Snatches: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the love expert

I read his book and thought of you:

"For there was a dream of an affair of a 100 nights, where you were his and I was hers; and in that cloak of darkness, we met. We met to escape the problems of love. We met without pretensions of loving or being loved, yet always in the hope of finding something, that resembled love.

Forgetting is a long long time. And I’m still in the remembering to forget. And though I still remember, I have learnt too: that I would rather love than dream; I would rather problems than pretense.

"I wish you well. I wish the best for you. And I wish one day, I may forget to remember."

Snatches: Tori Amos, the theoretical physicist

My scream got lost in a paper cup. You think there’s a heaven where screams have gone?

Snatches: Jim Steinman, the social critic

Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere.

The show must go on

Do you know life? 
Every-where that we've gone, every-thing that we've tried, have forced us to this point: a gleaming point that cuts. 
I havn't got much left in my pocket. I havn't got much to give, anymore. So do you mind, if I keep some for myself?

I can't drink up all your tears and give you light every night. 
I can't see that beautiful picture myself. Though we've drawn it once. Out on a paper. Framed. Now I can't find myself in it. I can't see you in it. I can't see it anymore. I think -
It's a picture you've got to believe in first, for it to be revealed. A place you've got to live in first, before it becomes real. 
Or, maybe, I've just lost my faith. Or, maybe it's just a picture too wonderful; I'm too sad to be there.

No more I love you? 
The hurtings have got to stop - somehow, somewhere, sometime. For how can I not love you? Perhaps: I don't know how. 
Just a little boy, I am, plugging my fingers in the dyke. A dyke cracking apart. A dyke full of holes. My fingers are stuck in them.
My throat's hoarse from shouting. Yet no one's listening. No one cares. I'm feeling helpless. It is hopeless. I am tired. 
Sorry. 
I've got to let go.
Let the flood come.

Do you know life? Actors and actresses looking for an ending. 
We didn't choose to come here, did we? But we've brought her along. So now, we've got to go on acting. And the show must go on. Pretence. Pretence. The smiles that veil us. You've never heard my beating heart. I've never lived your life. We know too much, but we've understood nothing. I'm sorry: to you, to her, to myself. That, I've nothing much in my pocket left to give.

BASFR: Prostitute for love

I live in the negative places. The spaces that exist in between, nothing. Perhaps that's why, you've never found me. Until I left my number here.

Each night I beg: for an angel of mercy. Each night I find myself: sinning. The paper notes, the metal coins, I place in the skeletal hands; the boatmen drive me through the river. Black. Winding. Under the streetlamps of orange. They bring me to you. Your place. Your bed. My destination. My hell. 

I am a male prostitute. Prostitute for love. Prostitute for redemption. And,
"Here I am, would you send me an angel?"

 

Finally you called. The most beautiful voice. With the most beautiful face. Your eyes' a liquid blue... green... red... flaming opals that dazzle, and dazzle, and I couldn't take my eyes off. Your lips so soft. So soft around my snake. Sucking. Until I was all hard and ready to go. I could be lost, forever in you. Just coming and cumming and coming.

And then you stopped. You took off your robes. And revealed yourself. With no navel. No sex organ between your thighs. Nothing. 
Blank. Sealed. Clean. So smooth. Yet, so natural.

What are you?

I cannot forget the flaming opals that blaze. And the silver feathered wings. The gentle breeze that moved when you flew through the window. And the stars that cried when you plunged deep into the sea. Yes, it looked like heaven. A reflection. But it's the only one we've got.

*

I have no wings. I can't fly. 
But you can ride my snake. And I can share your sins. All your sins. Because I am for rent. Body and soul. Body and soul.

Snatches: Hurt

There is a girl.
Nine holes in her lobes and none an earring to show; seven golden studs fork her tongue; one navel-ring buried half within. 
She wants, and has the whole Silver City tattooed: to her back: while a thousand crosses of penknife cuts decorate her arms. 
And so a different man nails her to bed, each night, she hurts, and she calls them all - Jesus.

