Poveste

His hands were gripping the bottle tight as he was gazing at thecolorful and animated screen before him. The characters displayed, smalland markedly round ,unidentified animals, seemed to be a mockery ofhuman existence. Of his own existence. His mind was probably wanderingthrough a cemetery of love affairs, sighs and women with warmthighs. However, he was earthbound enough to notice the dancing green rabbits, orperhaps jaguars. He couldn't tell. Another thing he could have never realizedwas the terrible warning the ambiguous beings were sending tohumanity. For he himself was humanity in its utter love for mediocrity and dullcontemplation. He took another sip of wine and lit one of those foulsmelling cigarettes, reaching for the exit of the cemetery. It was enough forone evening. Disabling the "mute" function of the TV, the man burst intolaughter. The creatures were singing and their words of undying lovewere spreading through the smoke. In a peculiar way, his smell suddenlybecame sharp. The sweat and old perfume scent invaded his nostrils as hecould see that he never actually reached the gate of the graveyard. Therevelation that the gate was going to be out of his reach for eternitymade him tremble in fear and regret. In the stillness of rotten memoriesthere was one ghoul that kept wrapping him in her dry hair. Despite the strands cutting through his skin causing massive blood loss, the mannever glimpsed at the undead's face. He would not see, not hear, not touch. Herefused ,choosing to have an attempt to crawl beneath the sterileearth. The repetitive song of the animals was altering the wine flowingthrough his veins. It seemed to get louder and louder, almost commanding thesmoke into familiar shapes. Dizziness was slowly turning his bodynumb. The decaying hair was shutting his eye-lids. He couldn't have guessed itcould penetrate ground. The man chose not to scream in fear or pain, butto stop digging in hope that the ghoul would not sense his breath andshe would angrily return to her grave. But the sharp pain he could feelin his fingers told him that the undead was expecting just that. Shewas slowly dragging him above. The song had stopped, as the creatures knewthere was nobody out there to dance. The only thing left was an earpiercing silence. The man was desperately gripping her hair. He thought thatthe ghoul would force him to wake up from the labyrinth of funerarystones and thoughts. Split black ends were already making way through hisflesh. He finally screamed as loud as he could. The sounds turned thesight of dead trees and forgotten graves into bleak. Stillness was theultimate ruler of his surroundings. For one moment he could have sworn hewas at the center of Cosmos. But the battle drums he could hear were asign that he was not alone. There was also sound. The feeling ofdisintegration made him call for other beings. He felt as if a thousand winds weretearing his flesh to pieces. The sound shifted into anthropomorphousfigures. As he rose ,a woman was standing before him. Her face seemedquite familiar as it was smiling compassionate. He knew there were otherbeings behind her that would not dare come close. All he could see wereethereal shapes radiating a sound the man could associate with the colorblack. Through his darkened eyesight ,the man saw the woman trying tospeak. He then recognized the ever so familiar wrathful countenance:"For the death of one thousand archangels and for the birth of onebillion demons, you are damned to an eternity of non-existence."Sweat was dripping from the man's brow. The frenetic body dance hadstopped and warm, humid hands were tightly gripping his arms. His seed was now in her womb and her gaze instantly told him that her orgasm was satisfying enough. The woman rose and unintentionally whipped the man's face with her black dry hair, leaving thin reddish lines on his cheeks. Regaining his senses, he could hear a song about undying forgiveness.

