Posts Tagged ‘death’
They Will Take Your Foot
Posted by: blogger in: ● May 19, 2007
- In: Uncategorized
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These tools that you see in the picture will be used on your foot if you break it. The tools will be used to place the broken bones in the right position. Inside your swallen red foot. What you don’t see in the picture are screws that will be drilled into a metal panel placed upon the broken bones inside your foot. What you don’t see in the picture is the doctor, a young bold guy with sparkling eyes responsible for the operation. Responsible for your day. For your emotions. For your memories. For your job. What you don’t see in the picture is me in the wheel chair and this doc placing it opposite to the tools hanging on the wall. The doctor does not understand why I am laughing. He would normally not see people laughing in my place and situaton. I am laughing because being stoned is too banal. I am laughing because there is nothing I can control. Even that darn wheel chair won’t move as I plan.
The doc leaves to have a look at my x-ray pictures. While you wait in this tool-room stuck in the wheel chair you think of a nice foot massage. About the tasks you will fail to do. Bike rides. Jogging. About losing your job. About Niagara Falls. About people who feel more pain.
Now when you use crutches to walk you see how people are afraid of being part of your life and how they force themselves to show that they love you.
Funeral Bureau Ad
Posted by: blogger in: ● March 13, 2007
- In: Uncategorized
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The picture says it all.
Three Most Beautiful Things
Posted by: blogger in: ● March 8, 2007
- In: Uncategorized
- 1 Comment
1. Woman’s body
2. Children
3. Death
Dan’s Dream: Half-A-Head
Posted by: blogger in: ● March 1, 2007
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Skyped, as one message:
Hello dear, I have dreamt that you are visiting me. In my apartment. You are sitting on the chair in the corridor. I come up to you and we start up some conversation. And then you take a knife and with a smile on your face suddenly cut off the upper part of your head. Pooring something on it to stop the blood. You have only the lower part of your head left. I clearly remember you sitting on that chair. In the remote dark corner with a smile on your face. On what was left from your face. But you couldn’t talk. I got shocked and went back to the rest of the guests, into my room.
When I got back you were not there. And I started looking for you. But I couldn’t find you. I got nervous. They told me that you had been carried to the stairwell. I ran there. Later, they told me that they had wrapped you into a plastic bag and carried to the 2nd floor. Alive. I ran there. Started yelling: -Mark, Mark! And then I got an sms from you with a nice melody and dancing bugs. I replied to you that…’wait, don’t be scared, i am looking for you’. Later on everyone would go downstairs, but we couldn’t find anything and so I started yelling again. I was looking for you in the bags, and on the 1st floor. I ran upstairs again. Yelling: -Mark! I got very scared. I yelled and cried. And woke up in tears… Fuck. Are you alrite?
-Dan
Bukowski: There is Nothing to Mourn About Death
Posted by: blogger in: ● March 1, 2007
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‘There´s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don´t live up until their death. They don´t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their mindes are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can´t hear it. Most people´s deaths are a sham. Thare´s nothing left to die.’
‘Now, I am writing and writing and writing, the older I get the more I write, dancing with death. Good show. And I think the stuff is all right. One day they´ll say, Bukowski is dead,” and then I will be truly discovered and hung from stinking bright lampposts. So what? Immortality is the stupid invention of the living.’
Charles Bukowski
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