The Whisper

Wandering; thinking, not correcting.
See luminous handcrafts.
Alles verstehen.
Windigo's in a world of its own.
Paradise isn't lost at all.
The conception of a story; the birth, nurturing her, possessing, wanting more, loving it.
Mixing this with wine; smoke, lustful habits with something peculiar.
A man in a strange land, his birth, its creation, the PLOT.
The development of ideas; growing up, feeling down, all this and more.
On a world of its own; lines, lots of li(n)es.
Reason and no reason at all, smoking the dust of some chimney's dust.
Feeling pure, inhaling odours, sweating pants, walking shoes, quotations quite unsure and still the complex mixed with the simple.
Possessing a gun or not possessing it, here's the question.
A gun, two plus one.
Whispering softly; no charging with no charge.
Problemathic, mathematic and rhetorics.
Air together or in communion, lights flashing, pleople smashing, screaming and yelling.
- Wo ist das?
- Wie gehen sie?
- Ich habe das kaufen...
- Wen bist du?
Something singular; a story within a story, no bullets to fire upon.
No more cigarettes, only pleasant dreams.
Classes or no classes; Kevlar, bullet proof.
Hit the head, smash his brains out, take his eyeballs out.
- What did he do?
- He did what he must be done and that's what we should do.
- Why?
- It's on our way of thinking; like the the pot land, like goblins running after rainbows.
Sky with no clouds; only stars. Les coques chantent, no story, no limits or burdens, stairs of thought, developping and sleeping.
- Where are they?
- What? 

I don't understand you.
- The sleeping pills.
- Ohh, near pistols inside them.
- Yes, in the caliber.
- Why a monologue?
- I don't like long speeches, it aches.
- Ohhh; that.
- Think carefully.
- No, not in the bus again.
- I saw it.
- What have you seen?
- Nothing at all.
- Why are you screaming?
- Lines, I don't figure them out.
- Ach so?
- Yes, they are speaking in a nostalgic manner.
- Fights, chicken fights.
- Bull fights with horns.
- The soup?
- It's over there.
- Want some?
- No thanks.
- Liquor?
- There.
- Is it food for thoughts?
- Ich finde das, yes.
- Strange; it didn't seemed pale yesterday.
- I haven't seen him or maybe it.
- What?
- The beginning, the theme.
- Dialogue?
- No, I don't think so.
- Does it fit?
- Maybe.
- Where are we?
- Ohhh yeah, still lines, in skyscrappers, in the oceans, everywhere.
- On the Tv sets?
- No.
- In the monitors?
- Yes.
- Why?
- Life is full of li(n)es.
- Do you think so?
- No, it can't be.
- Wasting or maybe counting?
- The bullets on the caliber, how many have you?
- ONE.
- Only ONE?
- Yes, I spend them all, shooting at cans, sardine cans and beer cans.
- Are you stupid or what?
- I don't know, I like to see holes in things.
- That's why you have scars all over your body...
- Signs of times; can't you see it?
- Lines; one more time.
- Are you still thinking that life is full of lines?
- Quite sure; my friend.
- Walking buses; pedestrians: can't you see the noise that people make thinking?
- No, it is wrong to judge other people; isn't it?
- No, bunch of losers and faggots, lots of them.
- Do you like winchester?
- A lot.
- Clothes?
- I buy only the necessary.
- Shoes?
- Only booths.
- Oh.. I see..
- Let's talk about something else.
- Sure.
Ramblings of a mad monk of maddog and his cohorts; Will Bill Hickock and his bullets.
Jesse James and his bravery.
Billy the Kid and its infancy.
- Are you still thinking?
- I'm occupying my mind with my thoughts.
- I'm struggling for the independence.
- Trying to make a story in your story.
- But, it isn't possible, I'm trying to do something positive.
- Are you learning something from this?
- Maybe.
- Do you think or are you still counting?
- Counting what?
- Our own number, your deeds and misdeeds.
- I'm trying to make something here in all the oily fog.
- Do you scent the smell?
- What smell?
- The same one that I feel.
- The smell of rivers, of people, of rain.
- I'm counting on that.
- Don't you trust your senses?
- I don't have any.
- And your vision?
- Also.
- Are you writing or not?
- I'm thinking and trying to clean my gun; it's all dusty.
- Screwed up; what does this means?
- Não sei.
- You are approaching the end, aren't you?
- I'm supposed to do that.
- Why?
- Everything must come to an end.
- A tragic ONE?
- Nothing is immortal, we are immortal only in a people memories, so there is no people, there aren't memories.
- And memoirs?
- It's something else.
- Food for thoughts?
- Maybe, it depends.
- Depends on what?
- In your point of view.
- Are you getting something from this?
- No, I'm not quite sure.
- It's a certainty.
- What?
- The fact that you are un sure.
- Do you enter on people's mind?
- Can you feel it?
- What?
- All in sincrony; body and mind, body piercing and pieces of bodies.
- Everybody?
- No, not everybody, only some of them.
- Why do I've all these bullets on my hand?
- I think that, that is the rush.
- Figuring some strange ways of killing or is it living?
- Maybe both of them.
- Control?
- Everything's on control.
- I want your mind.
- All of it?
- No, just a small piece of it.
- Why do we've to kill to live?
- So, that we can both survive.
- In your body? 

