat, the existence cracked dismiss in crusts.

Of discipline, of rectitude, of virtue and cleanliness. "Straight Edge darling", the skin pulled up like a tie. The starch on the collar of the shirt, and four beautiful chin stacked. We raise our whores and our soldiers, saying they will make the world more beautiful. With just a little ambition, we would all be generals or mother whore. We put collars on dogs, necklaces on women, ties on men ; neck became our obsession. Nothing that doesn't refers to a master and slave fact, when it comes out of our brains infested.

It's useless to understand what they thought for you. Any way to make you loose your time. To eat the flesh of men and wipe your stare on the rusting razor blades, pious picture. Unhealthy obsession, erection, ejaculation of sweat and bad wine, finish in the morning, it overflows on the shirts, drunkenness of the red throat.

More seriously, here I am eaten by disease, here I am dry as summer, here I am crawling stand up. Tired as hell, with no faith to shit the last pieces of mankind in disorder, and this wordless feeling in my stomach, an endless disgust, weak and wavy pain. As a urban folklore exiled in green fields, I vomit my nights in the middle of these indigenous from brutal concrete. And sometimes I find the life around me unnecessary, cumbersome, I really don't need to ask myself anymore.

So I raise an army of rats, to conquer the Urals. I Proclaim everyday the New Republic of my Individual State. A self-proclaimed Pariah. I Federate my neighborhood.I Calculate my Gross Domestic Product per arm. Try to Quantify the socio-economic impact of my actions on the environment. Then, estimate corollaries indicators of it. Start an O.P.A. unfriendly over the church of my district.

Each citizen should claim himself as a micro-independent state.

a LuSiD night #3

We released the ropes (Oh, fuck yeah, we released' em...) And all what hurries up on the jetty will gently go back in front of the sticky faces ready to stubble themselve. I went offering my rotten tooth to the sun, there - instantly, like an old captain burst by the hurricane on this little morning, and I spread myself in pieces on the everyday web-beach, whatever the day we are today. Burst.

Leprosy like you've never seen, smiling, spread over what the world count of square inch of free sand. I feel the beat of my meat infected by spirit of spirit, 'till the end ant deeper again. I played plagued dandy in free zones of a seduction that is not really one. An equal report on the ensemble of my work : it's the ruin of my jaw in the sky that cuts the silhouette of dormitory cities. A rotten priest who challenges the whole universe.

I have a slaughterhouse to my very own, a kind of "avant-garde" theater where I play each evening a detail of my existence : A home appliance drama, the dishes and taking out garbage cans in the style of the German expressionists.

We can endlessly let flow the half of our reason. There will always remain something, that time makes essential. This will often be : appetite, a black hunger that comes to pull our belly, a thirst that changes each word to a fucking dry desert. And about this western : you take your stand under the arm, you move in the non-society, the non-group-herd-failure of the everyday life, you send back the dramas as a mirror, you simply have the glassy and approving eye for the whole and anything.

Finally you're just looking for the saloon, you're searching Susan, you're searching a piece of feeding mother, sweet, simple. The envy to swallow it all, shouting to the scandal, because all these crap around you are not damned to play their poor role properly - another pleasure spoiled. So you can lay a long speech, in which the word "stupre" comes many times. A "loghorrée" - maybe. But for a moment, in the middle of this gathering of cowboys feeble, with the old diarrhea that comes with rage and bounced on the meat of my filthy tongue, for a moment, there will be shreds of me that will fly.
On the pianist, and on this beloved Susan that does not exist but that makes me wonder so -

Then launch our own grotesque procession, carrying two or three souls, pick the corpses behind the bourgeois beauty. Painting future decadences, the one for the next failures. The real avant-garde would be to play today the decadence of our utopias. To build ruined theaters where to play divinatory-cabarets, by the counter, with Amanda Palmer in the role of Susan.

To burn out all stages, a fucking ellipse and leave all these dumbs with their dream-mast, hopes grilled before they even approach a spirit. We will all get the same meat quiet painfull on our tired bones, and will tell to our grandsons and rear-shit the mud that await them now. This while laughing a last time before our shity Apocalypse misses. Fuckin' wet firecracker, only an old residue of a society that has not even managed to die with panache.
We'll see, or rather we will not see if someone can do better.