Break an Exit III reflection & abhorrence | Cassandra Voices

Break an Exit III: My reflection, your abhorrence



I did make amends with Mumruinho during the ceremony. I did cry rivers of purple and warm tears and forgave the Inca Dog and loved her and figured that I had to leave my house and follow the Bali call. My dead father also performed some memorable guest starring appearance from the massive stars hanging like blazing trees from heaven. I did also hang out with my dead best mate, came up with a name for my dead child and even found myself turned into a Panda bear with a locust head effortlessly capable of writing haikus in thirty-thee thousand different languages with my left back pawn. That was the answer of Mother Nature to the question, can I really be a writer? After the ceremony, anyway, I couldn’t afford to move out anywhere but to Bali. It was just a pity to find out on arrival night that the four cats and the one dog had turned into a millennial housemate with four names and a massive chest who managed to celebrate my landing scoring the longest lasting one night stand ever.

The thin one (aka La Flaca)

Been woken up by some disgusting sound. Smells like teen spirits and sounds like stuck condoms inside a real close —and foreign— toilette.

I half open one eye, I flail my arms. Is there someone here I wonder.

And then I hear my pillow talking. It has Bernardo’s voice.

“I love you,” it says.

“I love you too,” I mumble to the pillow —not to its voice.

My eyelids are hummus, my mouth is Saharan and my saliva an X-file.

Then I hear the elastic band of some underwear almost vacuum packing my hearing.

The friction is agonizing, and comes from next door. It is the struggle of Bernardo’s boxers trying to contain his Minotaur hips. And failing. Then I hear a pair of flip-flops splashing like on-going orgasms.

“I love you too”, they whisper.

I’m two years older than my dad. Bernardo could be my grandson and his one-night stand my abortion.

Forty-six hours after embarking on that flight, not even three since I collapsed into the sweetest sleep I can remember, I die again. The elastic friction and some broken rhyme have woken me up.

I’m Franco farting on Boris Johnson face. I can see that in the mirror, passed the mosquito net that was veiling my dreams ever so softly, the fan producing subtle silky waves that are distorting my features now.

My Reflection, Your Abhorrence — current working title for my biography.

I was a little person once. I had a big smile and a working dick.

The mirror talks to me: “you are the last middle aged virgin on earth,” it says.

Once you become middle aged —which is something that happens the morning after you were dancing Aphex Twin on acid at twenty-one— you realise that mirrors are the only proof that you are not twenty-one anymore. Ok, perhaps not the only. There is a worse mirror actually: house sharing when you are a heartbroken middle aged little man; at this particular stage you might still feel twenty-one but you don’t need a mirror to consider suicide. You only need six hours actually.

The feeling is the same as waking up to a radio song you hate: the precise metric of an unwanted soundtrack flapping your temples, knowing that you would get trapped for the day by its haunted melody.

Bernardo is fingering what seems to be a broken ukulele to entertain his lover —my fifth housemate—, his stiff middle finger stuck every two-second chord, producing some kind of instrument raping.

It takes me another two chords to realise what the hell he is trying to play. I choke slightly.

It is the one song that sent me to prison. It is a sad, long story, and I can’t make it short nor bright. But this mickey dropping and soul-embarrassing and child-murdering haunted-tune became the soundtrack of my first deflowering night, only to become, a few months later, my first night in prison lullaby.

My deflowering night was sexless, my only performance consisting of dipping in and rearing back a second afterwards, as my girlfriend’s next door neighbour started playing La Flaca, the same fucking song Bernardo is under performing now.

Those virginity walls were as thin the ones that separate me from Bernardo’s fingers right now.

I had waited forever for that night —I was twenty-one — and I did nothing but rear back and come outside. As it turned out though, it was too late: she got pregnant.

She was a lovely girl, a true and bright artist. The abortion not only destroyed her smile but our story, and somehow I could not help but blame the singer for it. I was a Folded Arms Orphan who managed to lose his virginity by killing his one and only ever offspring. I had to bury my dad, nursed Mumruinho’s huge depression and got pregnant with Boris Johnson’s before I even knew what cruelty really was. The deflowering abortion shattered my innocence in a way Da’s death —he died the day I turned thirteen— and Mumruinho’s blues —ten years on since then— had never quite managed to. It was then that it became clear that anything I’d do, no matter how stupid or innocent it was, would result in someone else’s death.

I guess revenge against injustice bloomed after that thought in some hysterical, prison worth it kind of way

It wasn’t complicated to find the singer: it was even almost easier than to blame him.

We did live close by.

Barce-china suburb kids on the verge of another mighty death.

The Kiwi Road to Origami

This happens two months after the Blueberry shark attack.

Somebody said once that good stories happen to those who are able to write them down. Perhaps that explains my dreadful talent for scavenging the disgusting ones. This one starts like a dream and ends up like another shitty nightmare.

I’m on my scooter. I’m driving to an Aikido seminar an hour away from Ubud. There is a Kiwi Audrey Hepburn meditating on the back seat. She is an invisible artist. She has given talks and written essays on her unseen body of work. She curated a couple of shows in Second Life, back in the day. They consisted of the impression of non-existing pixels on a blank screen. After a while staring at it, people would start seeing up things. Some eminent art critic wrote that it was the best show he had ever (un) seen.

