Sometimes, I ask to myself when life became so boring.
To be privated of something means for another to take it from your hands.
I hadn't been privated of life. Only half of it.
By: Bark Psychosis
From: Nothing Feels EP (1990)
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Even this cigar last more than, and I know how much it'll last before it become ashes. Before we do become same ashes, as if I had not been threw away to the wind. Only the wind, hitting the woods, breaking into many houses, holes supposed to be windows and doors, and cracks of glass atop the walls built around them. How long will I last? I ask for myself, and these walls. None of us replied, fine. Would they remember me if I had been gone? If I went to a barber, contain these fist to not deliver any answer to its gibberish elevated to talks, and had this hair cut, only the hair to be cut... Walls are painted of each colors, yet they are all gray underneath. For a brick be close of another, comes a gray.
Houses of bricks, belonging to a street of bricks, and a world of paper people. They all burn, so does my head. Winter kills, and its snow burns like torchs carried on by these alexandrian pigs. They are all fats fighting against skinny ones. Only the bone, hidden by clothes. Guess not even a makeup is able to hide this Amarant here. Not even water is blue, same for this sky, gray like the tip of my cigar. Amarant... I do not even call myself by such name, but since people call me by that, this hair calls me by that, then whatever. I ain't pretty as a blossom of same name does. A red blossom. Crimson, I mean. It's all a kind of red, alike blood. The Crescent had the rain to wash it away, and for its scent to be felt by that muzzle. White is the smoke coming out of my air hole, but it ain't clean, nor it's pure. When a body burns, nobody can see the soul who went away, only the smoke.
Shut up, Amarant. She looked at me, as if I didn't cared for all those corpses lying there, awaiting to be burnt. They couldn't be buried below, though there were holes between the streets. Muddy holes, but a sort of ground where only grass grew, to cut naked legs. I didn't felt sad, only angry. Not that I knew any of them, or that I ever wanted to. Same stupid faces, made by stupid people wearing shining armors as if they were the sons of god sun. Do these people still kill in the name of what's unseen other the name? I do not know the name of many I fought against. Names are an only way to make others different from you, to make things easier. Life and death, day and night, living being and vegetable... and I didn't had to study at school to know that. Neither universities, those kindergartens for grown up babies wearing tuxedos.
A man of tuxedo came in. I blew on its face, and he did nothing. Nothing that mattered ever since them. I had a horrible day, he said. Of course he had, all of them have one bad day. And what they do? What is left to be done? To drink. I brought the scent of happiness to his. The way many drink here, they are asking to die already. Which other way to feel it's snowing outside other than getting your nose clogged? Grunting alike sheeps without wool. And snow won't clean any of our wounds, and the mess you made with a single bottle of wine. A worthless wine, older than gramps, if there's one left. My old man's old man is nowhere to be seem. Never that I saw him, or cared to. If he wanted, could had been walking on these streets, instead of being kept within a square cell with the same size and reclusion of a crib.
Each puddle ripples when a body falls over it. His feet, his hands, a body... I remember one of my first fights, when I was a kiddo and I went to a pub like this. Bar, pub, shit... all the same. A sucker asked for his candles made of ear wax to be blew. I heard its scream, I made him scream, and I didn't even touched his teeth, if there are some who remained. Are you afraid of me?... He should had been. I grabbed him with the cloth instead of the neck... Do you know why the dinosaurs went extinct? It's because they were idiots who didn't respect each other. Cold-blooded reptiles, brains tiny as nuts... His bones were hard to break, alike nuts. These share of a shape, akin to a pair of lungs. I have my own, luckily that idiot still shared of them. Which use would they have for me? I'm not a butcher or a surgeon, though it became so easy to leave wounds with a blade. That's why this hair hadn't been cut for a while. An extra red dye for my goatee won't be necessary.
The man on the corner, if there's still reason to call that thing by man... he makes me sick. Disgusted. Far more teeth than dignity. A punchbag, that's what it is, if they do not take out its leather, to be stiffed alike these boots. Step after step, hopscotch played with thumbtacks, and with these getting stuck below your naked feet... how I used to play of such game. Those were the times where I had nothing to care about. Not that there had been a change. Anyway... Sup man? Hey, gimme a cigarette. Ya heard me?... Don't you have nothing else to do, kid?... I want a cigar... Gimme one. So he did. A burn mark on my skin, that's all I had been asking for, right? That's how I am, how I was, and whatever, not even burmecians are themselves. Perhaps we all became savage with time. Immigrants, competitive, hungry, alive... to be alive is the one thing we aren't privated of.
