Business VS Poetry

The poet’s words are necessary ones. They are so scarce, overwhelmed by sales pitches, business meetings and raw figures. While some wankers find some strange orgasmic pleasure in closing a business deal with other wankers, I find it more logic to derive orgasmic pleasure through the act of wanking itself, preferably in the company of one’s Love.

Dear poet, have you lost your words? You sit there in your vocabularic beehive, happily feeding on the sweetness of your lingo, hoping to share your precious gold with a world that cares. But at the same time, you’re lulled to sleep because everyone ignores you.
Every poet should at least kill ten business people in his/her lifetime. Call it a poet’s manifesto, a caesura of redemption, the final travail of an exhausted soul.

Look at them, in their mirrorred clothing, just waiting for our stabs. Give them euthanasia, their souls have long abandoned the bodies from whence they came. 

A poet shouldn’t be trodden upon by those who only rape the words that he is made of, he should rule them, rise up and show Beauty and be applauded. As poets, the very concept of selling time/work/words is useless. If we could find a way to eat air and pay our rent in faeces (given the fact that we’re eating air, I don’t quite know where we’ll get the faeces from, but those are technicalities we can still work on), we would gladly surrender to this new system. 

Imagine a book "Portrait of the Business Guy as a Young Man", wouldn’t you just want to strangle this Young Man, rather than adore him like you did? It wouldn’t be a book though: it would be a brochure, with a flashy colour scheme (the result of a multi-million marketing campaign that explains the "brand"), or, worse: a PowerPoint presentation, covered with lies upon lies upon lies, but with flashy arrows and undecypherable fineprint. 

Knowing who you want to be is often the result of an exclusion of what you do NOT want to be, it’s very simple.

(this entry is the result of an hour-long irritation when watching "The Apprentice" on BBC, the TV show that makes one pray to Vishnu to spontaneously combust everyone on the show in the most painful way imaginable – I found it shocking that all those people are about my age, one more ruthless than the other (and the nicest one was fired even, because being "well-liked" is not a good characteristic to have) *vomits and feels better* ).  

The country of Screams

 This is the country of a thousand screams. A man will buy some breakfast and he will scream. He will scream to the cashier who exchanges his money for bread, she will scream back because her period is too late. They both scream at each other because the silence is too confronting.

We just have to scream. It is what we do. I can run you over ten times here and the only thing you will do is scream, scream, scream. For killers such as me, all of this is insulting. All we want you to do is stop screaming, that is why we try our killing in the first place.

We sniper rifle you between your eyebrows and still you scream.
We plant a bomb between your testicles and all we hear is Ah’s-Ah’s-Ah’s.
We slash knives in your chest and always and again there is this screeching.

There is no satisfaction here. Because you feel victimised you do everything in your power to stop us from feeling gratified. All those rules and guidelines to obey, obligations to fulfil. The only thing you do not need a form to fill in for here is this most primal of urges, but let just that be the only thing I want people to stop doing.

Now stop it, will you?! Or I might just scream!

TIM for ABNORMALS – I am abnormal because…

 "I am abnormal because…"

I almost cannot believe I haven’t written one of these before. It is one of the rites of passage that I seem to have skipped when becoming involved in Abnormals (I also skipped the swimsuit competition, the self-mutilation-with-a-cucumber race and the fart-the-cucaracha contest – without boasting, I daresay I would be rather good at all of these).

It is a tricky sentence of course, because the moment you start explaining yourself, you lose some of your mystique that makes you appealing to other Abnormal personae since you immediately limit your identity to a fixed framework. And isn’t that just the most normal thing in the world? You unwittingly outline your limitations and priorities, thus making you One of Them – Gooble-Gabble-Gooble-Gabble. Now imagine all the midgets banging the table frantically with their tiny bits of cutlery, laughing loudly and for some reason dripping snot all over themselves… –scary stuff, I know.

Everything in my life is aimed at not becoming a midget, so here we go. I cannot fail this simple task…

I am abnormal because whenever it rains, I feel the incontrollable urge to put at least three of my fingers in my mouth. These fingers may not be adjacent to one another, because if that were to happen, there is a 35 percent chance that my right eyeball will implode (on the upside, this event may likely trigger the descent of my left testicle, now 27 years overdue). Even though I have never attempted to rape a kilo of minced meat, it is not something I would not do if asked nicely with or without a gun against my head. The only thing I will not engage in carnal relationships with are frozen vegetables, but that is mostly a “Song of Experience” because of the burn wounds that arose after Attempt number 1.

There, I’m safe for another day… (from the midgets of course!)

Now it’s your turn!

TIM@ABNORMALS

Silence.

 A long silence ensued.

Timmy and his excess fat have returned to dreary Belgium after some hectic last weeks in Berlin. Belgium may be dreary, but at least it has a loving nymph who I can shower with affections and sarcastic comments (well, I can’t really lose my sarcasm, no matter how in love I am, but it’s all for The Greater Good, I can assure you).

In my last week in Berlin, my Macbook Pro died on me, which is why I am now writing this on my old Sony Windows computer that has a loud and hungry beast living inside (it sounds also like a vacuum cleaner, though I guess the word “cleaner” is not really suitable here, it just does a convincing imitation). Almost starting to dislike Apple, I feared an out of warranty repair would cost me 900 euros that I would rather spend on heroin (to give to the homeless, not for self-use of course – Timmy is CLEAN!) than on this. As it turns out, I can still like Apple, because they extended the warranty on my model of Macbooks because of a production error.

Sunday was the day of my return. When waking up, I immediately felt awake. My eyes would soon follow after some caffeinated liquid streamed through my bloodstream. The area I was staying at looked dead on a Sunday morning. I don’t think I was ever awake at 9AM on a Sunday here. In three months here, no bird had shat on my car, but on my last day, it finally did happen. Maybe birds just don’t want me leaving them and that’s why they get angry. It’s like my cat who, when I came home, hissed at me like she does every time when I have been away for too long (it is a sign of recognition, so it’s nice anyway – and she forgave me after a couple of hours too). My engine started and even though I felt like running someone over to make my goodbye more dramatic, nobody walked the streets, so I just drove away quietly.

It took me almost nine hours to get home, singing and talking to myself, following cars whose tempo I liked, imagining I was spying on them, trying to determine where they would be going and how many bodies they were hiding in their trunks. All the while, Bad German Radio yelled through my ears, from German schlagers (Oh, schöne mädchen, ich wille deine spleetchen,…etc…”) to old pop classics (depressed by all the bad radio I was hearing, I even found myself singing along to a Backstreet Boys song, though that is something I will never admit to anyone). In the end, I settled for a classical music channel, which was hard to sing along to, but at least the Germans weren’t talking as much there as they did on the other channels.

My stops were short. I was a man with a plan, the plan being “jumping-on-my-boy-but-taking-a-shower-first”, so there wasn’t much need to sit around and do nothing. I didn’t feel like I had much in common with your average Fat Lorry Driver, so bonding with anyone wasn’t really an option. My second plan entailed that the sooner I got home, the sooner we could start plotting our future together in the city I had just left.

Even now, after being here a couple of days, I am telling myself to not let myself become passive again, like I did before. There is something about the air here that changes you, that makes you resemble a bag of potatoes more than anything else. It is time to fight it, to leave things behind here and discover new horizons. And I even have a partner in crime here.

The future looks bright.