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Dying like flys

Silence, finally.

Down here.

Things finally came to a standstill.

All those innumerable missiles out of uranium-faced mouths, out of the endless, straight curricula vitae of millionfold stupidity. Only hard to ignore, behind a painstakingly hardened tissue, from the outside impossible to see, let alone to eliminate. 

Launched to kill.

Staunched to rest.

When I began to climb down the dirty, steep stairs I was still staggering, with hunched back, sniffing back my snot into my brain, somehow glad to be allowed to leave. But the deeper I went, the faster and faster I ran. The maelstrom downwards seemed to intensify. Flight of stairs and no landing. No winding. No turn.

Just down. Down into the interior of the earth. A tender breeze of terrestrial heat. Comfort below earth’s crusts. Eurasian. Snagged. Somehow. Arrived…

Here I had been sitting for hours now, trying to forget. Lethe, the company of left-behind, unbearable tortures. Mutual sucking, like a pack of ticks on a dead host planet. Prostituted. All the talents. Poured down the drain.

Fed to the millions of fat flies. Swarming. Their wretched little wings hardly could keep them in the air. 

Self-forgotten. Forgetting the self. Forgetting even for oneself. Difficult.

It’s not your fault. Noooooo sir. Especially since you also never liked to kiss strange shit. Out from arses you never saw because they were to full of it to be ever scared shitless. You also never liked to smear your hard-earned shit into other people’s faces only to enjoy the promised luck of superiority to the full.

Always hunting for the next fat chunk. 


There was an end of it. Down here.

Hope was dripping so silently out of pointed arses, so thinly, that it could hardly pass off as despair. Only as digestion. It’s nature, ken. Take a pill, hen.

Wearily, I leaned my forehead against the cold, sticky door. I could hear the distant singing of the last, non-extinct bird here, deep inside a littered forest. Inside myself. As the last of his race, it sat there somewhere, hidden in unreachable crowns; their branches stuck together in sublime past. This was its home. And it was such a sad song it sung. Beautiful.

My tired eyes searched for the naked, light-stuffed bulb above me. Too far. On the walls that seemed to slide into the dusky height, basing directly on my skull boat, your name was written. A hundredfold. Seen. Already. Now, suddenly, down here, ingrained in static silence, the innocent letters plummeted into my mind, reversing the polarity of every cell, even the smallest one, under my outer skin. With tenderly broken fingernails I tried to scratch the carelessly scribbled letters from the wall. To save them from all the doubt trickling down the walls. Take them with me, for no reason. The guilty splinters of my incompetent nails silently fluttered down on the floor. Failure.

I could hear the approaching disaster. A crawling, seething bubbling, as if hydraulic oil veins were tattered deep inside the guts of the starting jumbo jet that should have brought me out of town. Exactly! Awkward.

It came closer. Along with an extremely fat alpha fly, it trickled down from the dancing bodies, which cowardly mumbled to themselves, on my charred pate. The fly, too quick for my weary eyes, circled around me for a while just as if it wanted to check in which one of my orifices its spawn might have the greatest survival odds, then eventually it sat down on my upper thigh and stared at me.

With its millions of eyes.

A million times of this lacquered, insectoid stupor. Death in front of my eyes. A million times. Fuck it.

It was like a reflex. What a fucking excuse.

I could hear the lethal whing of my own hand in the stale air as it dashed down like an arrow, like an apocalyptic coup de grace, and squashed the fly’s body with a dry smack. What a great power. I closed my fist and threw the dead body with a dispassionate movement into my mouth.

That’s it.

My holy calm bowed its pate of thorns deeply towards the uric puddle at the very bottom of the overthrown cathedral and took a pull of pure turmoil.

The tiny corpse of the fly dived into the inside of my body like the firing pellet into the sea of submarine mines. Immediately, the sweat streamed out of all my pores, and along with that, the bottom of my being spewed up a pyroclastic, vertical tsunami for the Lord. The burden of my mind which has always been the devoted synchronicity of my guts. Finally.

The end of my redemption happened in its floodlight. They just all fell down from the ceiling, dead. They died like flies. Consequently forced into line, and without any hesitation. Almost bravely. The whole pack. I could hear the silly patter of their tiny, stiff bodies on my bony roof. But the thankful beat of the soft, pleasant drumming on my driving thoughts changed inconspicuously. It became harder. More merciless. Zero-tolerance-like. Like fist punches at a locked door. The warming vacuum around me burst. Reality sprang on me like a bridge on a returning bungee jumper. Only that my bridge was beneath myself.

“Ey ye doss cunt. Fell asleep or what?!? This is a party, mate. Ah’ve got to do a bowel movement too.”

I wished it was war.


In the undetected galaxy of the astronaut having gone mad. In the inaccessible tributary valley of the lonely wolf. Behind the inwardly locked toilet door of the outsider.

I flushed.



© translation: Ní Gudix, 26.5.12