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From the Writings of a man who needed sex

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    I know this because Mattom knows this.

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It's Monday afternoon, Modest Mouse feels nice, feels proper for this kind of day and I'm thinking about a rainshower of remote controlling devices, I'm thinking about bearded men, I'm thinking about baseball and fat, red, beautiful lips. I'm thinking about a nameless red-haired woman. I'm thinking about my ex and all our fights and how little sense they all make, cigarettes I'm thinking here and I have the stupid grin at my face of knowing right from wrong.
I'm thinking about the fatal relationship between frogs and butterflies and "Equilibrium" is the name of the game, who's the host? Who are the players? What are the prizes? I'm thinking of massive death caused by bombing, air raids I'm talking here. I'm talking lack of oxygen and small, damp apartments, A cave is what I mean. I mean games, I mean love and I mean all this loneliness. I'm thinking chess here, the game I never learned how to play well, I'm thinking black ink and octopuses, I'm thinking advertisement and Christ, a forceps too wanders around, abortions, miscarriages. Life I say. Life is death too and Death I think and I don't mean bang-dead. I mean Death at different levels, one after another. I'm thinking Flowers here, beautiful, colorful flowers and children running among them, happy marriages I say, Happy, long-lasting marriages and I smile. Simile I think, and I think of lonely, dark streets and I smile too. Oh yes, all this I think. My keyboard I think, a plastic pen with so many buttons and lights. I think about my pens and pencils and I think about my books, all those unfinished works and I think about my writings, Writing I say and I think about lost naïvity. Highways I think, deserted highways and loud stereos and I think about comfort, Loud stereos and comfort and sex. Sex I'm talking here. White trash, Rednecks, Hillbillies and w.a.s.p's. Smokerings and smoke columns this is. This is all and pianos and guitars and I love silence and I am devoted to noise and I live beyond my sleep. I watch people and my ex too. Good fun I'm talking and people buried alive, good fun, good people buried alive.



When I die there will be a hole in every wall for the nail that will hold my inspiring portrait.
Every child will be taught to pray and ask for the eternal rest of my good soul that saved the world. And the little girls will lose their virginity in rituals where my name will be mentioned at least seven times. New religions will spawn across the entire universe.
When I save the world a new flag will honor every country and they all will have the color of my blood, the intentions of my heart and my love for the world.

A dying crowd...
The lazy beat of urban gangsta.
Looking at her is just an excuse to think.
She is legend.


Memories from the end of the world. The end of days was the end of light, the end of heat. But it was warm. We were feeling comfortable there. The end of life was a nice place to visit. The post apocalyptic silence was so beautiful, so utter. We were all naked and it was all right. That happened after doom.
I was there amidst the naked women who rejoiced in screaming aparts form a holy old book and the fellows who tirelessly wrote new pages for the sake of memory. This is my new, old life. This my great, worn out dream. This is my pure, pornographic confession.


Screaming under the rain. Again. Screaming under the rain again like I've tried every key in every door. Lost on the street, a million phone numbers, all busy. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to find a door. It's tough under the rain, It's tough when you're soaking wet. Like you didn't know about keys. Like you never tried to force a door that wouldn't open. Like it's something totally new. Play the fool. Make me believe it. I am the fool. I believe it.

Don't look at me today, for I am ugly. Don't look at me today, for I don't wear the colors of hate. My flag, my symbols, my calls of war... Don't lie to me today, I have no ears for you. Don't even tell me that you think about me, I don't believe you today. Don't look at me now, I am not beautiful. No more.


My throat hurts royally and I've been sneezing a lot, also I've had some cought at nights. But I do believe that I am not alone when I say that I expected to see Dave Gahan from Depeche Mode have sex with INXS singer before this one died. I could have seen them in a rising upward spiral engulfed in fire. I am possitive that no singer has a more highly developed sense of fashion than David Bowie. I do know Trent Reznor is always producing ideas and japanese literature hides more than it says. I know my girlfriend is crazy for loving me and I am crazy just for her. I know that I suffer no shame if I find myself naked in the middle of the night shouting a different gospel everyday. Can I have them listen and then wild out? have them yell and howl and dance while burning books and tapes, lick their CDs and stick them to their naked bodies? Will they sing and answer to my prayers? Will I be loved and hated everyday in Church. Will I change my name? Will you change your names? Will she change her name? There are gods I cannot name but they are out there, waiting, biding their time and planning their arrival. There are others in here, there we are, waiting to explode in a billion new colors to flood the atmosphere with foul, poisonous new air, vital and damned. Are we the same?


Just laying on a glass waiting, always waiting, bringing nothing than a longer wait. Beauty comes in the silky skin of lady freezong to death on a foggy beach, on the moans of a woman screaming to be hurt, of a goddess standing by the door of a classroom waiting for me to step out and fall into her arms. And I do, I fall and hit hard. Simply, I wait. I wait for your touch, on a silken glass.
Rays, flowing, washing. Online registration. Sudden inspirations bringing me the highest grade in my class. Broken Haikus weeping and whiping. Wallpapers showing dust. Words signifying nothing. A tale full of sand told by an idiot, signifying nothing. I really love myself.


