Indelible pigment

I got inked for about 10 hours yesterday. My back piece is entirely finished.
Emilie's new studio ( located in the 100 sided die ) is the shiiiit.
On the 12th floor,I was laying on a table right next to the world's biggest window, able to witness the incredible downtown action during a ridiculously painful session, and watch the sun go down as she was applying more EMLA cream on my sour ribs. My body was so drained last night, I slept for 14 hours, and experienced bizarre dreams about needles and broken bones.

Some nights, when you're all alone and feeling particularly alienated and forsaken, close your eyes and cup your hands to your ears. You'll hear a kind of muffled roar.
That's the cumulative sound of 30 billion souls--one from each human body that's ever walked the earth; each now alone on its own individual tiny desolate planet , furnished with couch, telescope, minibar, and self-replenishing hoagie--laughing, crying, and belching as they watch their lives loop endlessly in universal syndication.

I want you to experience what it's like to be four years old and summoned to the school neurologist's office and told that because of hypertrophic dendrite growth in your brain , your head can no longer be supported by your neck--to be told that it's like trying to support a bowling ball on a single strand of uncooked angel hair pasta-- and to have to wear a specially built cervical flying buttress-- a doughnut-shaped base worn around the waist , from which four thick metal flanges rise up to pinion the front , sides , and back of the head . I want you to feel what it's like to be ten and, while the other kids are frolicking at summer camps , you're immured in the recesses of a mildewed hovel , subsisting on cigarettes and black coffee and spending twenty hours a day shooting a perverse misanthropic video version of Pippi Longstocking using tiny intricate marionettes made of cockroach carapaces , chicken bones, rat vertebrea pried from traps , discarded condoms , foil ketchup packets--whatever you can scavenge from the garbage-strewn halls. I want you to feel what it's like to be in postproduction, your editing equipement darkened by the shadow of your huge head.

If it's true that pain indulges inspiration, my book might be done and published by the end of the month.

Marie

An ingenious scheme

Like anybody can tell you. I have always admired the villain, the outlaw, the son of a bitch. I don't like the clean-shaven boy with the necktie and the good job. I like desperate men , men with broken teeth and broken minds and broken ways . They interest me . They are full of surprises and explosions. I also like vile women , drunk cursing bitches with loose stockings and sloppy mascara faces . I'm more interested in perverts than saints. Legs locked ,fingers working , mouths , two bodies clutching and sweating and determined to do it - somehow.

This man once wrote about me . I let him write on. I was indifferent.
I wondered how he knew so much about me as I didn't know that much about myself.
I did not say a word. I sat there , in despair, as he was pouding a useless piece of paper with my name written on top of it. I hated doctors. I still do.

M.

Elle, pt 3.

Elle déteste ses grands yeux couleur noisette , et la longueur de ses jambes.
Il est difficile de passer innaperçu, les grands individus sont souvent jugés.
Les gens sentent sa nervositée ,ses mains moites. Elle s'allonge sur la route de l'incompréhension, laisse couler ses doigts contre l'asphalte brûlant, s'engouffrant dans ses pensées, au rythme du vent qui goûte salé - amer.

Elle aimerait être plus calme et silencieuse. Elle rêve du jour ou elle ne succombera plus à ses impulsions, au jour ou elle pourra baisser les yeux et fermer sa gueule lorsqu'une situation la choquera. Elle aimerait être petite et renfermée.

Le sang bouillonne dans ses veines, dès le réveil. Quand elle passe, une tornade s'en suit. Ses idées ne sont que maigres accomplissements , sans concrétisation.
Elle y travaille , s'y perds parfois, et se lasse trop vite.


Elle pense beaucoup trop au sexe humide, aux mains crispées sous le poids d'un orgasme innatendu , aux lèvres mouillées - compressées.
Elle ne pense pas assez à son futur.
Elle aime le plaisir immédiat, les défits , les films , et chanter une chanson quétaine en loop.

Elle trouve refuge dans l'exaltique moment ou l'alcool altère ses sens. Elle sait qu'un jour, elle sera laide et vide. Elle passe ses nuits à s'évanouir dans le vice contraint des gazons visqueux.
Elle est trop salope pour les mots doux.
L'humain se noie et la terre tourne sous l'obésité des astres.
Elle édite et se médite sous l'aspect des spectres qui l'entoure.
Elle chevauche la vie en s'accrochant à la mauvaise bride.
Elle est trop fluente dans l'expression de ses sentiments , et se dévoile à qui le veut bien.
Elle est méchante envers les gens qui se dévouent. Elle cache une envie tremblante pour les minces chevilles et la propreté d'un t-shirt neuf .

Elle est étrangère à son propre mystère.