Joy Division
The Best of Joy Division

THE REVIEW

Here I am, above her, in the car. I'm engaging in a mundane yet perfect betrayal. I couldn't care less. She is the justification of female flesh, and I'm hungry. From the first moment, I've had a great desire to make her mine and take her there. It took me months because we live far apart. But basically three days. Those seventy-two hours in which we saw and captured each other, blatantly and explicitly. In front of everyone. Without any sense of morality. Free, unrestrained by anything. Eager to cling to each other and devour each other. But even that fades when you have it. I go on autopilot and think that I really don't care about myself. I look out the rear window, and there's the night with Naples and its gulf. Here there's a little church. Now I'm caught by the external. I knew it, but I hadn't thought about it. If I look to the right, you can see the Amalfi Coast. Behind me, there's Capri. And below someone who cares as little as I do. We are on the most successful tear that the Earth's crust has ever inflicted on the salty waters.

It was my dream, going out with my pants and boxers down. Seeing her cleaning up and asking me to get back in the car, because it's night and what are we doing here, we need to go back. Then she tells me she'll miss me. But not much. Because you see, you're an asshole? And I'm more than you. Peace to your soul. Mine is restless. I don't know what I want. I've hypothesized a testosterone-fueled leap into the void. A bath. But on which side? Amalfi or Sorrento? But why don't I just go to hell? I only think about useless crap. But I'm happy. Deep down, I always get what I want. Only the celestial vault scares me, that is bigger than me. But deep down, it is for everyone. Against it, no one can win. She (the concubine) is beautiful and dumb. Therefore, ignorant. I ask her, still from outside, if she has ever read one of my stories. She says how could she, if the only thing we've done together was to screw. I think she's right and pull up my boxer. I'm already sure I don't want any more. I don't get back in the car and walk away. Dear is the night that takes me away from her gaze. Dear am I, who for such a robust performance, should demand interest. The kind I constantly pay at work, in a devastated family, in couple affairs, in shattered finances, in my big damn business and that of those who don't tell me.

I seek refuge from what others call fear of oneself. I'm afraid of things that insist on being relevant to me. But deep down, I'm not the one generating them. I am the cause of my goods. My ills don't even interest me. I am dilated, exploded, departed, lost, and taken. I am "Disorder", love erased for sex. There are also free "Peel Sessions" on a second CD. Buy it. "Love Will Tear Us Apart". And to your mother as well. You hurt me, and you pin me down, Ian. Your logorrheic silence made of essential words comes to mind. Stiletto thrusts are my refusal. I am my thing between my legs which now thinks for me. I am the antipoetical who writes only the bullshit that everyone and no one would want to read. I offer myself to the scum. But I don’t care. I'm in the most beautiful place in the world, and this is already a privilege that not even Ian Curtis, the Le Corbusier of death, ever had. Ian Curtis, you conceived an idea aseptically that you materialized. I, perhaps, have only collaborated in the failed conception of another child. God will take it on account. But the list is long and can wait. Line up, please. Get in line like the others.

I'm with her again, bleeding from the nose. She laughs at how much stuff I've done. I haven't done anything, I'm bleeding because I have a problem with sex and blood pressure. "She's Lost Control". "Digital". Well, Digital. Well, I'm analog, I've already written it elsewhere. But digital is mephistophelic. The first world shift. The multiverse. They beat like a heart depressed by the low quality of the blood, bass and drums, the guitar is the little oxygen for the head. The pressure is high. The desire to not have done all this doesn't even touch me. It touches me. It's her. I kiss her, we kiss, she kisses me. I'm tired, tired. Very tired of living for nothing. I condemn my body to the belief that it’s alright that way. But my transfiguration is the truest part of me. I hurt myself. Which benefits me. Come on. Eat me. I am indigestible. "Isolation".

2 CDs, tracks that sing estrangement and death. Digital poetry, indeed, nefaste rhythmics. Guitar that touches those internal parts of the brain by hand. Voice that stamps the death certificate. Contemporary music. There are those who have made it a philosophy of life and those of death. I’m in limbo. Thank you, Ian.