Pulp- acum ceva ani

Batranul reusise cu greu sa deschida usa capelei.Mainile ii erau inghetate iar privirea ii era incetosata de amicul sau Polar.Se sprijini de peretele pe care il simtea scorojit,gafaind puternic din pricina efortului precedent.Recapatandu-si suflul observa ,cu parere de rau, ca pe catafaclc zaceau ,neglijent pozitionati, saptesprezece ani de feciorie.”Sa fiu al dracu’”, se gandi cersetorul, ” Astia mor din ce in ce mai tineri”.Apoi lua o dusca de vodka,varsand-o pe cea de-a doua in numele spiritului tinerei.Se clatina.Stia foarte bine pasii dansului acordat lui Bachus.Dar pana acuma nu auzise nimic nenatural.Niciun scancet venit din vreun colt intunecat,niciun demon scartaind a sange inocent.Numai ca acum un sunet ii intorcea stomacul pe dos,un sunet ce invoca imaginea unei guri uriase molfaind carne cruda,o imagine departe de adevarul ultim pe care avea sa-l cunoasca. Era pentru prima oara in zeci de ani cand ceva il obliga sa fie treaz.Era teama,teama de ceea ce urma sa apara ca o consecinta a zgomotului infundat.Inlemni si urina calda i se scurse pe piciorul batran si inghetat.Sentimentul de irealitate il invaluia,neputandu-si intoarce capul de la cadavrul din fata sa al carui pantece se umfla in convulsii.Rochia ieftina de mireasa se sfasiase lasand sa se vada pielea vanata intinsa pe burta perfect rotunda a raposatei.Trupul se ridica,pentru ca apoi sa se lase la loc pe catafalc intr-o unica si violenta miscare ce provoca expulzarea unui foetus diform,creat parca intr-un malevolent proces de hibridare intre un caine flamand si un copil suferind de rahitism.Grohaind,creatura incepu sa linga vaginul largit al fostei sale gazde.Horcaia si plescaia din ce in ce mai tare,incepand sa devoreze carnea moarta.Urechile,mari si moi,saltau in ritmul dansului macabru al progeniturii.Martorul ospatului erotic ramasese tintuit in pozitia unui foetus mort.Respirand sacadat,auzi cum usa masiva a capelei mortuare se deschide.Se stradui sa priveasca in directia acesteia,distingand o silueta feminina.Speranta de salvare se narui cand reusi sa observe miscarile nefiresti ale femeii.Aceasta adulmeca aerul si facu o grimasa aproape inumana,un ranjet ce denota scarba si triumf.Se apropie de ramasitele de pe catafalc si mangaie bestia ce inca molfaia pofticioasa un ovar.Animalul se ghemui la picioarele necunoscutei,oprindu-se din infruptat.
-Carnea moarta nu e buna pentru tine scumpete,glasui femeia si infasca creatura de ceafa,ghidand-o spre batran.

Obsesie

Unedited story preview. Steal it and be sued!


The blonde man angrily grabbed Frank’s neck.
“ Redemption!”, he hissed. “You were praying for redemption. You little piggy, you thought we couldn’t actually hear you? We hear everything you human scum are thinking. Hasn’t it occurred to you that we might be gods?”
The god neared his thick lips to Frank’s, who noticed his breath was hot and somewhat foul. He sniffed the painter’s face and than spat on his chin. Grabbing a bottle of wine from his damaged leather jacket, the immortal let go of Frank. Catching his breath, the human bravely yelled:
“ Yet you were once human yourselves. Is there any place for contempt among kin?”
“ What might you know on who’s human and who’s not, worm? You sunk lower than the rats I used to eat for breakfast back in my good days. Your kind has no right to speak. And I will personally make sure that you, yourself will not be entitled to this particular right for the rest of the bleeding eternity!”
Frank thought that the ability to use complicated phrases was rather unexpected from such an apparition. In fact, it sounded somewhat ridiculous spoken with the god’s guttural, hissed voice. The painter couldn’t help to wonder if the powerful creature in front of him had once been a heavy drinker and smoker. Noticing the patched leather jacket, another question rose in his mind: was the immortal so…young?
“You are really pissing me off now. What part from I can hear your thoughts haven’t you understood? Assumptions, assumptions. Is that how hive reasoning works? What the hell did you expect? A sword? A halo? White doves? A golden helmet with fucking wings on it? Oh, of course. A pompous 17th century attire. I take it you find my leather jacket unappealing? Stole it from a dead biker back in 1986. His brains were splattered all around the highway, but this piece of leather is still in great shape, isn’t it? Lay down your soul to the gods rock’n’roll! “
Frank opened his mouth to reply to the sarcastic immortal. He had nothing to lose. The god was quicker and grabbed him by the shoulders, lifting him in the air.
“I forgot. Of course I drink, you boot licking groundhog! Are you blind? I also happen to smoke bad cigarettes. Like my pretty teeth?” he grinned, “ And perhaps you assume that having God of Disfigurement written on your forehead makes it impossible to copulate with hot virgins. Say, you don’t have a daughter, do you? ”, he muttered, jamming Frank into the wall.
“Let there be light!”, laughed the immortal reaching for the light switch. “Good, now I’ll be able to take a better look at your entrails.”
His features were certainly not as Frank had expected them to be. He was the least dark he could be and his figure still bore childish traits. The god had no wrinkles, except the ones surrounding his trickster smile. Curly, dirty, blonde hair was flowing down his not very broad shoulders. Beneath his leather jacket, ragged clothes were covering a thin, yet muscular body. The immortal’s disfigurement was less gruesome than his attitude. He had a marble eye and a burnt underneath, which followed his delicate nose, leaving him without a part of his right nostril, and continued to his thick lips. His mouth was probably the most striking in his physiognomy, sensual but somewhat irregular. The good eye was of a dark brown and both his eyebrows were unusually thin.