In your mind?
- Altogether, the ideas must be in sincrony with each other.
- Howls and grievings?
- Maybe moanings.
- Reasons?
- I don't have any.
- I want to be a person, a human being and not someone with his mind divided.
- Flashes?
- Still lots of them.
- The truth?
- I think that it's everywhere.
- Everywhere you go; everywhere I go.
- The junction?
- Must be divided with parcels on it.
- I'm drifting on a whirlpool of thoughts.
- Are you getting nauseous?
- Perhaps, it's all this smoke, these barricades of fog.
- Nightmares, any?
- Sometimes, dreaming of forsaken places and ancient people.
- What are you doing?
- Chewing some tobacco; spitting nebulous spasms of saliva.
- Why?
- It's the thoughts, the drowning of ideas, the sensation of loss.
- And the mind?
- It's getting absorbed by all this bullets, calibers with no bullets.
- Regrets, unregreteful, brand new bullets and brand new desires.
- Desires for what?
- Desires of doing something, something that's inside my skull.
- Sometimes.
- As in your mind?
- Mind and body in convulsion, secrets remain kept and hidden.
- Mistery is everywhere.
- Don't you want a change?
- Change of doing what? I do what I'm supposed to do.
- Are you a bounty killer?
- I treat life well, I think that life's like a marriage, like a skin left to be made into an eskimo's underpants, something that starts to rotten very soon.
- I think that life should be lived in a rhapsody.
- Lights, everything, turning me colourblind or almost blind.
Suffering carcasses; struggling for a chance to die for.
Money as the center as the true ruler of the Universe.
Bear with his paws an d claws, wolves with its fangs and shattered teeth.
Stories left untold; spreading on the morning mist, expanding as a nightless fog and still me, perplexed and shut up by somebody's own ideas.
Neon lights, closing and disappearing ideas unshut, just like the sun rises.
- The beginning of dawn, the atmosphere of the night, quite surreal, don't you think so?
- You're quite sure my beloved; your passion of the night remains intact.
- Like bruises screwing, like black holes everywhere, the light vanishing and the sound clicking and cheering, the dense cartilage, the breaking of bones.
- Jaws shattered and mind's elsewhere.
- Don't you feel the mist, all that on a particular mood with too many senses.
- Let's start our conversation.
- The ideals, we're entering on a new age, on a new world, are you waiting for somebody?
- No, I sense the stench of powder.
- The affection by one's own bullets, the tenderness by filling them, the love of revolvers
- I don't like trousers, I don't like to have my hair cut, but I like to see my winchester shining and my silver bullets too.
- So, where are you?
- I don't know.
- What's your fucking name?
- I don't quite remember.
- It seems to me, that it's all very sad, cause I don't have a name or a place to live.
- It's all in the head; in the subconscious.
- In my inner selb?
- Maybe or maybe not.
- Too many damn questions with no answers.
- The smelling; the hearing, the vision, feeling nothing, listening something.
- Seeing anything by my own eyes, it's a weird process.
- Are you hired?
- I don't have a Boss, just someone who takes care of my own acts.
- Who?
- You.
- Me?