Life... meant to be lived. Choose life. Got any life? I only live to fight, because even a tiny ant knows that blood feeds this world. And when there's enough blood, why not drink beer instead? Their taste is awful, but there are some who enjoy it. Not against, except when it comes to me. What they do see on me that is so threatening? This blue skin also sheds of red. They think I am one of those Woolpit brats, but I haven't died yet. Only had been fainting. Then I woke up, to realize nothing changed at all. Not even me. Who am I, other than Amarant Coral, bounty hunter who have gotten a bounty to this head. How ironic, and they say nothing about a thief who became King. Almost a King, who can't even beat the clown... ha! This ain't funny. Giggles are stupid. Everything is. You, metallic blue, who can't even look at yourself to the mirror. It's broken, but I don' believe in bad luck.
The fact that I do exist means that this world doesn't know what is good and what is bad. Only that sons are better than fathers, that the small rats survived instead of giant birds, and that giant dicks are better than little pecks. Humans share of a formal brobdingnagnianism when it comes to Wonder why wars lasted, like, ten years? Because people fought on summer and autumn. Now wars last less than a day, and many die. I'm so sorry, honest, but it ain't my fault. That I had been born this way, that I am able to understand how she feels, that I refuse to, that I want to explode just like this head who doesn't stop aching ah fuck it. Watch your mouth, then watch your fingers, and to where they are pointing at. And only index to me, four to accuse you in change. Well, I just want to lay on this bed, err... mattress, and relax.
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I don't have a proper house, heck, I didn't even had a proper family. Other instead of mother, and father... well, he tried. How much he tried to be the best. Don't know a thing about other, but pops, surely he fought 'till the end. Made his son proud, the only one who was there for his fight. When others have abandoned his, same for his youth, Dario Coral, althought a worthless fighter compared to what he was before, still far more than a piece of flesh lying on the streets. Another arranged fight, and unlike the nights of before, everything was against his. I was his only friend, and the only son who was there to see his. The one whom he knew about, this Amarant here. Blue detaches easily from a crowd of flaxen people. The man who inspired me had been given orders to lose, but he didn't. Maybe it was because he looked at me, that look who gave strenght to his, some bullshit akin to it, but my man won that night.
The best, and the last fight he ever had. Yelp, I miss his. Pops used to punch others, instead of me. His image is still on me, somehow. Maybe I'm lying. I didn't learned to lie with pops, or other. But they lived on this world, these streets who took care of me since they were gone. Streets do not complain if you piss on them, only the people who walk over it. Build houses, or less than, like this one. A hotel, a temporary house, that doesn't dismantle alike a tenement. I have a plenty of money, so why waste it to live on a house? This entire world is already my home. You need a woman, Gig told me. No, I do not need anyone else to be sucked into this. If I had a life, and a meaning to live other than fight for life... Lani. She is, at least, living other than hunting heads. Cutting them with that axe.
And that's the ugly side of Alexandria. It reminds me of the worst place to live in Lindblum, and the darkest alleys of Treno. Nothing matters when your head is out of this place. When onions begin to taste alike bread. Anything is better than the taste of a mug, but its effect is what its important. Everyone wants to see the world spin around you, instead of spinning to the sun. A pack of peanuts to follow you as a friend, if there's one. If there are fingers left. They say you do not have time to scream when falling from the skies. All that remains when you hit the ground is liquid. Dust. Ashes. That rat's skin is already gray like one. Peeling off, like this wall. Once soaked, and they get swollen, a powder comes from inside them, and I used to eat it. Flour for the rice, whose taste was already awful. It didn't had the need of a taste, only guarantee that I could stay alive any longer.
Well, in this thing of eye by eye, everyone gets blind... said one of the few woman who ever tried to understand me, but couldn't. Other wasn't there when I needed her. Like clay... dried up. Peeling off as well. Rigid with the time, althought soft. As if I needed to, Crescent was one of the few who ever called me by the first name, just like anyone. Who called me by other names, and I did nothing but hear them. She wasn't anyone, now she became what anyone struggles for, what life needs to accomplish outside the being who lives. Not near death's doors, but almost. Maybe not. That face is the one of someone who cares. Of someone who tried to understand me, and I let it happen because... don't know. It gets boring to hold anything any longer. Food spoils, yet there are those who eat it, and do not complain about their stomaches aching. A heart aches the most, and it's also inside you.
