Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Hernadnemeti, Gyor, Szentendre, Budapest, Gyula, Szarvas, Szolnok
I've been here more than a month now. I've dipped my dead body in a pit where stronger dumber men died a death a boy like me can only dream of. I made love on the roof of an old factory, mooned the moon, shocked the stars into orgasm. I've followed an injured dog into an ancient cave and stroked medieval bats with sunlight-filled fingers. I've flailed my foreign hands and stenciled SOS into my forehead with a red sharpie. I've been slaughtered by the corks of cheap champagne bottles and soaked Jesus with black absynithe-the only prayer that seemed justifiable. I am happy to spend my minutes shouting into tape recorders and embelleshing the events of my life into existence. Once again, I am a drunk American slurring my silent epiphanies out my dick and asshole, a sort of universal language that no one can and cannot understand. Whatever. This two dollar bottle of Hungarian wine is just enough and tommorow, another will be here burning red on my kitchen table and flowing like the tongue of an impossible lover down my throat with just enough warmth to fool my pussy pulse into pumping. Just enough warmth to make me not give a fuck, and give a huge fucking fuck at the same time. Just enough warmth to remember how much goddamn love I've brushed against in this precious little procession that plays like a mix tape in summer. The window is down and the system is up.