But I don't think, I can't think.
- Yes you can; it's a matter of letting go.
- Just like living and dying.
- It's something that makes one feel alive without being alive.
- A dimension with no ports, a frontier with no barriers, quite unusual, isn't it?
- Do you think so?

I don't recall that phrase.
- Another pint of beer; please.
- Iced?
- No; just damned cold, ahhhh! quite refreshing, feels good, seems good.
- I don't like it, why do you drink?
- Cause I smoke.
- Why?
- Cause I've lots of time.
- Time; time and more time, that's the problem.
- What are you shooting at?
- Bottles; lots of them, killing them bastards, refreshing them with alcohol.
Still the mind; the air's crawling, trying to enter on a new dominion with smoke all mixed with spiderwebs, still writing, no thinking, listening to the clock, waiting for the bell(e).
- As a beast like something in my teeth, like mustard, waiting for you to spit it down: yeah; quite good, another day and nothing to do.

- Have you read something?
- I don't have time to read.
Still the story, dialogue or monologue, weird tales left on the air with nothing to believe on.
- Quite untrue, you're creating it, making it, idealizing it, a story with no END.
- Does it still exist the word END?
- To somebody, YES.
- Thinking on alcohol; drowning on alcohol, smoking marijuana, chewing tobacco.
- Dark city; dark place, people everywhere and I'm still counting.
- Why?
- It's funny to sum it up; to feel them and to love them.
- Salt?
- Lots of salt.
- Sand?
- No sand, thank you.
- I would like to have some, please.
- Why?
- To enter the kingdom of the perfidious nightmare with my own bullets; pointed at me?
- Don't you like it?
- What?
- The sound of no sound; the feeling of leaving with leaks everywhere and puzzles, lots of them.
- Why?
- It's good.
- Ink everywhere; no lines, only paper to clean my pistol on.
- Pistols, ahhhh! 

I'm vomiting pistols.
- Yeah; sure what's your topic?
- Maybe clothes.
- No.
- Writers?
- I don't know none.
- Photographers?
- Nahhhhh.
- Cowgirls with short skirts and long hair?
- No.
- Still you, me and you, just a flew, leaving one, entering another, like valvules.
- No.
- Still things to think upon?
- Yes.
- I want to have you.
- What?
- Possess you, have your credits, to enter new places, seeing new places, observing new people, behaving like normal guys do.
- School?
- No school, only parties with no work.
- Alcohol?
- No.
- Marijuana?
- No.
- Tobacco?
- No, just me feeling you, that's me, just me, not you, measuring the length of my arms and legs, that's all.
- Nebulae?

Algae?

Not mollusks, just an animal with purpose of living, insects drifting all periods of time. 

Lifetime for me, clapping my hands, another lifetime, singing around, another one, just like that.
- Do you love insects?
- Yeah, you've got my point.
- PEOPLE, people crashing, screaming, hammering my head, noises, lots of noises, don't you think so?
- Quite sure, it hurts the pain, the collapses, fallen like die sieben, movies with no guns, silent ones, RICOCHET, all that in my head?
- Maybe.
- The torment, the storms, all flowers, all of them blue, still feeling so, freezing with the fire, icing with the tempest, they are my feelings, not yours of course.
- Evil lurking on the streets, windows in pain, doors with no gain, only the old closets, your drawers.
- My drawers?
- Yes, the conscience.
- The hurting, closing in and opening out.
- No CLUES.
- Pens with blood; all oily and foggy.
- Them.
- What?
- The feelings, legless bullets with no bullets in, armless guns without harm, itching and scratching, figuring it out. Fog; fog, seamless fog, skyscrappers, do you see them? 

They don't exist, only in the curtain, where past, present and future collide themselves. 

In the winter, snowy winter, damned season to be with no clothes on.
- It's easy?
- Yeah, quite easy fuer mich, the seventh art, carries no art, only dirt in opaque colours drifting on the horizon.

