I am also Melissa!
A light in the night. Surreal little yellow tale.
That Tom "Greasy Thumb" and I weren’t made for each other I realized from the moment they introduced us. I didn’t like his way of doing things, I didn’t like anything about him. And then, he was a negro. I didn’t even like Lory, his girlfriend, the one with the scar on her shoulder. She didn’t speak much, but she looked... she looked at me. Who knows why, but I always had the impression that she thought... what kind of idiot! I liked Betsy, Betsy with her small and well-proportioned body, Betsy without art or part. That night, we were hanging around the alleys of Riverside, just with Tom and the fat Lory. The woman took the bottle from my hand, to do the last two fingers, while she sat next to the negro, who squatted on the edge of the sidewalk. You told me: "I’m scared!". I held you close and brushed your lips with my nose. "Why are you scared, honey?" "Tom gives me the chills." That was the response. "Tom is a walking dead, he’s a miserable actor shouting on stage, playing a role that doesn’t belong to him, honey, he only impresses kids". Your beautiful eyes brightened. We were very close and you didn’t give me the feeling of a saint to look at from time to time, your body also didn’t suggest pure relations; it was dry, flexible, warm, flesh that intoxicated me more than all the alcohol we had chugged. A shiver ran through you, we lay on the hood of a Rambler and made love. "Don’t you also feel this music?" You said. "It comes from every door, every crack." I looked up and saw a light illuminating the alley. The music grew livelier, became frenetic, a gypsy ballad. Gypsies emerged from the shadows, playing and dancing, shaping their profiles in that magical light. We no longer smelled the stench of trash and scattered filth around. The magic of that night transported us far from every misery. Tom was bleeding and couldn’t be seen, leaning against an old Chevy, smoking and watching us. Lory with her forearm resting on his shoulder. She was looking at him with her usual late expression, twirling an empty bottle between her fingers. If Tom said: “Hey you, give me a cigarette” all the boys looked for their pack. That was Tom "Greasy Thumb". All the jerks wanted to be like him. He spat on the ground and threw the bottle at the milk truck. And Tom laughed... but was bleeding and couldn’t be seen. He grabbed my collar, slammed me against the car and pressed the lit cigarette on my hand. "The sewer rats are having fun in the filth!" he said. The music had stopped. I managed to draw my old Glock, shot him in the forehead. The spell was broken. Staggering, Tom took three or four more steps, came back toward me, and hugged me for support before total exhaustion took over him. Drop by drop, blood oozed from the small opening, soiling my face, clothes, and reaching my shoes. Soon the sun would suffocate Riverside with waves of heat, illuminate everything: the negro lying on the ground, the still alive red liquid flowing in rivulets, forming a dark puddle, Lory, still amusing herself with the bottle and a few simple thoughts, slowly returning toward Tribeca, Betsy, sitting, holding her very tight to my leg, I, repeating mentally the wondrous and obsessive beating on the keys of “Misterioso,” watching the corpse and thinking: “Well, Tom, you’re lucky, now you won’t bleed anymore”.
I understand the kiss to the leper but not the handshake to the idiot.
The majority of people die only at the last moment; others start and take twenty years before and sometimes even more. They are the unfortunate ones of the earth.
Pope Wojtyla... I am a supporter of... what’s it called? ... Rock!
Plenty of Vaseline, lots of patience, and the elephant f***s the ant.
It is curiosity that makes me wake up in the morning.
Money doesn’t open the gates of heaven, but, if you want a pizza, you can get it at the Four Seasons
You should play Russian roulette… with all chambers loaded.
A pipe gives the wise time to reflect, to the idiot something to put in his mouth.
Without music, life would be a mistake.
If idiots are always sure of what they say, on the other hand, fools never change their opinion.
(The power of the stare) Freud read a lot, one day he told me: Do you want to kill me and do you want to sleep with mom? I was stunned. I looked at him without saying anything, a look that conveyed all the contempt I felt for him. He understood perfectly, and, I am sure, from that moment he thought Freud wrote utter nonsense... and stopped reading him.