Molifte?

Inainte sa ma culc, stau si ma intreb: Ce dracu sunt alea moliftele sfantului vasile? Google nu vrea sa ma ajute deloc. Iar eu cred ca stiu mai multe despre Asiro- Babilonieni decat despre riturile ortodoxe. Ia, Ia Pazuzu!

Tramvai

Imi aprind o tigara. Inchid ochii. Aud ploaia. Miroase a jeg, a caine ud. Se pare ca sunt in tramvai. Refuz sa privesc indelung la chiorul care canta la vioara. Sterg geamul cu maneca de la pulloverul rosu si observ ca mai am cateva statii pana la Piata Progresului. Mi-e frig. Ma consolez cu gandul la supa de rosii pe care am s-o beau calda, din cana mea de plastic. Va trebui sa cobor cu o statie inainte pentru a ma opri la magazin. Oare am haine de schimb? Berea bauta in Sovata mi-a cam pus capac. Cred ca si de la aia mi-e atat de rece. S-au urcat niste tigani. Un ea si o el. Gagica are taieturi pe mana si un tatuaj. La fel ca si mine. Ma intreb cum dracu eu sunt in pullover si parpalac, iar ea in maieu. E stirba.
Tramvaiul opreste. Ma reped prin ploaie spre geamul chioscului. Cer supa, niste icre si un pate Antrefrig. Merg cu pasi mari si repezi. Nu vreau sa fac pneumonie.
Traversez cu atentie, ca de obicei. Ajung in fata usii. Incerc sa o deschid. Se pare ca cineva mi-a facut o farsa. Usa e sudata. Toate geamurile sunt sparte. Acolo nu sta nimeni. Ma asez pe asfaltul ud si incep sa plang. Respir adanc, imi fac curaj si deschid ochii. Hanneman se uita sictirit la mine de pe usa camerei.

Dude, they want to kill the cats

La mine in bloc, iubitorii de porumbei si se pare ca si de sobolani (oricum, porumbeii sunt sobolani cu aripi si pene, asa cum zice o draga prietena din Colorado) au decis ca ar fi bine sa extermine minunatele feline pe care Copilu' si cu mine le hranim cat de des putem (mai mult ea decat mine).
Eu atat am de zis: o singura pisica daca vad moarta, in doua zile va fi covor de porumbei in rigor mortis. Imi dau cuvantul. Pentru mine va fi o placere, pentru ca oricum porumbeii sunt destul de sus in Top 100 lucruri pe care SvartKatt le detesta. Bonus: cand ma satur de priveliste, mai fac si foc de tabara din ei, si il chem pe domnul Dremora Kynmarcher cu cati bikeri poate el strange sa bem un Whiskey bun la caldurica si sa cantam Steppenwolf cat putem noi de tare. Aceeasi piesa. De la 22.00 pana la 05.00.
Si, da. Ochi pentru ochi, dinte pentru dinte. Asa am invatat eu la orele de religie cand eram mica.