Weapons, guns, arms and arms fighting without other arms, minds collapsing into other minds, no SHIRT, my beer and my breast hair, only them and me. Blake taught me nothing.
- Nonsense.
- Nonsense by whom? Crazy, crazier, the craziest am I them all?
- Probably not.
- Blind horses without patches pointing their ears. Thinking on Milton?
- Perhaps or maybe; although, maybe not. They don't have time.
- Time for what?
- Short periods.
- Do you like Oceans?
- A lot, seas with no flames, burning it all, coming down.
- Your feelings?
- Sorrow, regret and ENVY.
- Envy?
- Envy of clothed ones with their hats on.
Still searching the road; trying to finish a line.
- I'm fishing with no bait, hunting without a gun, mirrors, lots of them.
- Broken?
- No, shattered and lonely, dark places with no light, plenty to fight for. I've crushed a spiderweb, got entangled in its web and got a nice scar and some scorpion's eggs with their mother defending them. 

Lots of dreams.
- Dreaming of what?
- I'm not dreaming; I'm thinking, doctors in cages, fighting to earn more, to avoid the hunting process, the obituaries, the graveyards without any flowers, images, lots of them and figures, and paper, and glass, all mied with dust and worms, still plenty.
- My HEAD.
- It's MINE.
- A great bowl on an iron table. 

Fishes they can't swim, can they?
- Probably they can.
- Razor's teeth shattered; lots of them, no food to live, no fool to seek.
- Ohhh, you and your ramblings, I don't like them, it's awful, it's strange and tasty.
- Maps inside me HEAD, the streets seeing, watching us and observing us like slugs, bugging us and depending on us.
- Like FLIES?
- Yeah.
The perception of doors that can't be opened. Blasphemy plus blasphemies gives its way to ironies.
The pen and the men; the construction, the failure, just like a looser.
- Looney?
- Not looney; perhaps loser.
- Living on it?
- Maybe depending on it.
Just a story, still a story to write. 

Die augen, kein herz, trotzdem icha habe das gemachen, danke. Schreiben mit einer kugelschreiber oder einer gummi, und die herz, der aertzt.

Toten alles machen.

Kein FEUER und alles machen.
- The Paradise isn't lost at all. It hurts, the agony, fearing it while desiring it.
- Have you got a heart?
- That's covered with muscles; flesh, skin and hair. It's too deep.
- And your brain?
- No heart in it, but still pulsing and beating.
- What have you got there?
- A knife, that's the way, slaughter of skinning, leaving carcasses without flesh or skin. Bones on the ground; worms around and rats among.
It's all in the book and by the book, without ink, only curtains of time. Inking; blurring and disappearing.
- No clothes, no clues, narrow streets, it's all on your mind.
- My mind?
- Yes.
- Carpet soaked in blood; you've got tears that rot and all of them in the plot, those forsaken goblins still searching for the golden pot. 

Odes, rhymes and poets, a sordid combination, what do you think of that?
- Smelling and rotting; yellowing on the shelves but still kept on the drawers.
- And the scots?
- Not a Scotch, thank you.
- A pint?
- Yes, my kingdom for a pint and some cigarettes, please.
- Ashtray?
- Figuring it, I try to understand my mind, are you still in there?
- Yeah, not thinking because of the alcohol, too much beer, I think...
- God save the KING.
- The king's a lunatic, a rambler of all sorts. It's confusing and weird; headaches and no head to rely on, no pills, no more alcohol. 