Nine times out of ten men cum so badly that if women went for a ride in the cable car with wind inside their thighs, they’d enjoy more.
O careless Italy, hostel of pain. Ship without a helmsman in a great storm. Not a woman of the family but a brothel.
Even the ants, in their small way, get pissed off.
There are people tainted by destiny, like me, who do not stray from everyday triviality, for the same fascination they feel for their helplessness. So I carry my destiny around, advancing without moving, and my time that passes without me moving. It’s enough for my cell to have windows behind bars, and I write on the glass, on the necessary dust, my name in capital letters, the daily signature of my contract with death. But those who live like me, do not die, they end, fade, cease to vegetate.
If they must choose who should be crucified, the crowd will always save Barabbas.
Systematic buttocks are called class.
But the exceptional feat, trust me, is being normal.
Who, like me, suffers when a cloud passes in front of the sun, how could they not suffer in the darkness of the ever-clouded day of their life? I don’t live in search of happiness, but in suppression, the walls of my room are both prison and freedom, my happiest hours are those in which I think of nothing, want nothing, don’t even dream, lost in a vegetative stupor, mere moss grown on the surface of life. This way, I hope to finally reach that peace whose thought makes me suffer, but does not weigh on me unbearably. Living like this, I taste without bitterness the awareness of being nothing, a flavor heralding death, meaning oblivion without memory.
He shot in Tom’s face, then told me: I didn’t do it for myself nor against him. What? I replied horrified. Yes, I did it for you. Repeat. What? I said again, incredulous. He: Yes, for you. So every time you see me, you’ll think I can shoot in someone’s face without a second thought... and you’ll respect me. I did it for you, to earn your respect. I have my own, his, I didn’t before and I don’t care anymore, only yours matters to me, and at this point, I’ll get it.
Even though I’ve always wanted to please others, I’ve always found it impossible that they loved me, and sometimes I don’t suffer anymore for this, or maybe I just try to accept it as a preordained fate. I don’t have the qualities of a leader, nor those of a follower. Others, less intelligent than me, are stronger, better able to carve out their space among people... and life weighs on me. I have all the qualities to influence others, except the art of knowing how to do it, and the strength to want to do it.
Long ago, in the underground kingdom, where lies and pain have no meaning, lived a princess who dreamed of the human world, dreamed of the blue sky, light breeze, and the shine of the sun. One day, deceiving her guards, she fled. But just outside, the sun’s rays blinded her, destroying, thus, her memory. The princess forgot who she was and where she came from, her body forgot the cold, the sickness, the pain, and in little time, she died. But the king was sure the princess would return, maybe in another body, in another place, another time. He was determined to wait for her until his last breath, until the world stopped turning.
In my vile and deep soul, I record, day after day, the impressions that constitute the external substance of my awareness of myself, I translate them into wandering words that desert me as I write them, wandering, independent of me, across slopes and meadows of images, through avenues of concepts, along paths of confusion. And this does me no good because nothing serves anything. But I free myself from worry by writing, like someone who breathes better even if the illness has not gone away. Like a cat in the sun, and I sometimes reread them with a vague late wonder, as if I remembered something I had always forgotten.
I saw the true face of life, of fear, the streets are long streams and the streams are full of blood, when the sewers are covered with excrement, all the parasites will drown. Sex and accumulated crimes will submerge them and the politicians will shout: save us!! But the answer will be... No!! The entire world is hanging in the balance, and contemplating that hell in which they live, all the intellectuals, priests, gossips, and nosy people won’t know what to say anymore, in this horrible world.
