Monday, 19 August 2013

Emergency stuff

My education lay in Coca-Cola labels and porn movies. Until 19 I did not start to live beyond the fake moans and the taste of caffeine in my lips. I lived on nothingness, that's it, I was meat supersaturated in tolerances (my own and of others). I was a pair of vacuum-packed thighs, a weak stomach and an anesthetized mind.

Then I learned that it doesn't matter, that living too much is the same as not living. That's what I thought about in the car, while I went to a gas station on Mombasa Road, where I had to settle with a dirty cop. I had Ksh 15,000 in my panties and I was excited. Fucking adrenaline, you're killing me, you're making me sick.

Did you know that I dream that you take a scalpel and render me helpless? Feeling fear would be so magnificent. The problem is that I have life embedded in the sky of my skull, and there is no way to finish it. There just isn't. 

So I can only cover up the yawning with sick questions. I've never asked how much sperm you have spilled for me. Where? In the hospital restrooms? What African rivers take what is mine? In what sea will all those wasted genes end up? I dream of fish that feed on your semen. I dream of bored Europeans who buy those fish in Carrefour and eat your magnificent genetic information, your brilliant brain, your fear, your excessive violence.

In the porn movies I watched in Madrid, the girls said silly things, as if sex was just a substitute for something. An imitation. The easy thing. The cheap thing. But we, who have fled, who no longer have morals, know that cumming is just fury, it's living currents and fading away. It's expelling the diseased.

Living will be an emergency or it will not be.





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