C17H19NO3·H2O (autodistrugere)

Pe unii ii mananca in popo, cum zice romanu'. Acesti domni "unii" nu pot sta potoliti. Le stau in gat casutele din suburbii, copiii blonzi, golden retrieverii, vacantele cu familia si cele 12 ore la birou. Domnii le-ar putea avea pe toate astea. Daca ar vrea. Caci domnii autodistructivi "este" inteligenti in general.
Acum, problema cu tendintele autodistructive e mai cotoioasa. Intr-un fel se manifesta la 15 ani (stiu eu pe cineva care si-a scris Dead pe mana la un revelion, asa, de draci), intr-un fel la 19 (mai stiu pe cineva care a ajuns la Bagdasar cand a incercat sa studieze anatomia pe propria-i manuta) iar intr-alt fel mai incolo ( si stiu si pe cineva care se autosaboteaza in relatiile personale). Aici cotoiul este ca, daca nu te potolesti, cu cat inaintezi in varsta, cu atat mai subtile devin tendintele autodistructive. Nu te mai imbeti crita, nu mai faci sculptura in carne, nu mai dormi pe cine stie unde, dar toate actiunile tale devin un plan urias de sabotaj al propriei persoane. But enough about you, let's talk talk about me.

Avem de ales

Toti avem la un moment dat de ales. Intre bere si whiskey, Fallout sau Withcer, Memento Mori sau Candlemass, Byron sau Keats, concerte sau vacante, bluza magenta sau maieut fuchsia. Depinde de preocupari. Dar cat de adanci sunt radacinile rascrucilor noastre?
La fel ca si domnul Dremora Kynmarcher, care mi-a populat gandurile in ultimele saptamani, acum si eu am de ales. Iar alegerea mea e mai importanta decat a lui. Pentru ca eu sunt eu. Si pentru ca avatarul de Maica Tereza e demult in urma.
Asa cum i-am spus si lui DK (nu Death Knight, ci Dremora Kynmarcher, nu confundati tampenia de WOW cu capodopera de Oblivion) pentru a cunoaste un om, pentru a sti ce vrei de la el, trebuia sa te cunosti pe tine. Ori asta, fara terapie psihanalitica sau ani de asceza, e mai greu. Radacinile alegerii lui nu stiu unde sunt infipte. Nici nu ma intereseaza prea mult.
Important e ca eu stiu unde duc potecile intre care ma aflu. Una duce la o forma veche de autodistrugere, un fel de autodistrugere lenta, statuta. O boala lunga. A doua poteca, duce la un nou tip de autodistrugere. Un fel de autocombustie. Numai ca in loc de benzina, sinucigasul foloseste Jager Boom Boom. A treia poteca, care a fost tot timpul acolo, duce la liniste. La miros de somn si nopti petrecute vorbind despre Hegel si ascultand Sarcofago. Din nefericire, timpul este limitat. Nu pot face ce am zis intotdeauna ca am sa fac. Anume sa public trei nuvele revolutionare pentru literatura fantastica si dupa aia da-i frau liber la dementa, tata!
Si asta complica lucrurile. In loc sa le faca simple, ma imbarliga si mai mult. Si ma face sa uit de maseaua de minte care imi gaureste obrazul, dar si de atributiile pe care le am la servici. Psihologia Judiciara s-a dus demult pe apa sambetei.
Ieri am fost cu Copilu' si cu Herr Doktor in oras. Din vitrina magazinului ne veghea omul cu sfesnicul de pe coperta Live in Leipzig. Sa-mi fi acceptat Schizotipalul invitatia la cafea?

P.S. Cateodata trebuie sa alegem si intre KFC sau McDonalds

Me and you

I'm trouble and you're nothing but trouble.