WOMAN ADMITTED Bad, bad, all my life filling my pockets, and now she’s decided to feed the poor... Bad, bad... all my life pretending to be a snob, the emancipated one, the one with my daughter drugged and I take care of her in clinics, and which clinics... she got tired of belonging to her little race... bad, bad, she wants to pick up some drug addict bastard... every morning I see her in her nice robe and her tiny legs, thin, well-tended, looking like two sticks, her breasts worth ten thousand euros to the surgeon... and she is so beautiful, so noble, and to her... and to us?! We have calluses on our hands from serving her... and everyone can see it! Now she doesn’t want to be part of her little race anymore... but she doesn’t even think of becoming a builder. No! Bad, bad, gives money to the poor and keeps sleeping between pillows, shopping on Saturdays! With painted nails! Buying cashmere dresses, to put on her thin little legs... lovely legs! And then, all the poor will be fine, and the only ones doing forced labor will be us... the addicts, they will all be fine, but she doesn’t take addicts home, no, help yes, but far from here, far from me! Because they stink, and vagrants don’t help, because they still smell worse and those, they even have frogs swimming in their mouths, and the Gypsies, haven’t they thought about them yet? But yes, they thought of it, they thought of it, they thought of it. One of these days I’ll invite someone for some of the best pecorino I have, aged! Or the pata negra, with cordial and a little prosecco, but we’re not giving a nice prosecco to Gypsies! I don’t sleep anymore! Bad, bad, I stay awake twenty-four hours a day! Do we want to call her a person? Or an animal?... Someone should rape her Gino, I want to see her with spread legs in the mud, with her pretty little face among the pebbles... then she won’t be so beautiful anymore and she won’t be noble either. And we, we can do it... but we’ll have to be careful, no mistakes.
I had seen that naked corpse on the deck chair, at night near the shoreline. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had gotten up to bathe; for someone his age, he was in extraordinary shape... apart from the fact that he was dead.
They told me I would stay alone, I would never find a soulmate, that for me, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. I threw myself into the haystack and moved until I felt the prick...
They will see the true face of life only when the streets are rivers, rivers full of blood, the parasites will be drowned in their filth and accumulated crimes. Only then will the politicians understand. And they will shout: save us!!... And I will review them one by one, and calmly whisper: no.
A man goes to the doctor. He says he is depressed. He says life seems tough and cruel. That he feels alone in a threatening world where what awaits us is vague and uncertain. The doctor says: "The cure is simple. The great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go see him. He should lift your spirits." The man bursts into tears. He says: "But doctor... I am Pagliacci." Good one. Everyone laughs. Drumroll. Curtain.
Who let the dogs in?... This, we fear, will be the question. Who let the dogs? Who let the dogs? Who?
I like beauty in every expression, but it’s an illusion, it’s enchanting to see a thousand lilies blooming, but there’s no participation, it’s only form, and all this beauty isn’t worth the kiss of the loved one because there’s love there.
It was she who entered my head so gently that I no longer knew who I was and I didn’t realize it. It was she who poured her nectar into my eyes, so that I would keep only her image as a blind man. It was she, tousled and rebellious, who diverted my steps toward the only possible path, the one marked by her footprints. Her footprints, which, as I advanced, erased everything, beginning and end. A story, our story, destined to perpetuate itself infinitely.
I am sure within the container of my self. The edges match perfectly: a little click and the lock snaps. That’s fine. I am in my usual refuge.
See, every sip of liquor you drink kills a thousand brain cells. But that doesn’t matter because we have billions of others. First, the ones of sadness die, so you have a good laugh. Then the cells of calm die, so you start talking aloud, even if you have no reason to do so. But that’s okay because the stupid cells leave right after, so you say intelligent things. And finally, the cells of memory, which are bastards resistant to death…
Every kind of addiction is bad, whether it’s alcohol, cocaine, idealism, or masturbation...
Meanwhile, a little further away, on the edge of the woods, a tiny snail woke up. It stretched its little arms and prepared to greet its neighbor ant, every blade of grass, and all the other wonderful living beings inhabiting that magical and happy place. A seagull swooped down from above and grabbed it with its beak. In less than a moment, it passed it into its mouth. It dropped the morsel, looking around with the same hateful expression all seagulls have.
