RuKsaK

These keys, as my fingers stab at them, in the tandem they’ve learned from doing this over and over, are boring me. I’m literally looking at them and thinking of the dead skin residing between them. I paused just now to crouch closer, in the insipid and distinctly lonely light of this room I’m in, and saw some of the dust there, a small hair – perhaps an eyelash too. Waiting for the swirl of letters to yield just a worthwhile thought – a good description of something meaningful, but nothing comes out. I beg for the dead skin flakes to mean something, but they don’t and it makes me morose.
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I played with an Armenian chocolate salesman for a while.

We met in a arched St.Petersburg bar, equally drunk, but at different, and therefore volatile angles. My face brought out the clenched fists in him. His talk bought out humoured intolerance in me. He showed me his flexing fists and I looked at the tattoos of a penguin and a polar bear on his forearms. His tattoos smelled as of toxic cognac:
‘What the fuck are those?’
‘They are my fists, my friend. And they will rock your nose.’

His ridiculous wobbling 'r' made me smirk.
‘No, I mean the fucking tattoos – I mean, come on – a fucking penguin?’
‘The penguin is death – a cold beast to grab you.’
‘And, that’s why you got a tattoo of a fucking penguin?’

But, it ends there and that's an example of the things that die before they hit RuKsaK.
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Here’s some more:
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A father takes his kids collection of plastic jewels and buries them in the desert. He’s gone insane and I was going to ladle it with metaphor and be a clever cunt as I usually try to be.
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A description of the first time I saw my wife’s pubic hair, with the obscene roasting radiator behind it. And, then how I felt my lips curl in maximum desire and pleasure, with my heart beating just the way it was born to.
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A dank hotel in Moscow with cockroaches which I thought I could make into a three parter called Cold Hotel.
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My old and gorgeous friend Morgan le Wankeur masturbating on the top deck of a bus which was empty, the whirring engine and the movie theatre of his mind having got him hard.
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But, nothing, fucking nothing is coming out of RuKsaK at the moment. So, go on, keep commenting and voting for this wintry blog on its 99th post – I might be shutting down soon unless the orgasms of thought return.

I’m tired.

Sunday, July 17, 2005

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