#1“New York is a huge garbage heap and if you don’t have references to a steady land you’ll drown” said Aggraves, already in the first week after their arrival. Now, she watched the street, pretty gym treated bodies mingled with most miserable ones, some having an occasional dog walk, some hunting the life’s solution: all the loud crowded Americans in various colors of skin and Joyce knows what she wants “Love is missing! It’s Friday night! Party time!”
They stood on the street and drank beers and she stood with them, she had no fun, Aggraves had a small rat in the pocket, Washington was drunk and drugged, barefoot stumbling and his eyes shone as Alladin’s lamps and sometimes as a joyful dragon’s eyes under the wired chief, at last they had gone with Ali to baby land bar only because it became too cold on the street, the boys were planning to collect coins to buy more beer in the store, one little chap gave her a joint, bought her a beer and gave her his tall bar chair and entertained with a brainwash talk – of course – he told her “she was very beautiful, had a great body, exquisite ass” – what else? At closing time she had a brief conversation with a Russian photographer and he invited them home. She couldn’t find Aggraves, they stood outside waiting for him a while, Alexiej tried to walk her off every other second and she consequently held him in place, suddenly Aggr rose right in front of her, he simply slept with the dogs on the pavement, stealing off them the heat and coziness and she did not recognize him pressed between a big warm schaefer and a house’s wall and some person or a punker sipping down. The bed they got this nigh was build of pillows, it smelled of dust, old felt blanket and cat piss it was paradise, the house fucked his young Polish chick in the ass, Joyce and Aggraves holding hands swayed into a soft dream.
It was whistling loud in her nose, very early in the morning their host had them out. It stunk of feces under Black cleaner brush and hot chocolate at the corner café wouldn’t prolong an illusion of home. “Sunday morning, Soho, lost in structures and in the paradox of love games, smelling unwashed pussy, lashing my tongue over unwashed cheesy teeth bone, give me some ivory, rift my belly, give me some love, rift my intestines from the inside, the outside level, the surface is simply too perfect, got a rose from a toothless Negro and all the other men whiz after me squeeze the balls blue, but not you, Aggr!” Joyce went through her morning psalm, Aggraves pointed with a clear self pity “No one gives roses to me” and he watched himself in the shop window good three times fingering his soppy hair-do.
A silver, iron, black, glass monumental structure of skyscrapers against the darkening purple sky seems most powerful after the perfect-muscles in black skin decorated with pale blue nipples-NY’s pulsing-flesh-man in super stretch shorts a roller-blade flown swiftly between all the American huge shinning cars in the game of colors disappears into the cooler end of the 42ed Street. Times Square choking with life farts, piss, breaths, twinkles, through the veins of the huge sex machine called life – world’s rectum. The night catches up done day one after other, black slim men go to sleep, the first one already in the sweet dream under a cream yellow big soft quilt kissing the gutter and dashed like a child, in a woolen hat on a bald shaved tough skull unlike and like a fragile infant asleep, the next one under a rough red-black rectangular blanket, the third with a cranium deepen into an ochre-brown cartoon searching his most solitary intimate shelter, the fourth sleeps on the bed of white and crumbled plastic with his face pressed into the roots of the house and a hard on in his twisted loins. East Village is a generous home mark for everyone – we go and have another drink in one of the bars taking us through the sparkling feasting crowd. The bars, the shit-holes, the piss factors, the dominant, intimidation, fun, fans, sex, business – call it what you want and get what you take. I know what You need!
She is small, she is homeless, she is Black, she is tensed, she stinks piss and moves like a stumbling robot between whose legs is stacked an erected too big dildo, it spreads her like a star but she walks forward in her high heels old fashioned white boots, backwards circles, winding a balance with her outstretched arms. Her repetitive harsh inquiring cutting voice, her movements and her voice, her movements and her rapacious hands are like a nightmare you want to be without. Hot Dog and Hot Dog’s kiss. Joyce smoothly and trying not to be seen touches her cheek wanting to take it away, the wet print of hell, feeling that it doesn’t work to simply dry it off, she moves her hand at last rapidly up and down and from right to left and from left to right, instantly want to whip it off. The kiss burns as it did come out of the hell’s rectum. Love is a fucking trap in the town nested in the bottom of God’s ass. God’s stinky butt. And this God has no penis and it doesn’t have cunt but it has a bladder filled until the blast border with disseminated urine, it’s going to burst and I want to be with the beast’s blitz tonight. God’s guts.
Excerpt # 2
“The smells have merged but did not lead me out at first. Hey, I lied in bed, smelled the caller and smelled something new, I, we, were in the new place. New for us, old for me. The scent – of my cave was stuck into my flesh, plotted into my, into our sheets, the duck-fluff cover inside the sheets smelled old musty walls plotted into my senses – but not into me, not into my memory. We lied under the cover, he was very near me and coming closer. Did I want that? Yes, I wanted it. Wanted it very much. I heard the horse padding the gutter. I heard couch wheels roll. I heard steps of the people, could say what shoes they wore and what clothes, could foresee their faces, shapes of noses and chick bones, color of eyes, hair style, scars, I heard their voices, I understood every word they spoke. Recognized, pictured, saw without looking out, tasted without touching. Is it that what others call – home?”
Today – the town was very dusty. Within 48 hours, a couple of days ago, we have moved my furniture, plates, pots, paintings, some books, all video illusions, carpets, curtains, a television set, into a new home, new country and a new town. He- Crimson-Agrr said “visions are possibilities. Dreams are visions” I skated the ice. “What have happened to us?”
Couple of remarkable acts, fucks, and couple of the usual ones. Were we going to synchronize or were we going to flop one more time? The place did not seem our dream land, not at least mine. The clouds were familiar, the gummed up air too, gutter reflected the eyes and flashed deep spikes through my bones; it was very physical. I could have speak for myself, we, as we were still lacking something in terms of communication, there were sights pulling some inner thoughts and some outer parts of the loins, astray. - Why? –There was no clear answer, not yet. OK, there was an old good known answer, but who would want an old answer? Not I, not we.
Precisely here, reflects itself the ugliness and the height of a perfection of the man kind, I come from. Crumpled with comicality, tragedian’s faces mirror themselves in November-glisten gutter. Houses behold the beauty, they are prettier then people. Proud silhouettes of churches, dim, reddish walls of the barbican, a very keen of color and patina walls of the buildings support leaning into them world, tightly wrapped in a grey sky. The light wading through a thick air creates thousands spectacles of joy. The Last Supper. The Lust Supper. Through it travel tiny, small statuettes of giants, midgets, clowns, honest-s, faultless, and an upstart-farts. All that, is so utterly visual. Not being the vision but the reality
FROM ONE MAN SHOW _ THE BLOOD excerpt on RESPUBLICA