hoy traduzco bebiendo a sorbos un gin&tonic mal hecho en noche de verano tan caluroso dos poemas de óscar garcía sierra:
two sticky things
BOOTY OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS
i don’t know how to dive in head first and i don’t know if that makes my head feel disappointed. my girlfriend has a pool and my girlfriend’s pool has a smaller pool that contains the liquids that don’t yet smell bad enough to be happy without us. the deeper i dive in her pool the more i feel like my girlfriend exists and the more i feel something the more disappointed i feel when it’s finally the feeling of someone. we bathe together until we shrink so much that people could carry us around in the pocket of their swimsuits and forget that we are there until we’ve shrunk again so much that we don’t know if we’re bathing together. my girlfriend’s pool has a family of pools to feed and works hard for a shitty wage in order to protect her little pool from tv shows starring drugs and bodily fluids. underwater you try to walk in heels but since i don’t know how to dive you return to the surface with the same face that you make when i don’t know how to make you happy in bed. underwater we need each other so much that we invent porno versions of cartoons. the version of cartoons where man reaches a state in which everything that leaves the body is more important than that which enters it. act like the worst and the best thing that could happen to you converge in the chemical compound that can detect piss in pools. the overrated version of my genitals that you’ll show your parents. the annotated version for children of my favorite life -of all the ones i imagine when i feel like i’m drowning- the one in which you don’t know how to breath and i show you how to backwards so that people will laugh at you and no one else will love you because i’m the kind of person that gives pet names to his bodily fluids.
HOW CAN I KNOW IF YOUR CONCEPT OF LEVI 502s MATCHES MINE?
we’re in the fitting rooms of a parallel universe where everything is unisex. up until today i’ve erased my initials from the underwear of everyone i’ve slept with. up until today i thought that my life was shitty until i realized that i don’t have anyone to compare it with. today i swapped the picture of you in underwear you gave to me for my last birthday for underwear and i was inspired by you to make an alcoholic version of myself. today i feel human like when i fill my mouth with things and someone asks me to speak and i have to pretend that i like to talk with my mouth full. there was a summer so hot that everyone swapped their underwear for mouths full of underwear. you’re erasing your name from my fake boxers while you put up your hair, making it into the shape of stuck gum in a porn chat. today i saw two people that looked like us do thing that we used to do when we didn’t look like each other. there was a summer so hot that there were never again hot summers because people didn’t know how to use the heat with control. nature is your underwear every night when you’re able to take them off without first removing your outer clothes. there was a summer so hot that you took your bra off through your pants and you opened your eyes wide aware that in the future you’ll appear in everyone’s textbooks as the person that did away with all that was pre-established in the art of removing your bra without first removing your outer clothes. there was a fucking shitty ass summer in which they made us chose between pain and the ability to feel pain, i’m sitting on someone’s face who has their pants down and a fishnet jersey from American apparel on and i ask you the favor of not calling me again until you find the pair of panties with my telephone number that i gave you. tomorrow we’ll take revenge on people who are happy feeling happy without them even knowing.
no sé tirarme de cabeza y no sé si mi cabeza se siente decepcionada por ello.
mi novia tiene una piscina y la piscina de mi novia tiene una piscina más pequeña
que cuida de los líquidos que aún no huelen lo suficientemente mal como para ser
“The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it is not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of the other person—without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other.”—
“My idea of rich is that you can buy every book you ever want without looking at the price and you’re never around assholes. That’s the two things to really fight for in life.”—John Waters (via detailsdetales)
I fuck babies. Around my bed there are creels. They’re swarming with babies. They’re all here. Always have been. Always will be. Like me. I’m here too. For others it would probably be different. Others would leave. Would have come. Would go somewhere. Have come from somewhere. Not us. We’re here. The babies in their creels. Me in my bed. With closed eyes. Reach into the swarm. Fish one out. Fuck it. Throw it back to the others. All of them naked. All of them here. No names. At night everyone sleeps. Me. The babies. Linda. All is calm. During the day the babies get fucked. Always been that way. By me. Before going to sleep. After waking up. The babies here. Me here. Linda not here. All the lightless day long.
