I love unicorns. And Madonna. And Fetish-Clubs. And Drag-Queens. I’m not a bad person, but sometimes, when someone gets to me, I want to punch them. I’m not into football, but I watch Championsleague. I’m not gay, but I really like feather boas. I read this sentence a few weeks ago on facebook. “I’m not
he remembered his schooldays. images which welled up from a river, one that emanated from him, underground. a hallway with brown banding, a smell of wood, turpentine and varnishes. a room with tall windows, from which he looked down, at the circular construction of the auditorium, and behind, the school sister’s exuberant vegetable garden. the
Why am I doing this? It all comes back to the people we encounter. A friend of mine once told me that her days are successful when she enjoyed them. She’s an artist. That’s an interesting perspective of success, I thought. So. After two years of working solely as a writer on a novel, far-off
coalstar, come and kiss me from viscosemoon step down and make me black and wispy be moonvelvet, my gown my precious only I may grasp you, lay you milk and white and touch and sigh upon my rainbowsilk coalstar, come and find me with your planecord fly down and circle me and bind me taut
A part of me always wanted to have a pet. Of mine own. My very very own cat. With whom I would have a secret language, which only we’d understand, who’d sit on my window-sill, prowl around me legs in the kitchen, canoodle with me on the couch. (Yes. This installment is about cats. It’s
Miro can let my mouth spirit away. His mouth is a creature of its own. If somebody drew a caricature of Miro, it would be an enormous laughing mouth. Miro is the heart of hearts, says Monica. Monica, who sits in the garden at times, flirting with men twenty years younger than her. These men,
I open my eyes. The room in semi-darkness, like a cave under the roof slope, which is covered by dark wooden panels. Patches of snow on the window. They dim the light. I can hear Jacob’s breath. Our sleeping berth is a mattress on the floor, in a foreign house. As I undress I unfurl
Three joints for him, three for me. For both of us, for him and me, he filled long white papers this morning. Rolled them and put them in a slender metal box. We go to the mountains, have spare time, spend it together. I spare myself of cutting vegetables, cooking spaetzle, bottling sorbet, sweeping the
It takes a while until the brake applies. A tiny squeaking. Hot wind grazing my cheek. Smells of tar, exhaust fumes and garbage hover above the three-lane roundabout. I turn and plunge in. Simon navigates between the cars. Turns round, shouts, l’opéra, behind you. He disappears between metal, the sound of horns, buzzing. I stop,
I’m passing the hill, changing up. Third gear. Dark plain ahead of me, no back-lights to be seen. Edith sings the Milord, as I speed up. My hand resting on the gear stick. The long, drawn-out road feels like driving on dark shortpastry. Like the one sprawled on my mother’s table, when I was six