Elongated days…

French temazcalI wondered what wonderful things

I was missing, the secret of the

magic, something that only they knew,

and I felt myself again the idiot in the

schoolyard, sometimes a man never got out

of there – he was marked, it could be told

at a glance


Luck was not a lady

The Last Night of the Earth Poems,

Charles Bukowski

I met a woman in a psychobilly gig. Livia is her name, dark green eyes, and a Monroe piercing. We didn’t talk too much during the gig. You couldn’t talk too much when the music is very loud – could you? I rather say that our bodies were enjoying themselves, and at some point they had begun to chat using a secret language. That secret language that connects audiences with musicians, people with people, air guitar with unusual riffs, levitation with head-banging, clapping with beat, howling in that decisive silence… Livia’s eyes with my smiling shy…

‘Every poem has to start with the same line, isn’t? But, why?’ Livia sips her beer, and looks for my eyes. She knows that I’m in her hands. I threw a distraction to cover my ignorance, I laugh, meanwhile, Livia is clipping her lips with one of her hands. About to open my mouth, and Livia says with strong Romanian accent ‘I’m boring you. I’m bored of myself as well, you’re not the only one. Do you want to know why?’ I sip my beer to agree. ‘I’ve been living in the same mood everyday for hundred of years. Don’t you believe me?’ I shake my head, and take a long drink to my beer. In the meantime, I say to my inner: ‘Just fuck me baby’…

‘This is the thing, I wont fuck you. You’re not my kind. However, you’re the only miserable soul in this room that can grasp the meaning of my life full of despair and unrelieved dullness. You call yourself the doubtful man, Don’t you?’ I gulped down the last of my beer. ‘Yes, I’m a real one, and maybe the only one.’ Livia slowly drain her beer as well. I can feel a hand strongly seizing my lap. ‘Don’t be stupid, you are not the only one – for God’s sake!’ Livia gets up from the table and goes to the bar to refill our glasses.

‘No, no, no, but really… tell me: Why the Hell do poets use the same fucking line to begin a poem with? Are all of them made of the same fucking components?’ I look at her, thinking that this may be just a twisted dream produced by a bad drinking night. ‘I mean, maybe, this is not their problem. The problem may be only mine. You know why? Because, I am in-mor-tal!’ Bursting in laughs, Livia rubs my cheek. ‘Come closer, I want to bit you…mmm…no… sorry… I meant, kiss you.’ I try to get closer to her. But, Livia foolish me once more.

‘I got a boring type of immortality. Let’s put it in this way. The Universe needs to have defects to counter balance its energy. Immortals are not exempt of these fucking defects. Which is my defect? Easy, I am only able to read the first couple of lines of any poem. Why is this so relevant to explain you the reason behind my painful life? Well, because I used to be a fucking poet. Does it make any sense to you, now?’ I can see small drops of water rolling down Livia’s cheek.

I’m feeling dizzy and merry at this point of the conversation. ‘What are you talking about?’ I address her in a goofy manner.

‘Yeah, I’m trapped in time…staring  at the black line of the horizon about to explode in colours every sunset. However, that orgasm never comes to me. I suddenly get blinded without apparent reason. Always…’ Livia cries out loud. I finish my drink, and walk out the bar. I look back a couple of times juts to confirm that no one is following me. It’s too late for me to take the bus. So, I decide to walk back home.

The last thing that I can recall of that night is me laughing and crying inside of a sauna before jumping naked into the lake at Vanhankaupunginselkä bay…


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