Sometimes I catch a male. Sometimes a female. O it doesn’t matter. Ring finger and pinkie span the flesh notch. The flap of skin can be hidden between my thumb and pointer. It’s all very chaste in my garret. Scraping. Rubbing. I want to write a chaste story. Middle finger. Bumhole. Fontanels. Their toothless, salivating mouths. Where do I penetrate. Where do I slide right in. Their pores flung open to me. My chaste ambition. With closed eyes. Feeling my way. Conquering. Every baby pore a hole for life. I want to write a story about holes for life.
The Dumbo Octopus lives at depths of 10,000 to 13,000 feet, with some living up to 23,000 feet below sea level, which is the deepest of any known octopus. It is called ‘dumbo’ because it has ear-like fins sticking out of its head.
At least 37 different species of Dumbo Octopus have been recorded. Despite living in the deep oceans where there is no light and little food, they seem to be fairly common and have been found in oceans all over the world — however, due to the extreme depth in which they live and our limited contact with them, very little is known about them.
The Pacific Blackdragon lives in depths of 3,000 feet.
The female (top picture) is about two feet long, with long fangs and a chin barbel. This chin barbel glows in the dark and the Blackdragon uses it as a lure to draw pray. Once the prey approaches, the Blackdragon strikes.
The male (bottom picture) is about three inches long. It has no teeth and no stomach. It never eats once during its entire life cycle. The male Blackdragon only lives long enough to mate, and then it dies.
I can’t decide if I would rather be a male Blackdragon, which is disposable and pathetic, or a female Blackdragon, which is ugly and terrifying
When you die, they say that you should follow the light — but what if the light is only a trap set by something inconceivably horrific
The female Blackdragon is completely black on the outside, so that when it eats glowing things they do not show
I do not have an ok cupid profile and I never want to have one
Caleb Hildenbrandt: …the central plot device of The Insurgent is, after all, a found bag of Oxycontin in a Denny’s bathroom which Vasily and Chang sell to strippers to finance a cross-country road trip. Interestingly, neither of them consume any of the pills themselves. How do you see drug use playing into the lives of working-class people, vs. the lives of so-called “artists” and “creatives”?
Noah Cicero: Everyone in America is on drugs, moms dads cousins uncles bosses cab drivers everyone. I think the cause is that a lot of people can’t tolerate their own minds and don’t feel very connected to their own bodies or one with their surroundings. We have five major ideals pushed on us everyday, just go to a magazine rack and stare at the phrases on them, the four ideals are
1. Justify your existence (which basically leads to the other ones) 2. Keep busy 3. Get money, objects and titles 4. Don’t embarrass yourself by looking stupid, poor, not pretty (for women) and not masculine (for men) 5. Place yourself inside a scale every time you encounter or see a fellow human, as in, figure out if you are ‘better or worse’ than them, and then either feel better about yourself or hate yourself.
Having to maintain these five ideals at all times all day every day is super stressful and causes nothing but anxiety, these ideals, these methods of thought will never lead anyone to happiness, just like maybe momentary and very weak feelings of fleeting happiness.
Listen, just anyone, reading this, next time you go into a grocery store, just listen to the thoughts you have, I bet you have these thoughts instantaneously without any effort, and they will cause nothing but anxiety. So you take the drugs and you alter your mind, to relieve yourself just for a little bit from that stress.
Compared to a musician they might do it because they love altered states of consciousness, but they also have those same five thoughts everyone else has. But I don’t think a 45-year-old mom popping Xanax is trying to elevate her mind, she is trying to escape her own mind.
His history had been reduced to a simplistic blur, like the trails in the air left by people on fire.
Henry flopped on the bed. It bounced around and squeaked for five, six seconds. The guy stripped. He had tiny red genitals, spider-webby blond pubic hair. Not that Henry cared about defects like that. He himself was a big waste of time from the neck down at this point, thanks to uncountable drugs ….
