Bodies without hearts….

February 12, 2015


“she comes from love gone wrong under an
asphalt moon.
she comes from screams stuffed with cotton.
she comes from hands without arms
and arms without bodies
and bodies without hearts.
she comes out of cannons and shotguns and old victrolas.
she comes from parasites with blue eyes and soft voices.
she comes out from under the organ like a roach.
she keeps coming.
she’s inside of sardine cans and letters.
she’s under your fingernails pressing blue and flat.
she’s the signpost on the barricade
smeared in brown.
she’s the toy soldiers inside your head
poking their lead bayonets.
she’s the first kiss and the last kiss and
the dog’s guts spilling like a river.
she comes from somewhere and she never stops
me, and that
old woman:

Charles Bukowski
The Pleasures Of The Damned

Works well under pressure…

February 12, 2015


Like something poisonous…

February 12, 2015


“Haven’t I for months now been squirming before you like something poisonous? Am I not here one moment, there the next? Are you not beginning to feel sick at the sight of me? Can you not see by now that if disaster—yours, your disaster, dearest —is to be averted, I have to remain locked up within myself? I am not a human being; I am capable of tormenting you cold-bloodedly, you whom I love most, whom I love alone out of the entire human race (as far as I’m concerned, I have no relatives and no friends, am unable to have them, and don’t want them), and cold-bloodedly allowing you to forgive the torments I inflict. Can I tolerate this situation when I am in a position to see it so clearly, have suspected it, find my suspicions confirmed, and continue to suspect it?”

Franz Kafka
Letters To Felice

For the medicine cabinet….

February 12, 2015



They came every night…

February 12, 2015


I always had the feeling that no one understood me anyway, that no one knew who I was and what made me do this or that. And you know, when no one understands you, no one can call you to account. Not even the court could call me to account. But the dead can. They understand. They don’t even have to have been there, but if they do, they understand even better. Here in prison they were with me a lot. They came every night, whether I wanted them to or not. Before the trial I could still chase them away when they wanted to come.

The Reader
Bernhard Schlink