The Head

May 16th, 2011

But what is a foreigner? If it is ”who”, does he speak? If it is ”she”, what does she say? In what language, in whose speech? Maybe he – if it is ”he” – speaks violently. If so, would one need to collaborate? If he screams or threatens: you old muck of useless white trash, i’ll kick your ass and teeth – should one stay still and never let be found? Who, in the end, would prefer to have no teeth or wear a sore behind, thus staying, standing, while picking one’s teeth up?!
No! Let no such foreigner deceive you – he is as old as you, as half-sured, defensive, this brute about whom it is said – he’s a man of  a principle and a word – a frozen shit one, at that.  Stay clean from this filth,  there’s no more life in it than in a flower growing in the butt, where no light has ever shone. Ah, sweet laughter of half-sure self! You still have some left, don’t you?! You!
And if she came, open as a door of an abandoned foundry – should you form a bond of any sorts? Of entering and leaving, endless thus in its oscillations, almost too fun to not horrify you. Where the picture of the moment in which her hand is holding one’s penis is already thrust and replaced by the picture of her hand holding another prick. Would you welcome such alliance, as an old lover of places forgotten and vast? Is it not too half-sured substituting itself as almost truly sure?
What would you say to all of it, before letting oneself slide into the vortex of pictures of these moments:  go, don’t come, i will not come? We can’t come?
Let her pass. Let him pass. A prick for some ass. Ah, there you go again!
How in the world one can become purer, one can become one’s foreigner through these cracked concepts? No. This won’t work. No knowing of a foreigner adequate to a new life.
In vain.
Too fun to be just enough.
Leave it here. At this.

[audio:|titles=tRAsh piANo ex 38]

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