Can you spare a cigarette; gentleman?
- I don't have many.
- Shit; even the cigarettes, no nurture, no food, I'm not an object, still there?
- Yeah. Although; i've seen enough, I don't want to see it anymore.
- What have you saw?
- I don't know; maybe the beginning, lots of riddles, and you?
- I can't see a thing, nothing at all. I see it all with your own mind.
- Quite fertile, you are.
- Maybe; it's the pleasure of not being a being.
- No.
- Shades, a few ones, all clustered on the ground, waiting for the new wave, sitting here, thinking nothing. Lots of paradigmism.
- Paganism?
- Don't know.
- Still peculiar; aren't you?
- The incoming of a bridge; the envy of passing it, all without an end.
I must put more bullets on my gun: one; two, three, four, five and six. That's it. Nothing to waste, each one of them cost money. No powder; a silent one.
Betrayal: Another one; another can.
Other live, another life.
Other and other.
YOU and ME, that's all.
Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
Someplace else; though memories.
The fangs, all the shelves burned down without any tears.
Pages fulfilled; narrow straight, just a story. JUST A FUCKING STORY.
RELAX.
Don't frighten up.
Don't squeeze.
Don't walk.
Don't sneeze.
Don't talk.
- Listen to the sound of lost tides as when Neptune conquered the lost Atlantis; the sea and a flock of seagulls. Wolves, still them devouring seagulls, flesh in its fangs, blood on their mouths. Ravens start making the puzzle, picturing it with red.
No eyes on; nothing to look at, peebles, nipples all that and more.
Large potatoes growing on the ground conquering the toillet seats.
Carrots left uncut; all wide and strange, things left unsaid, thoughts unspoken.
The dialogue on the monologue:
- Cheers, man.
- Queers?
- No; not that.
- Fears?
- No. Cheers, man. Another bottle, another pint. Skeletons remains; the dusk remains obsolete and concrete.
- Concrete? Brick?
- Don't prick on me; please, I'm trying to finish it.
- The cleansing; erasing, disrupting, tentatives still cold and still me and my bullets.
An alienated land with no aliens on.
A Prince on a soft land; alone, nothing to do, nothing to eat, only sleep.
- Dreaming, thinking, wallowing, wandering and it's me, don't you know me?
- Just who the fuck are you?
- Maybe Mr. nightmare.
- Hallo Mr. Jones.
- Hi!!!
- Are you going to tell me a story?
- Hey you!! Are you still sleeping?
- Murders, destroying my soft land, the corruption of my world, the reason of my sleep.
- Have you slept?
- No.
- And you?
- Sure did; thinking on monasteries, of lost lands, immaculated temples, an army with no men on, rulled by a Mr.What's his name? I don't remember, but he's hairy and thin with no skin and no being.
- NO. Still the moans? The pits and the penduluns?
Only a fucking book; a passtime, a no time on a co-existential land with lots of cooperation.
Nothing free; nothing to see.
Birds and monkeys spreading and disappearing on a foggy night, on a shadeless day.
- Nothing to live on; only my bullets to take care of, their creation, their vastness of powder, the liquor, the degrees all hammering on my head, the CULT of the head is too much cultural.
Umbrella's left broken on the street; hats with no heads on, minds with no thoughts, thoughts evolved to pots, invisible rainbows without colours.
Are you listening to the rainbirds? They are too much lyrical.
- I'm hunting high and low, coins with George on it, dollars with the Queen.
There's too many razors, blades and scissors.
Bullets, bullocks...
- Do you think that exists life over death?
- I believe in God almighty; the lord is my shepard, and you?
- There's lots of them, too much confusion to my brain, too much offer with a few demands.
- Nepal in there.
- Everest?!
- Not here.
- Canada?
- I would like to; I've seen them with no horns on, without skin, seen the fur, skin, all skinned and dollars, lots of them, vultures on their constant feeding, worms devouring bones.
The desert sky full of eagles without needles.
Rats...

I haven't seen rats.
- Dogs?
- Yes.
- My bullets give me them; I want to shoot that, I want money, that's my purpose, the meaning of my life.
- Where are you going? It's raining; isn't it?
- Maybe's.
- Wo bist du?
- On the rain.
- Quel est ton plaisir?
- The rain; I like it, it's easy to clean and shower my head with it, to get rid of these vampires.
- And your clothes?
- I don't have clothes. Just a form; a paper to fill in, some rags that doesn't mean a thing.
Only on the head; on the pen.
- Wo ziehst du an?
- On the streets.
- No clothes?
- No. Still a life, the conscience, a purpose without meaning.

Shagless on the land of nowhere.

- Counting the snakes?

- Trying to erase them of this arm.

- Too many blankets. It's a damned season; snowing snow, encefalic snow.

Still pointless; all by the reason, trying to give without being given.

The immaculate corpse; all the fishes on all the dishes and the countless leeches.

- What are you doing?

- Cooking; that's all. It's a rotten scent, isn't it?

- Yeah; I think so.

- Are you going to eat it?

- No; and you?

- No I can't.

- So, for the strays then, the coyotes.

Skinny cows without milk all on a flowerful world.

The taste; the feeling and without earing.

Teaching it, adoting that.

Still at ease, just in Peace. Broken to Pieces..

- And you there, there and there. 

Just talking to myself, killing her, adjoining it.

All on the brain.

The pain with no gain.

- Do you want coffee?

- Lots of it; please.

- Are you sleepy?

- How can I be? With this fight at damn light?

COINS AND COINS, TWO FACELESS ONES.

The End