He had never stopped dreaming, dreamed of dogs, the blue sea. But hope had been lost, over time he’d stopped hoping things would change. His heart was no longer troubled by anything, he had stopped asking questions and even less seeking answers. With the glass in hand, no need for anything else, the glass gave him all the answers, all the troubles disappeared.
He looked at the sea, the waves stirred by a gentle mistral wind, rippled the waters, coloring the surface a beautiful turquoise blue. A clear, serene picture. His mind elsewhere, Valentino did not enjoy the view; within, he felt a despair he couldn’t turn into tears.
Peace for the future, peace I think is enough, because everything is inside. Even happiness. And maybe a few fewer cigarettes would help…
We should manage to forget who we are and why we are like this. Not for a moment. This reality is so hard, it confuses us, and in the end, we will no longer know the way, we will get lost. We only need the courage to do what no one has ever succeeded in doing, to understand what love is, and to love each other, if we truly love each other.
Once again Valentino lost the chance, and Isabella’s dreams of love dissolved just before the finish line. Hope proved to be an illusion. When Valentino returned, he found his body cold, his hand holding a trail of blood running from the bed, forming a large stain on the floor. In that blood, his last will was lost too, this time, really, he had nothing left, only an unbridgeable void of pain and despair. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t even do that this time.
I am sick and trying to appear normal, strange, the one who is sick says so, shouts it! But mental distress isn’t understood, tolerated even less. You are annoying, create problems, and people point their finger. What others desire, to me, leaves indifferent; what I desire, others have, so it seems trivial, normal. From now on, silence, I won’t say a word about what I want.
It was a big nose with a bow-shaped ass and two legs better than Dietrich’s, better than all. I liked her so much that I told her that the stupid poetry she wrote was beautiful verses. I said it while I was getting excited watching through her thighs. I was so lost in her, that the idea of jerking off over her feet with lacquered nails didn’t even cross my mind, least of all, screwing her. Where did I start? No, it was better to idealize her, so I just suffered and yearned for her. It was less tiring and lasted much longer.
The little things in life are the only ones worth living and sometimes fighting for.
There are many, very many; human relationships are complicated, often egoism prevails. It’s simpler because we have it inside us; turning it into something higher is difficult, but if someone manages, what they get is all they need. The long nights listening to music with headphones, endless hours passing in days without end, staring sadly at the ceiling unable to see a way out. That’s how I dreamed. Wide awake and with my eyes shut, always. Songs were relief, but over time, also torment, while I listened I automatically thought about what to say about the artist or kept churning phrases like: every addiction is bad, whether it’s alcohol, cocaine, idealism, or masturbation... phrases and concepts thought or read somewhere, to use in conversations. I was a real connoisseur of music, honestly I was in almost all fields, and this allowed me to speak without nonsense, to seem smart. But in the end, what was it for? I didn’t want to seem smart, I wanted to be loved! Clearly, that’s not how to get it, so I could never really get close to someone I cared about. I shouldn’t plan polished, carefully worked speeches from home in bed, but give them life—here and now—letting them drift into the minds and hearts of others lightly, without reflection, giving up control. This tumultuous street that was my life, was worth a bit of happiness, and now that I had love there, I didn’t even know if I wanted to take it. Maybe I should first fix some problems, stop thinking I am perceived by others as the one with a thousand problems, I didn’t feel good with that thought, and I never wanted to know what’s said about me when I’m not there. Despite that, I had the strength to go on and the hope that someday my life could be different, beautiful—I hadn’t given up. What a strange animal I was, I lacked the desire to do anything, but I had the strength to want to move forward. Courage is born from suffering, not from satisfaction, sooner or later I would manage to open a new chapter of my life, the good one. I had feelings, then why couldn’t I pull them out? But without control, damn it! Will I ever be able to explain such a personal issue, make others understand?
