Flowing Breeze

Something gaped through the darkness. It was an eye staring at me. It was the candle which lit a path I could not breath the name of. It was a mesmerizing circle in the night sky which beckoned me through the playful wind whispering in my hair. I felt it float with the wind through every part of my body when I left the window.

You think my last one was crazy? Wait till you meet the monkey.

Yeah, well, the debut about some guy named Rick (see my last post) was maybe of an absurdity which I gotta work hard to create again, (I will!) - but it certainly can get a lot crazier. I had written that last story like maybe two months ago, creating my character Rick. I'm writing this evening about how I like him, because he is a real


[EVERYDAY-HERO]

That. Rick... You know him, not? He's the guy sitting in the bathtub, saying it's raining shit. He actually believes it. It all started with a dual-blade system.

He was just standing there, right in the moon-beam shine, regarding his neighbors through his telescope and thinking about shaving. When he had descended the steps from his post of wilderness, he opened the lid of his toilet and retrieved his razor. It was dripping. He just looked around, smashed his mirror from the sink for the hell of it. His face smiled thousandfold in the shards, fracturing his grin into a gaping wound. He stopped smiling. He kept thinking about everything he could shave with his shaver. It was freaking him out. He decided to visit the monkey in his yard in his panties.

It was a bit difficult to think straight because Rick doesn't understand language. At all. For him everything was just a bit odd, a bit likeable, and a bit peanutbutter. That sentence was after him. Visit the monkey in his yard in his panties. Whose panties? Rick's, or the monkey's? Rick was about to encounter a pantie'd monkey, and he himself was gonna wear panties, too, he decided. That is him. That is Rick. Rick is wearing panties. The monkey is wearing panties. Hadn't he given his only pair of panties to the monkey? It didn't make sense. Rick smashed his head against the empty space above the sink, formerly occupied by the shards of a mirror (or by a mirror? How could he say it was not broken, because obviously it was?) - well he smashed his bald head, his almost-bald head which he was gonna shave, against the not-existent mirror and stumbled back and fell into the bathtub. The water started running. A brown tube of unnecessary hair wax fell into the tub, and the water turned brown, and soon it was spilling all over the place. When Rick regained his consciousness he was convinced it was raining shit. The monkey had climbed the roof and was banging his hands, or claws, or whatever they are against the window. His genitalia showed below his panties, which he had put on his head, and they were blown up and reflected thousandfold in the shards of the mirror. Rick went unconscious again. His monocle fell into the shit-water. Rick dreamt of his dual-blade system. Just another typical day for him.

You know that kind of every-day-heroes? Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. Worse than women.

Some Guy Named Rick - or - Sex on The Moon

Here is my debut. My new favorite character. My already famous short story about some guy named Rick (you don't really have to know him). He's great because he's such a heroic character. Believe me. I wrote this story for a kind of fun literature session in my creative writing group, which explains the awesome topic, Sex on the Moon! Well I opted for metaphorical sex on the moon and just went crazy, creating this character I don't understand at all. Okay - to put it more literatic, I'm trying to create a genre which consists of elements of Nietzsche, Dadaism, Postmodernism, Kafka, Shakespeare, lollipops, senselessness, madness, vulgarity and Heraklit. I'll name it Weird Banana Art. Satisfied?

Well, just judge for yourself. Go on, read it!

[SOME GUY NAMED RICK]

Rick was perceived as a small man with curved back and some hair beneath a head with a bald top. His character was acknowledged as one of diligence mixed with a trickle of shyness, except at those times when his beloved ones could describe his behavior at best as "lunatic".

"Come", his wife called to him once in the middle of the night, when he was occupying the roof-top together with a long steel rod. "It is required", she added, and he felt an uncertain, if unfounded, guilt; for he had previously found her sleeping breast oddly reminiscent of a large and unproportionate crater, and felt a sexual desire inappopriate for such a plain object like his wife's breast. Still, for him the anatomical roundness of the object seemed to be that of a double crater, and he had given in to the lure of the not-day: To indulge, languishly, in the eye-cratered rough surface of his mind, attracted by its unfortunate tidal pull gravitating towards his uncertain sleep.

He descended vaguely between the staircase (from his point of Luna-observation). His wife's eye focused by inch on his monocle, and thereby he knew she knew (he hadn't known previously, neither of her insight nor his own action-being-questionable) that he had betrayed her - a narrowing of an eyelid, rather, like a lense focusing - he had betrayed her by means of a steel rod, on accounts of his unregretting voyeurism, indeed, completely lunatic: "It is required", she added, vanishing into the features of a stranger, "that I leave - your house is no longer, you but a wrinkle in your own imagination, turn into a non-person amongst your brethren, forever stamped - you leave your wife to utter loneliness during an eternal moment," the thing said, "to have obscene sex with a bitch on the moon."

Getting on The Train

My Name is Jace or Weird Banana, whatever you want. You can also call me that goddamn monkey, if you feel the need.

I'll post some completely lunatic art on this site. Well, I can't draw and don't play a real musical instrument, but maybe some of you guys will help me out with that. Meanwhile, I do philosophy and write.

My hope is that my stories, poems, 1-page-insults and whatever else I decide to write are sufficiently full of awful craziness, and if you wish them to be even weirder just tell me right away and I'll deliver. You can also pay me a great amount of money if you feel like it.

I'll be getting on the train by posting an introduction poem which is not that absurd yet, but shows a nice bit of melancholy. Just so you readers won't be scared off at the first glance, because my second post will be completely lunatic.

[NO BLOODY TITLE]

Headlights arrive
dancing over stale faces
of nothingness-persons who whisper
to silent voices in their phones
- their sparks of inspiration
vaporizing

Lost calmness
flees the room of screaming solitude
unnoticed

I never felt alone before
it's like an inner fire
the flames sting in my eyes like
cigarette smoke
- at my feet a foreign beggar
sucks his lungs
full of madness
looks at us like he's
a child given up.

His isolation's a companion
in our hall of hollow laughter
trains arriving going nowhere ?
- Let's see where nowhere's located:
Just an eternal dream
fleeing visions
of a world sleeless
a world of grey beggars
grabbing in wastebins

..For lost childhood
Images of yesterday
Lost but in facebook
- Communal suicide sweet as honey mustard

A single man may turn the train.
He's meditating in the glaring sun
in desperate melancholy.

[IT'S BLOODY FINISHED]