My hand stained with grease from the bicycle chain, opened and addressing to my face. She approaches, catch me in the forehead and suck all out. All that my intellect is based in, my memories, past and ghosts, my pain, nostalgia, happiness of experimenting, my illusions and projection in the future, everything. I feel her presence; my hand is powerful and attracts it all. Now she’s closing and I feel pressure between my eyes. It’s dark, apprehensive, I sense fear, pleasure. I’m emptying. Light. Then the dirty nails of my hand that has it all. I rather close my eyes than talk with you.
Now I’m lying naked in the middle of nowhere, exposing to the wind, that gently transform the clouds. I catch a cigarette from my pocket, thinking that maybe I’m not naked. Maybe it’s the less important now, because this clouds starts boring me, I’ve been so long in the same posture. I decide to turn my neck. How much beauty, they love each other so much that I can receive the same love from the other side of the meadow. They could be my guides if he wouldn’t mean already something like a shaman for me. Maybe I have eaten too much lawn, or t's true that maybe they can be simultaneously those two things.
There are two things that simultaneously has been worrying me too much lasts years, that relentlessly torment me and are going to kill me: My devotion for commercial Pop, Madonna and pink leggings, queer parties and blue dildos, but also and my obsession for the silence, where my head is safe from that damn sounds that get stacked as a parasite and brainwash me. The real important problem has arrived into me life when almost the silence is catchy and doesn’t let me sleep. Now it has turned into a “top40hit” that haunt me with his chorus and frenetic rhythm, and there’s nothing I can do.
Now I’m standing in a stressing street, and a 20 meters truck is coming closer and closer. I will let my body fell down in the precise moment, and with a bit of luck the impact will make by died coffin fly into to the canal. Then the dirty watercourse will bring it to the sea. I will see the light, and I will listen to the silence forever and ever, which for sure it’s going to torture me forever and ever with his chorus, but at least I will die for a good cause. And forever and ever I will be known as the conceptual artist that spent his life searching tireless innovating concepts that gave happiness, welfare and joie de vivre to everyone that surround him. And this is beautiful and everybody has to understand it.
Let’s go.
10….9….8….7….6….5….4….3….2….1….silence
Torture, silence, torture….torture…
I found a young boy lying in the floor with his mouth fulfilled of spume. At his side a smelly dog barking and… my son that is catching his flute!!!
-Son!!! Drop this flute immediately and come here! I need an ambulance, also immediately!
In any similar situation I would leave here this died “dogflute” punk without remorse, but this time my poor son has his hands soiled by bicycle chain and punk saliva and it’s too…
-Darling! Don’t call me son, I’m your brother Carles, and we should go if we don’t want to be late at the doctor. This thing that you see died in the floor is a pigeon with emotional disturbances that commit suicide.
We will always remember of you, pigeon!
We really don’t care about the gender of the pigeon. Because she died, and all agree that also we have to fight for the acceptation of the transgender beyond the frontiers of big cities. Where the social structures are so closed, that anybody who goes out from the norm rather flee than to face the reality. As the years go by, after the uprooting of living in no where’s land, the nostalgia and the repentance starts.
Then, it’s the precise moment when the pigeon should have spread her wings and let herself go by the Tramuntana, to land in the middle of the town central square where she was born, wearing her favourite leather combination. Embroidery underwear with a golden dildo, black high hills, long whip and arrogant position in order to shout:
-Yes, comma, any comment if I have always loved to catch a dominant raven and give him hard from the back with my dildo, slap on his face while listen to “Like a virgin” Madonna’s hit?
Then, if the pigeon had preferred to buy a cat instead of a dog, and started playing accordion instead of flute, and my sister wouldn’t be me, and if I’d never entered into a vagina.
The sinister would have been avoided.
And tomorrow we could go all together – the punk, the dog, pigeon, mi sister, Madonna, Sonia and Stephan, the hand and the part of me inside of them all -, to make a barbecue in the middle of nowhere.
Now I’m lying naked in the middle of nowhere, exposing to the wind, that gently transform the clouds. I catch a cigarette from my pocket, thinking that maybe I’m not naked. Maybe it’s the less important now, because this clouds starts boring me, I’ve been so long in the same posture. I decide to turn my neck. How much beauty, they love each other so much that I can receive the same love from the other side of the meadow. They could be my guides if he wouldn’t mean already something like a shaman for me. Maybe I have eaten too much lawn, or t's true that maybe they can be simultaneously those two things.
There are two things that simultaneously has been worrying me too much lasts years, that relentlessly torment me and are going to kill me: My devotion for commercial Pop, Madonna and pink leggings, queer parties and blue dildos, but also and my obsession for the silence, where my head is safe from that damn sounds that get stacked as a parasite and brainwash me. The real important problem has arrived into me life when almost the silence is catchy and doesn’t let me sleep. Now it has turned into a “top40hit” that haunt me with his chorus and frenetic rhythm, and there’s nothing I can do.
Now I’m standing in a stressing street, and a 20 meters truck is coming closer and closer. I will let my body fell down in the precise moment, and with a bit of luck the impact will make by died coffin fly into to the canal. Then the dirty watercourse will bring it to the sea. I will see the light, and I will listen to the silence forever and ever, which for sure it’s going to torture me forever and ever with his chorus, but at least I will die for a good cause. And forever and ever I will be known as the conceptual artist that spent his life searching tireless innovating concepts that gave happiness, welfare and joie de vivre to everyone that surround him. And this is beautiful and everybody has to understand it.
Let’s go.
10….9….8….7….6….5….4….3….2….1….silence
Torture, silence, torture….torture…
I found a young boy lying in the floor with his mouth fulfilled of spume. At his side a smelly dog barking and… my son that is catching his flute!!!
-Son!!! Drop this flute immediately and come here! I need an ambulance, also immediately!
In any similar situation I would leave here this died “dogflute” punk without remorse, but this time my poor son has his hands soiled by bicycle chain and punk saliva and it’s too…
-Darling! Don’t call me son, I’m your brother Carles, and we should go if we don’t want to be late at the doctor. This thing that you see died in the floor is a pigeon with emotional disturbances that commit suicide.
We will always remember of you, pigeon!
We really don’t care about the gender of the pigeon. Because she died, and all agree that also we have to fight for the acceptation of the transgender beyond the frontiers of big cities. Where the social structures are so closed, that anybody who goes out from the norm rather flee than to face the reality. As the years go by, after the uprooting of living in no where’s land, the nostalgia and the repentance starts.
Then, it’s the precise moment when the pigeon should have spread her wings and let herself go by the Tramuntana, to land in the middle of the town central square where she was born, wearing her favourite leather combination. Embroidery underwear with a golden dildo, black high hills, long whip and arrogant position in order to shout:
-Yes, comma, any comment if I have always loved to catch a dominant raven and give him hard from the back with my dildo, slap on his face while listen to “Like a virgin” Madonna’s hit?
Then, if the pigeon had preferred to buy a cat instead of a dog, and started playing accordion instead of flute, and my sister wouldn’t be me, and if I’d never entered into a vagina.
The sinister would have been avoided.
And tomorrow we could go all together – the punk, the dog, pigeon, mi sister, Madonna, Sonia and Stephan, the hand and the part of me inside of them all -, to make a barbecue in the middle of nowhere.