It should be, but blood that's good needs to be lead open, and to smudge these hands. Because she always wear that red coat, and because she is careful, Crescent never bleeded for no reason. Had been doing things for a reason. Is it due selfish, or commitment, I don't care, but she does. At least, that burmecian is far more than me. Less than I could be, in a way. Why am I thinking about that? Oh, my head is aching, that's right. My back wages are what sustain me. This claw used to be something other than an old memory of a time I left my mark in this world, and its people. Generations later, and the name Amarant will be forgotten. No last battle fought, only a bed to lay, or a ground, something to lay above before he lays below. Gig left me some gil from the trade of books, speaking of below. Then I leave this bed, like a bat out of belfry, but instead of honey, I'll go buy some mug.
Instead, I grabbed a bottle of milk laying near a door. I should stop, no, you should stop drinking. It's a 'you' delivered in a way with the hopes of becoming an 'I'. A you whose voice pretends to scream at me, like a slap in the face. There is a lot of butt faces who do once talk shit around here, but anyway, mouths were made to be listened. And a mother's breast to make them shut up, or choke, which's the same. There is this condemned house in front of mine, a mirror who's about to be broken until it's bits disappear to make place for a market's fair and a hospital. It's sad, despite my age, not old enough to remember that this once was a nice place to live at. Pops wasn't a wanderlust, but we traveled together for some bucks, this until he couldn't move, and only what lies below consumed his. A vermin is far worthy of eating its flesh than I, because they do not think about anything other than food.
They do not feel pleasure, don't live for it. Neither I, but my body needs energy for fights. A fight is already happening, at the moment. But everytime I go up, I come down. Don't know in which place to stay. Like a baloon, but even those are filled in of something. My stomach is empty, the only thing I do to attend my needs. Well, remember that bet? Sure. Can't forget that face, and that name, unlike a certain someone. Does getting out of this place counts as a favour, Crescent? Guess not. Nothing belies gravity, and my feet know it, so do the teeth of many mouths. Before I grew any of it, I was born due a force that pulled me out. Life learns its way, some say. A duck getting its head cut learned its way to a frying pan, as well. It's cold, only these hands, and to put them inside the pockets won't do anything. Well, a bald man also needs to caress a bit of hair... I'm not bald, but there are some who think I am.
Like, the aunt wig on that window. Taking out the dust of the carpet, waving that ugly piece of tapestry, not that the snow lying on the ceilings and streets makes this place any beautiful to gaze at. Or you could lose both eyes, but I've already lose enough, like time. And silence. Peace of mind, huh? My bollocks. Though they can share of peace on that red inn, but I'm not the kind who likes to display a disease to another. I'm already part of it, unlike Wallace, also know as Wally Warts. A sailor, who had its face disassembled by the harsh winds of Esto Gaza. A sanctuary for the many souls awaiting for purity, and so they keep awaiting. What Wally has gotten on its journey is money, coming from the fishs sold at the fair. Frightening stares stood on all of them, but at least, fishes do not learned to laugh like pumpkins.
Suddenly, a bell rang. It meant that someone came in the pub. Not someone, but... I heard the sound of a box full of bottles coming in. That was the least of annoyance found out of that guy. Oh shit, it's the Jack who sells perfumes. That jerk, smiling and selling perfumes, but nobody here is interested to buy it, althought some are so out of their minds that they drink anything as if it was beer except the water coming out the river, which stinks, but mugs take a lot to make you sick – what a pleasant scent – no, it ain't. Though, it's the least pleasant thing found out of you – pissed, Amarant? – he said, looking down on me.
— What is your point? This is just water – my pint felt, that's it. But for this Jack, it's an opportunity to sell more of its perfume.
— Flowers do not last for too long. They wither away, alongside their scent, Amarant – and perfumes are for those who do not take any bath. All I want is for him to get away, but he don't. Jack sure is a persistent salesman – you know, I saw your friend, the Jack from alleyway. Bought a box full of perfumes, for a girl.
— He ain't my friend – Gig is a sort of partner, that's all. But what does this Jack knows? Nothing, but be a nuisance. A flea doesn't need a why to bite a dog, because even that little knows that blood feeds this world. The earning of all victors, while what losers get are bad blood – and I'm not interested in women.
— Well, your bad luck.
— I'm already full of it – and fed up of you.
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