Tuesday, November 18, 2008

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.

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The Kabaret Malaria by Oskarr Najh is under Creative Commons License.