My eyeglasses case is gray and plastic, it is harD on the outside and it has the shape of an incredibly big pill of cold medicine or a sedative. It always reminds me of a very clean hospital for giants where they go when they feel sick or are attacked by different creatures. I feel sorry for them because giants are such noble and gentle creatures and they do not deserve to be sent to the hospital by other abusive creatures.
My eyeglasses case is always by my side when I'm working on my PC, if an excelent song comes out of a random playlist I just take it and use it as a microphone. Sometimes it gets me angry because it gets open in my backpack and since I put it with my pens, pencils and markers, my glasses get dirty and I'm afraid one of hese days they will get a pretty ugly scratch.
I bought this case along with my glasses and it was half the price of my glasses, that gives you an idea of how cheap my glasses really are. But my eyeglasses case is good too, I have dropped it accidentally a couple of times and it has protected my eyeglasses very well and so far the sidesticks aren't bent or anything. When the case is on my desk, it looks very pretty since my bedroom is all white and it has a nice contrast. I also like to have it in my hands because the case's texture is somewhat rough but not completely, just enough to light a match in extreme emergencies, to light up a cigarette if a nuclear crisis bursts out of somewhere near. I think I have good taste for having picked such a smart eyeglasses case.


I could kill some worthless son of a bitch with my bare hands right now. Just wrap my hands around his throat and choke him until his eyes roll back to white, then start pounding his chest with my fists together in a natural hammer until his ribs pick his lungs. After that I would work my way through his skin between ribs and I would pull them out ripping his skin, finally I think I would bite his trachea out and spit it away.
I want to say that I have had cryptic dreams with Scorpions, Androginy and Spiders. I know that I am part of my own dreams because I breathe as I sleep, other than that my dreams are not very much mine, they belong to all the heat in the Universe.
I have counted cherry petals in the pages of anew book that sighed a breath of glue every time I turned one page. It was beautiful.


Writing is wrong. yes indeed, very wrong.
People should not write, for it only brings the grief of having to write agan, it is like a drug. A drug you cannot run away from. One that you're unsure as to how healthy it is to quit or to keep doing it.
Writing is a curse, a damnation and a condemnation, all in one. A stupid binding trinity. Writing is like a balloon up in the air, once you let it go it seems to be more and more unreachable.

Writing is like a woman, desirable but impossible to love, Writing is just a bad kharma that haunts you every day of your fucking life. Every morning when you wake up you think about writing and when you go to bed you drift away thinking about what to write.
Writing is not salvation, writing brings no joy, it brings pain and loneliness and in the end, nothing. Writing knows no compassion and no sorrow. And yet, it is sorrow itself. Writing means pain, Writing means all the things you want to run away from and everything you want to be. Writing is a book open and full of blank pages, writing is this and more, yes, much more. And I am writing now, and I am careful about writing correctly. Writing is a shadow, a damned shadow waiting for you by one side of the bed and it is what you expect to see every other morning, every single morning.

Writing means syntax. Writing means chaos. Writing means stopping and feeling your fingertips tremble to touch the keyboard or the pen or the pencil, it is all the same.
Writing means destruction. It is not creation.
Writing is a painful birth and much more, yes, much more.
It is a fucking song that is everywhere you go.

Yes. All this and more. Oh, so much more.
So fucking much more.


An old woman crosses the street
an on her way she steps on three hundred ants.
A young man, 26 at most,
takes an aluminum baseball bat
and hits the old woman in the head
for two minutes.

Six minutes later
forty ants round up the bits of brain
that aren't too heavy,
wedging their lives
on the deadly oncoming traffic.

Thank you.


This tale may or may not have something to do with me, truth is we will never know. In fact, it isn't even important, once I tell you what I have in stock you will think the same way I do. I was born in a little town, very little, it was just a bunch of houses standing like soldiers on both sides of the road waiting for a coffin to be dragged in between. There was a church, as old as the houses or even older, my mother used to take me there when I did something wrong and she made me tell the priest, in detail, what I had done. By the time I finished my story, the stupid, old priest had already forgoten what I was there for. I don't blame him, many times I forgot what I was there for. After the priest's reflective silence, known nowadays as Alzheimer, my mother would shake me taking me by the shoulder and whispered angrily in my ear "Did you see what you did? you offended a man of the clothe! shame on you!" Whenever she spoke like this I thought her teeth would break from all the strength she put in that bite. Then the priest would say that it was ok, that children would always be children and the kind Lord understood all these comes and goes, my mother would ask for some never-heard-of punishment for me and the priest just made me pray five hail-maries. And then I bailed out. My mother kept thanking the old man for his grace, his mercy and stayed mad at me for a day or more. That's all.


Be squashed by a truck when you try to cross the street.
Be licked by a dog right on your bleeding wound.
Be kissed by an old guy who has paid you a misery.
Be caught while fucking your girlfriend's mother.
Be awake when the bell rings and asleep when the lights go off.
Be ready to taste new colors before dawn.
Be a butterfly trapped in a spiderweb.
Be a nude junior student in the middle of the campus.
Be a drunk senior student punching the principal in the face.
Be the principal being sucked by a desperate blond trying to graduate.
Be a dean on his free day.
Be a kid looking at his lollipop smashed on the floor.
Be a mother yelling at the top of her lungs during Mass.
Be an interrupted priest.
Be a molested psychiatrist.
Be a harassing lunatic.
Be a baby, drooling and sleeping.
Be me.
Be her and him.
Be this noise in my bleeding ears.

I love mankind, it's people I can't stand.

[URL=http://www.sloganizer.net/en/]user posted image


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indescribable. a master at work!

dont stop writing!

maybe you should look into publishing them?



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Actually, Tozzy, I already published a book. A novel which was awarded last year. But THIS is my trail, this kind of writin, more than the novel genre.
I love mankind, it's people I can't stand.

[URL=http://www.sloganizer.net/en/]user posted image


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wow cool!

is there anywhere i can go look at it?



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At the book?
Well, actually I have it on a PDF format, but I don't think it would do you any good unless you speak spanish...

I love mankind, it's people I can't stand.

[URL=http://www.sloganizer.net/en/]user posted image

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