The Scribbler

Welcome to the home of literature teleportation, mindless ramblings and all kinds of other stuff my head spits out from time to time.

The girl and the half empty bottle — May 27, 2015

The girl and the half empty bottle

I started to squeeze my head into the half empty beer bottle. Slimy mass of lost friends and sad songs dripping from my ears and nose as the thick smoke filled my eyes.

  • Hey? – At the sound of the voice I looked to the side. Crushed and crooked, left eye hanging loose.
  • Hi – The girl was pretty. Short hair, short dress, short sentence. Her smile was huge against the background of fuzzy things that were meant to be fuzzy, and her eyes were of sharp blue and movements, too reactive for a drunkard’s lair.
  • Why are you juicing your head into that half empty beer bottle?
  • Because… you know… The squeezing into paper sheets didn’t really work for me. People said it was rambling and mumbling and… it’s my head you know? Maybe the beer bottle will like it, plus the leftover booze will probably round the edges of my pointy thoughts. That’s why things sound better when you’re drunk… ‘cos they’re rounded, you see?
  • Yea? I see what you mean. Do you want a kiss?
  • Are you sure? You need one.
  • No I don’t.
  • – She crossed her arms and looked stealthily at the beer bottle of thoughts and warm liquid.
  • What?- Like a cat she jumped of her chair, grabbed the bottle and drank it all to the last drop. Then she turned her back to me and left through the front door, tailed by a shroud of smoky substances.

I saw this girl again later, three months later to be precise. She was writing, squeezing herself onto that old napkin through a plastic pen with a name of some bedbug infested 1 star piece of shit yellow walled hotel on it. She had a half empty beer bottle next to her and was wearing an even shorter dress than the first time. I know what you’re thinking…. I talked to her, I did, and yes I most certainly read it. You know what I realized? I realized that we, humans, as a selfish, storytelling, rights demanding, comfort and pleasure searching, little species are all, and always will be, some really shitty fucking writers.

“And left her with an invitation to the blues”

The death of the wondrous unreality — May 26, 2015

The death of the wondrous unreality

The first wave of dawn is never of great, majestic or wondrous beauty. I thought while I sat there, naked butt cheeks on the wet sand, crooked head and pitiful look as I followed with my eyes the shy little thing, rolling through the scarce meters that separated me from the water’s edge. When the smooth white sheet of salt water silently approached my eager toes I started to believe that maybe, just maybe… but, deserving my initial disbelief and abandoning this hopeful new set of metaphorical balls, the first wave of dawn retreated to hide among its mother’s depths. With this truth, bare legged reality, sadness and shivering morning cold the hyperbolic poet inside of me shriveled into a ball of snot which I urgently spat in fiery despise.

Summer Sunday — May 6, 2015

Summer Sunday

We’re all tired. The lamp looks depressed and the carpet has had way too much to drink. As the yellow walls sigh and the ceiling lowers, we dream of white beaches, black sand and swaying roses. Suddenly, but just as calm and effortless as our feverish dreaming, John, the wrinkly puddle on the sofa, gets is last breath drained out of him, while a feeble puff of sea breeze pulls off of his body one last strand of hair, which immediately floats away like a sailor diving of a sinking ship, unable to accept defeat.

Objectified unfulfillment — April 27, 2015
Tom Waits – going out west — April 6, 2015
Piazza dela signoria (Firenze, Italy) — April 4, 2015
Did you hear that? — March 27, 2015

Did you hear that?

The infrastructures spread out through the complex in an unwillingly strict way, like a fat man in tight jeans, or a vexed teenager about to burst. Flagpoles and green camouflage covered every inch of my predictions and oh I couldn’t have been more on point!

-Sergeant, captain, major twat. Yes, sir!

Oh god! Did you hear that? I think that’s my patriotism swelling up through the roof. I don’t know why but I suddenly feel ready to die for this country of mine. I long dreadfully for a mighty chance to sacrifice myself in the name of that little guy sitting on the velvet chair, maybe, who knows, even take a shot through the fucking mist, or get a leg blown off, in order to save a tiny priest. The possibilities are aplenty and I savour them all as if out of chocolate they were made, but the sergeant keeps on shouting, my hands keep on trembling and the pistol keeps on calling, so I slowly pick it up from the guy’s holster and… well… firmly pointing it it to my head I… Let’s just say I finally quit like that pete guy who ran of, all madness and green camo flapping around. Yes… just like that…only i did it in red.


The magnet — March 25, 2015

The magnet

I sat right at the edge of the cliff; legs dangling above the roaring winter waves, eyeballs rolled all the way back to the insides of my brain. It was like some cloudlike dense form of happiness suddenly shot right into a tiny, silence filled, barrage of clashing waves and swaying seaweed, sticking to it like iron fillings to a magnet.

This picture does not belong to me.


Blurred lights — March 12, 2015

Blurred lights

Sweat, so much sweat. Shirt clinging to my chest like a fervent lover and the music, oh the music! Each note hitting the back of my head with enough force to knock out most men, but not me, seeing that as writer emotional beatings are as normal as taking a piss. I felt feverish and lost though, lost in time and space, my body floating in the void waiting for her to come. Fucking Alice! Or was it Anne? Either way, her hips had a manner of plucking shit inside my brains, twisting every string of logical consequence or pre written ideas and oh it hurts so much to be crippled by such a nasty creature like Ann, or fucking Alice. That demon who knows all and everyone, dances like a fairy on absinthe and drinks like a man, aged 40, with a depression and a mortgage. That fucking Anne! Or was it Alice? Either way I think I’m in love and I know I’m not. My head is a pool of swimming opposites and nonsensical melodies. Oh god I’m dying so fast! Lights spinning randomly above my scrambled ideas, I guess I could stretch my arms, grab some of those flickering thoughts and smash them against this piece of paper, but my hands are too busy as my eyes no longer see straight and I still search, on my knees for that fucking Ann, Patricia, Catherine or maybe Emma through the dirty floors of this now silent and swooning party, once named “Adolescence”.


Beat — March 11, 2015

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