bump
bump is a screen play i am working on. i started writing it while i was in dallas in lawschool. while i am not myself a drug user (notwithstanding RX narcotics), i was simply overwhelmed by the cocaine culture in dallas. there was also a good romp of self-pity and dare i say despair that needed an outlet. one day during journaling (after having watched the godfaterh) i wrote a sentence that was very crass, egocentric, and amoral-- it felt good. i developed, for one of the first times in my many attempts at fiction, a voice. the sentence:
Later, after Marcus died, we decided to skip breakfast. I suppose he is still lying there, staring into the kitchen— we took the dog, Mee-Lu, but left the cannoli.
that led to:
It's already eight am so of course Andrew and Walter drop. They prefer shrooms, but after Marcus died — we figured acid would be safer. I save my mind altering experiences for wondering how Allanis Morisette's song "Ironic" ever got it's title. Instead, I bury my face in Charlotte's pussy. I lick the edges and roll my eyelids across her cold flat nipples until I can see myself in her thighs and her black, black hair. I suck cocaine off her tits like an old man gasping for life through the mask of an oxygen tank, which is invariably pea green and the size of a bloated mule dick. If Charlotte were real, I would force my fingers in her pussy, and suck cocaine off of her tits until she screamed and I stopped breathing. If there really were an Angel and a devil on your shoulder, Charlotte would talk them into a threesome. She is my life with cocaine. In reality, she is a mirror: 4" x 3". Handmade in Cuba, it is part of a rare black mirror that was supposed to conjure demons. It is set in silver, and Charlotte's voluptuous figure is etched across the whole thing; except one corner, just below her left foot is her signature— Charlotte. In my world, she is Mother Theresa, with bigger tits.
i apologize for the blatant mysogenistic tones here. i hope readers will see beyond that and instead see the connection between cocaine addiction and insatiable lust stemming from sexual frustration.
if anyone has taken a class with Wenying Xu, then you will have no doubt read some shorts by Mahatma Devi (sp?), from which i steal the following:
If Victor doesn't shoot me, I'm going to Jamestown, South Africa. I was in Japan last summer and before that I stayed in the Czech republic for a month. The coke there is horrible. They get it mostly from Russian drug czars, who couldn't cut a proper key of coke any more than they could build an economy. I don't travel b/c I'm interested in other cultures, or b/c I give a fuck about the Bastille. I'm looking for a place to die. I read a book about an Indian girl who got pimped into a whore house to satisfy her father's debt. After she had been near fucked to death they sent her home with a host of venereal diseases. She died bleeding over a map of India. I'm hoping for something slightly less symbolic.
Later, after Marcus died, we decided to skip breakfast. I suppose he is still lying there, staring into the kitchen— we took the dog, Mee-Lu, but left the cannoli.
that led to:
It's already eight am so of course Andrew and Walter drop. They prefer shrooms, but after Marcus died — we figured acid would be safer. I save my mind altering experiences for wondering how Allanis Morisette's song "Ironic" ever got it's title. Instead, I bury my face in Charlotte's pussy. I lick the edges and roll my eyelids across her cold flat nipples until I can see myself in her thighs and her black, black hair. I suck cocaine off her tits like an old man gasping for life through the mask of an oxygen tank, which is invariably pea green and the size of a bloated mule dick. If Charlotte were real, I would force my fingers in her pussy, and suck cocaine off of her tits until she screamed and I stopped breathing. If there really were an Angel and a devil on your shoulder, Charlotte would talk them into a threesome. She is my life with cocaine. In reality, she is a mirror: 4" x 3". Handmade in Cuba, it is part of a rare black mirror that was supposed to conjure demons. It is set in silver, and Charlotte's voluptuous figure is etched across the whole thing; except one corner, just below her left foot is her signature— Charlotte. In my world, she is Mother Theresa, with bigger tits.
i apologize for the blatant mysogenistic tones here. i hope readers will see beyond that and instead see the connection between cocaine addiction and insatiable lust stemming from sexual frustration.
if anyone has taken a class with Wenying Xu, then you will have no doubt read some shorts by Mahatma Devi (sp?), from which i steal the following:
If Victor doesn't shoot me, I'm going to Jamestown, South Africa. I was in Japan last summer and before that I stayed in the Czech republic for a month. The coke there is horrible. They get it mostly from Russian drug czars, who couldn't cut a proper key of coke any more than they could build an economy. I don't travel b/c I'm interested in other cultures, or b/c I give a fuck about the Bastille. I'm looking for a place to die. I read a book about an Indian girl who got pimped into a whore house to satisfy her father's debt. After she had been near fucked to death they sent her home with a host of venereal diseases. She died bleeding over a map of India. I'm hoping for something slightly less symbolic.
posted by Frank the Tank at 6:14 PM
6 Comments:
The bandito gets too honestly edgy:
Nicole was my junky ex - I happened upon her car on some drunken walk home and pissed a circle around it to scent my displeasure with the mirror in her glove box and the naiveté of the replacement boy (– the windows were down, but I did not aim high -), whom she married on the strength of his ignorance. Poor stooge, he liked Monty Python & Red Dwarf, she liked that he liked something childish. She told me, “I can see why you like a dog that will go house.” I learned that a third shitty fuck is a sure sign. I returned her bud, as I have no use for such things. She became a Methodist minister and the irony of that swings hourly in Adam’s hammock.
The bandito gets too honestly edgy:
Nicole was my junky ex - I happened upon her car on some drunken walk home and pissed a circle around it to scent my displeasure with the mirror in her glove box and the naiveté of the replacement boy (– the windows were down, but I did not aim high -), whom she married on the strength of his ignorance. Poor stooge, he liked Monty Python & Red Dwarf, she liked that he liked something childish. She told me, “I can see why you like a dog that will go house.” I learned that a third shitty fuck is a sure sign. I returned her bud, as I have no use for such things. She became a Methodist minister and the irony of that swings hourly in Adam’s hammock.
Don't blog drunk, you never know what you'll say.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
How did I miss out on that kind of Wenying fun?
You must have left before I started the program, but I think I have heard of you...through Jenny Marcus.
I changed my blog address:
http://jenorama.blogspot.com
Post a Comment
<< Home