Du! (scrisoare deschisa catre un mort)

Tu, cel blond si demult mort! Tu stii, copil tembel, ca cine te vede o data nu te mai uita? Oare ti-ai dat seama, inainte sa-ti pui pusca la tampla, ca vei tulbura mintile si somnul celor ce ti-au auzit celebrul strigat despre luna? Stii ca ai legat prietenii intre oameni ce nu aveau sa se cunoasca niciodata? Ai tu idee ca daca tu nu ai fi fost, pentru multi nu ar fi fost nimic? INGENTING, asa cum ai fi spus.
Suedez nebun, din pricina ta m-am indragostit iremediabil de Torgny Lindgren si Pär Lagerkvist! E numai vina ta ca eu acum, cand beau de vreo durere sau de fericire, in somn vorbesc o alta limba. Oare vorbesc cu tine? Esti complet responsabil pentru smintitii pe care am sa incerc sa ii conving sa lase Barbituricele din mana. Pana si mort, ai reusit sa imi aduci o fiinta pentru care mi-as da viata! O fiinta care a scris un roman. Pentru tine.
Nu ai liniste? De ce nu faci ce face un mort normal? De ce nu bantui niste oameni suburbani cu 2.5 copii si un Golden Retriever? A caror poveste sa o aud apoi pe Discovery si sa mi se faca pielea de gaina.
Herr Doktor, domnul psihiatru si cu mine ti-am dat deja un diagnostic. Ai fost Schizotipal, am spus toti la unison. Ei, Schizotipalule, ai bea o cafea cu un Borderline?

Sighisoara

Perla Transilvaniei. Singura cetate medievala locuita. Arhitectura sublima. Dar asta nu e important. E cel mai putin important.
Acum 7 ani, pe vremea asta, cunosteam Cobetele. Cobetele e o persoana foarte importanta pentru mine, pe care o iubesc nespus. Cobetele e energica, outspoken si incredibil de desteapta. Nu, nu e persoana normala. Nici nu va fi. Nici nu as vrea sa fie. Pentru mine, Cobetele a acceptat de multe ori rolul de Saint Bernard cu butoiasul de rom la gat. Fie ca a tipat la mine sa-mi revin sau m-a mangaiat pe par atunci cand plangeam din cauza unui shot de Absynth in plus. Te iubesc, Cobete! Sper sa revizitam Sighisoara cat de curand. Doar noi doua.

Despre filme, iubire si prezervative

Vreau sa povestesc. Tanjesc sa povestesc, de fapt. Jag lever för att berrätta. Totusi, printre vorbe scuipate cu sau fara sens am timp sa si ascult povestirile altora. Si din fiecare incerc sa inteleg si sa invat cate ceva.
Christoffer Boe mi-a povestit despre iubire. Mai ales despre reconstituirea unei iubiri. Dar povestea lui a fost putin altfel. Din ea nu am vrut sa invat nimic. Am vrut sa o traiesc. Sa o simt.
Si am simtit ca fara iubire nu exista nimic. Ca pentru dragoste, nu exista nici spatiu nici timp. Ca atunci cand iubesti, suprarealismul e la el acasa in cotidian. Am simtit ca atunci cand celalalt isi rateaza destinul, suferi. Poate chiar mai mult decat el, desi nu crezi asta. Pentru el, ai disparut. Am simtit ca EL se poate indragosti de o alta EU. Dar cel mai important, am simtit ca eu sunt de fapt cea care ii construieste si reconstruieste lui realitatea. Oricine ar fi el.
Dintr-un film vazut recent la cinematograf, am inteles ceva si mai important. Intr-o buna zi, are sa ma ploua cu prezervative. Tot ce sper este sa fie toamna. Pentru ca geaca mea de motor e dintr-o piele sanatoasa, iar daca voi avea At The Gates in casti, nu voi auzi ropotul.

Kärlek

Allt är film. Allt är construction. Och, ändå gör det ont.