Snatches: Oh no, not me, I've never lost control

There is an infinite number of monkeys, with an infinite number of computers, in an infinite number of rooms, typing. Any one of them could have produced a Great Gatsby, a Library of Babel, a Catcher in the Rye. But it has to be me, me, to write this blog.

Snatches: Whoever finds this, I love you

There is a girl who leaves her heart in a one-entry blog - whoever finds this, I love you. She dies 16 years later. A guy finally sees her blog and leaves a comment - I found you. And he waits an eternity to be loved.

BASFR: Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence

At the end of twilight. In the half-darkness of his hall. The snow fell in December.
On this tropical island. 
Outside his house. Inside his house.  

He played the piano wearing his full white military uniform as the snow fell sparkling gold under the spotlights. The spotlights burned from the ceiling. The snow melted on his fingers. His fingers danced. Tenderly. Across the black and white spaces of music. Emotion. Memory.

“How do you charge?” he asked.
“As long as your song is going,” I replied.

And his fingers danced across the black and white spaces of story. Secret. Life.
I listened to him:

*

“I have charged them all. Sent them all to detention barrack. The queers, the gays, the sinners. They deserved it. That's where they belong.”
I made no sound. Just sat quietly, listening. The beauty of the melody: falling: like petals of melting snow in the hall. His silky voice slipping: through: between light and shadow.


“Their love wears forbidden colour.”

He frowned. Sighed. Confessed:

“And my love, is forbidden colour.”



“I don’t understand. I don't... If it is wrong, why would God make it feel so good?”
The melted snow pooled into liquid on the floor. A liquid mirror. And the spotlights quivered, danced, in the mirror floor.
His quivering reflection was that of a boy. A boy in full white school uniform, playing the piano. But a frightened little boy.

“They dragged me into the toilet cubicle. Tore my clothes off. Grabbed my cock in their hands. And they took turns. Sucking it.”


“I hated them for it. I hated them. I hated them for making something so disgusting feel so good. They made me hard. And they made me cum and cum. Even when I didn’t want to. And damn it! I love that feeling…”

*

The man playing the piano was in his full white military uniform. An army colonel. The peeks of white were showing in his hair. And the flashes of white were falling in the hall. The ceiling was gone. The spotlights were gone. Just the stars blazing bright and clear in the wintry sky of December above our island.

“They didn’t want me. I didn’t want to seduce. So I forced them.”
“It was easy. I was their officer.
“And they all grew hard too. And they cummed just as easily. As easily as they were uncomfortable.
“And soon they found me others. Others to bite into. For we were the vampires. Passing on our love like a mystic river. A river flowing in forbidden colour. Flowing from the top, down to the bottom. But we were always searching for the sea. Always.”

“I had to charge them all. My superiors knew my explicit hatred for gays. No place for them in the army, I had declared. The generals with the stars on their shoulders patted my shoulder – go on, they said, go on.”
“I had to silence them. Silence them all. Not just the ones who tried to turn me in; not just the ones who turned against me. I smeared them. Painted them as liars. As vampires who preyed on others. I made them out as the worst possible abominations there could be.”

*

The walls of his hall were gone. The floor was gone. The melted snow had formed a trickling stream running over our feet. Stars were everywhere in the stream. But it was cold. The coldness of the music. The coldness of the night.

“How can something that feels so good be wrong?”
“How can a river flow in forbidden colour?”
“Where is my own piece of ocean?”
“When will I reach it?”

The colonel turned his face towards me, eyes pleading. “Will you suck my cock?”
I laughed. 
“All you can afford is your music. For I'll be gone when this song ends.”
Desperate and afraid, his hands left the piano suddenly in a wild attempt to grasp me. 
But I was gone. 
From his house. From his hall. From him.

*

A few days later, it came out in the news that a high-ranking officer, well-known for his anti-gay stance, was charged for running a homosexual club in the army camp. 

Another few days later, on Christmas eve, he was found dead with a pistol in his mouth. 
There was blood all over the piano. And it burned bright in forbidden colour.