You smoke fifty cigarettes a day. It tastes like shit every time we kiss. I soak my tongue in apple juice, but it won’t wash off. A chemical aftertaste nestles itself in my taste buds with the obstinacy of dug in Japanese infantry on a besieged island.

You should be writing your thesis, but you ride me three or four times a day. Five on Sundays. You take the purple ribbon out of your blonde hair and you strap it around my cock. After the daily morning fuckfest, it’s the only way to keep it completely hard later in the day. Every vein feels about to pop, but the pain drowns in your moans. A moaning Barbie. Runs on cigarettes and water melons. If you’re not sucking cigarettes or my grateful dick, you’re sucking on big juicy watermelons. That and feta cheese is about all I ever see you eat. “It’s summer”, you say. As if summer is an excuse to have a very monotone diet.

To call you impulsive, is to call a nuclear bomb a bit destructive. We go to restaurants at 3 am. I don’t know how you find these places. You never order any food, only cocktails and espresso. The cocktails are surprisingly cheap. When the bill comes, it kindly says: ‘Pay what you think it’s worth’. The underground part of this city likes to think of itself as liberal, original, arty. Superior. And by being anti-artificial, this part simply reeks of artificial superiority. Everyone seems to behave like they are the next big thing in show business. Maybe some are.

Homeless poets crowd our table and pay you with verses to get some of your attention. Little rhymes on pieces of magazines, napkins, cardboard and even wall paper. The walls of the restaurants get stripped bare by hungry wanna-be-poets and you plaster the tiles of

your bathroom with their drunken musing.

‘I wash myself in street poetry’, you say. It keeps me young.’ Your childhood heroine is that Bathory chick who tortured young women and bathed in their blood. Allegedly. “Bathory is misunderstood”, you say, “she was the first punk”. Well, your bathroom sure looks like a temple of punk. For some reason your hands are on the mirror, dipped in your menstruation blood. You have no idea why you did it. “But it looks pretty cool, don’t you think?” You love it when I go

down on you when you have your period. “Good doggy”, you say afterwards and then you grab my balls and just squeeze them real hard, until, against all expectations, after an agonizing eternity of 15 minutes, the pressure makes me come. You only like sex when you are in full control. You like giving blow jobs, but only if you leave your teeth marks.

You always get your way. You once walked up to a girl and offered her money for the boots she was wearing. You got them for 40 euros and a kiss on the lips. I call you Miss Pallenberg when I text you. As in Anita Pallenberg, Brian Jones’ girlfriend, until she ‘eloped’ with Keith Richards. You kinda like it. “I guess we do have the same decadent style”, you say. You pride yourself on your decadence. “Some people they try so hard to get their yaya’s out, they

go on till it’s five to twelve. I go on till it’s five past twelve.”

To this day I don’t know if you knew you were paraphrasing Hitler. Decadence was your politics, you kept saying. Never really saw the connection. Would be nice though, to be able to vote for the Decadent Party. But I suppose, they already exist. We call them liberals. Still, maybe you meant something else. You said decadence was the way to liberate mankind. Liberate them from what? And how exactly?

It’s too late to ask you. You also ‘eloped’. You called me ‘too much of a thinker, not enough of a do-er’. That stung. That stung badly. For months after you left, I tried rather obstinately to prove you wrong. But first of all, I had trouble locating these underground go-go’s, as you liked to call them, and then when I did locate them, the people there looked at me like I was the taxman, about to bust their moonlighting asses, clumsily posing like one of them. I kept falling asleep whenever I sat down during the daytime. I had to admit you were right.

That was hard, swallowing my pride. Getting used to ‘normal’ sex after you left, was even harder. Like going back from cocaine to cafeine. Sometimes I still run into one of those bum poets. I smilingly throw them a dime. As a small offering to fucking in the fast lane. I often wonder what kind of guy could keep up with you. They say you are sharing a floor of an old factory with a manic-depressive playwright somewhere in East-Berlin who keeps a blog on cheap wine. I have a good feeling about that.

When I really miss you, I look at the napkin you left me, pinned on my own bathroom wall.

Stand up and face the music

Embrace madness, everybody is already so frigging normal

embrace madness, but do it genuinely, open your eyes

everybody is already so stupendously



embrace madness

it’s the only thing that’s pure

I go for a jog then, even if it’s 4 am and pouring harder over my inconspicuous town than over the Mekong delta. And when cops pull over and ask if I’m in the habit of running so early in the morning and I say, without bothering to look at them, “Sometimes I just feel like it” and they drive off with a wry smile, I feel like you and I really connected at some very deep level. And the eight months we were together suddenly feel like so many life-times. And when my new girlfriends put up some token protest when I want to lick the crimson nectar right off their thighs, I just say “embrace madness” and dig right in.


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