…The guy started painting the cock with his tongue. The room felt cozy. Or the pills Henry took that afternoon left him cozy, and the room was just there, a movie set. He shut his eyes, tried to restart a favorite porn daydream. “Shi-i-i-it.” His history had been reduced to a simplistic blur, like the trails in the air left by people on fire.
I put new books to The Dennis Cooper Test, ie, if a book’s losing me, I’ll switch to a Dennis Cooper novel instead. Sentences like “Chris’s shock was so dense and complex that it collided with the world’s very different complexity, sort of like what happens when a very strong light hits a very big jewel” connect with me in a way even obviously good books can’t if they don’t have that ambiguous extra thing that makes them exceptional.
Outside in the semi-darkn beneath the full moon the black shapes of trees whipped past in a blur, broken now and then by long tracts of gray turned earth or tall rows of cornstalks.
I was in the backseat. Trying to take it all in, piece it all together.
We were going fast. Dirty had the truck sliding around corners, losing purchase in the loose dirt of the roads, fishtailing on the straightaways.
Zeb was in the passenger’s seat, slumped, rolling his forehead back and forth against the cool window, every now and then letting go a soft moan or a cackle. I’d snuck the bottle away from him earlier— though not early enough —and set it at my feet. Zeb was with liquor as he was with most things, relentless. He had no governing voice in his head, no concept beyond what he saw in the moment. And now he’d went and left me alone with this guy, Dirty.
“Had this girl,” said Dirty from out of nowhere, speaking over his shoulder to me. “Came over last night, lookin to screw. Damn gorgeous. Said a friend of hers had told her about me and she was curious. Lookin for somethin new, somethin that wouldn’t put her to sleep. I beat hell out of her.”
“Why?” I said.
“She asked me to. I took her back to the bedroom to screw and she said no, that she wanted to do it in the kitchen, so we started doin it in the kitchen and in the midst of it she asked me to beat hell out of her so I did that too. Didn’t ask her why. I never ask why. But she told me later it was cause she was bored.”
“Bored with sex. My sex. Can you believe that? Nineteen years old and bored with sex…”
i know now why people climb mountains because no matter how bright the lights on santa monica boulevard i believe that florescent on trees is no closer to the stars than the monitors flashing red yellow green that stretch infinite along the highways in the night
and on top of griffith park i can see all the way past the neon pantheon of downtown’s luminescence and even beyond that past the subtract subdivisions that give way to low-rise bungalows of bourgeois expatriates there is a glimmer of the Atlantic
see, the bead of sweat on my upper lip
reminds me more of osmosis than of perspiration- of rains in the middle of the ocean’s black swells like the stunning silence of complete solitude standing unprotected under a downpour so vast, so unfathomable that i’m left only to be reminded that i am alive
on top of mountains i can feel my heart beating
in my wrists and throat and instead of worrying if i am having a heart attack i am grateful that i don’t actually have to think about breathing. it just happens.
there are snow peaked caps only one valley away
dipping elegantly like an ellipsis of the earth saying go on… with a voice like brook-smoothed glass knowing exactly that if i rip off my dress and wade into the water i can still be like don draper in california
even though i’m wearing an orange pair of lycra shorts that look more like spanx than like lingerie
the distant timber-milled tops of well-tread trails shake softly in the breeze, slowly slowly in the tell-tale beats of quiet enjoyment of just existing at all; and i feel that the best night of my life was spent pointing out the potential plot failings in the first three harry potter films with someone who used everything inside his skin to show me everything inside my skin too.
and as i ascend on my tippy toes i can just
skirt along the clouds and i am okay with the idea that maybe dying isn’t pleasant because maybe living is that perfect either when i die i’d like to evaporate like vapor and join again with the trillions of hydrogen molecules that have existed longer than the sea than the sky than the earth itself longer than the stars than sound than i can even try to time and instead of being sad that i’ll lose so much of who i am in the cycle of states i know now why people climb mountains even though there are easier things to do.