about me
Male, Barcelona, Montgat, 2005
A gloomy glare glazed with grief the granite ground tonight. Because a street in peace is a bitch without sunlight, excuse me... I mean... when everything seems to be dead even when aggressively alive. Boots stomp and fuck the floor, filling the night with frantic closing doors, not quite the score for that long-promised asphalt bore. And now they tell me that these are the alleged sounds of the funeral procession that flows slowly but surely down the grandest of the grand four boulevards: a thin but quirky, dark, alley drive, perfumed with piss and paved with fucking scat. Oh, yes, to my disgraced bureaucrat, the loud fanfares have finally arrived.
And at the front of the marching band lay three great, grown, grey men, grunting with exhaustion as they carry the walnut on top of them: is it a closet? is it a casket? I don’t know, it’s probably neither of those. Hushed by the constant stomp, bump and sudden grunt that govern the stride of a long-lost boy. Those steps that wander to nowhere but to mourn the shame of the inner child’s guilt-consumed suicide: our state of perpetual death… and now I must confess, fuck… the walnut is drunken with the spirits of my very own Lady Macbeth. And maybe it’s somewhat hidden, yes; and maybe it’s somewhat reclused, I guess… but it has always been in full display to the indifferent awe of them stray dogs that are always a fucking mess.
Alike the few hidden escorts who want to fuck to cope with this never-ending insanity, so we can both withdraw back to our collectivized pain of selfless vanity. Become more depressed and then pray to emancipate ourselves from the never-ending wrath of our foible families. And I start crying like the little faggot that I am. Staring at me with their love-conceiving black eyes that penetrate up my ass, that gaze devoid of sexual drive and hiding their laughs under layers and layers of faux splendour. Those tiny, shinny, skirts of profane gold. Finally, to be adorned with the austere extravaganza of cheap plastic Dior. And I cry. And I cry. Because if I ever crack open the walnut, I know I’ll fucking die.
The screaming inaction of the narrow driveway abruptly clashes with the silent cries of false sorrow that rule the upper right balconies: what I call the publicly domestic, the historic town square of the matriarch, where the woman’s petty gossip knits the filthy alley into the holiest abbey despite my father’s lack of emotional clarity. To sanctify our imperative precarity and to indulge in this strange pact of Faustian charity.