Her canvas is her skin and her skin is a travelling light well able to relax its shoulders and emanate trust in my psychotic driving through the rice fields. Met her first on a water temple where every drop of water cost you a rupia, only for embarking on after a Shamanic breathing workshop, where every drop of sweat cost you thousands of them.

The workshop was imparted by a tandem of Aussies that looked like a wax double-headed sculpture of Cristiano Ronaldo (with identical referee haircuts), and Shiva tattoos all over their collarbones and calf muscles. The workshop consisted of three people and twenty-three millennials locked in a room at the back of Sayuri’s —the healingpollas temple—receiving orders from Crinaldo.

The orders said: walk around the room with your eyes closed, relax, open your eyes, smile, relax, make eye contact with someone, touch someone, pick up someone, dance with someone —Crinaldo were DJ’s as well as healers and space holders— tell someone you love her or him, be true to yourself, your life is a gift —not an order, but imperative enough— you are blessed —idem— you are safe here, no matter what, we are holding space for you, smile, relax, dance, drink some thick cacao, make a circle, grab hands, express your intention, pick a card off the stack —cards are fortune biscuit kind of lines with animal prints on them, lines that say ‘believe in the path and engage with clifftops you are a red dragon’— then smile again, lie down, cover your eyes, relax, listen to the music —a mixture of soft trance and poor life drumming performed by Naldo— breath in through your nose and out through your mouth, no pause, no pause, no pause.

In through your nose and out through your mouth. No pause, no pause, no pause (until hyperventilating). Only then the journey starts. By then the three persons and the twenty-two jobless and well-off millennials are lying on the ground like hapless babies and one of them starts making noises of pleasure, then another one follows, then a third one starts shouting, then a fourth follows, then a fifth cries, the rest follows, until some collective seizure takes over the room.

Crinaldo sift through the bodies smiling and making careful questions, mainly to the hottest millennial criers. They grab their hands, stroke them, tell them it is going to be alright, it is normal, this is a lot to take in —you can only imagine how hard it might be to be a horizontal babbling millennial— and they can take it with them.

The session lasts over an hour and ends up with the only song with vocals. The lyrics say ‘you are never going to be alone, you are blessed, your path is sacred…’ After the forty minutes babble, Crinaldo ask the crowd to come back in their own time and slowly open their eyes. Next order is to address the person next to you. Tell him or her you love her. Share your experience, then form a circle, grab hands, once more, chant, smile, sit down. Only then Crinaldo give the last and well-disguised order: anyone wants to share her experience?

Sam, a bearded, tattooed Aussie with a referee haircut raises his hand.

‘I’m so grateful to you guys, I love you. All of you, it is incredible to be surrounded by such loving and lovable people. I’ve just had such an incredible journey. I saw colours. They were like disco lights. Amazing. But then it got soooo haaaard. I’ve been with my mother, yo —here the disco balls die—. We had a huge fight before Bali, back in Canberra. Told her I thought she loved our dog more then me, yo. Ye-yo, dead serious. So I’ve just been with her and told her I love her and little Greystoke, our dog.’

He starts crying. It is a millennial cry. Virtual tears. I wonder if a selfie would make them visible.

Crinaldo consider Sam with compassionate eyes. Then order us to tell something nice to Sam. People say ’you are blessed,’ ‘I’m so glad you shared that, love, energy, sacred, we are proud of you, you are the sunshine, bla, bla, babble…’

Then it is my turn

you don’t love me, nobody here loves you and what kind of evil kind of human you must be to compete with a dog for the love of your mumriunho.

Crinaldo look like a third head might pop out off their shared tattooed brain, likely in the shape of a tumour, the other twenty-two are shocked, they say we love you, don’t mind him and all kinds of things that would be damaging in the long-run.

At the end of the session you are forced to smile and say what are you grateful for. The Kiwi traceless artist says she is grateful to darkness and trauma. That is her piece of the day, and I love her for that.

Like a —Corpofucked— Virgin

I rent my first scooter on my second day. I’m sleepless and La Flaca keeps ascending through my loins as dark bile. I need to corpofuck soon. Bernardo sends me to a scooter shop by a dusty rice field. He points in the direction with his finger. It has a six-pack, his finger has. I follow it.

I walk under the sun. It is my first encounter with my surroundings and I’m jet-lagged as fuck, the Pacific shines like Donatella Versace’s lips under radiation. Its blue and pink and peppery red at the same time in some obvious fashion.

The business is an illegal construction site under a few palm trees employing over five people per square metre, which is the average number of locals working per square metre on the island, either in bars, warungs, building sites or infinity pools. They rent bikes and rooms, offer taxi services, behead coconut trees and dig holes in the rice fields to build infinity pools. I wish I could drink them all.

Everyone is working except the guy who owns everything. It feels like Europe. The workers have their heads and bodies covered in dark cotton ragged clothes that seem to be disintegrating under the sun. Everything is. You can only imagine how much they are paid. Not quite like Europe. Those who I ask say they get enough for paying for the ceremony —Balinese celebrate as much as one ceremony per fortnight and they seem to invest all their money in them.

Though you can never trust the answer of a Balinese. They are like the Oirish. They only enjoy confrontation in far out metaphors, backwards roundabouts or when miles away from the confronter. Balinese are Hindu; Oirish, Catholic; same shit, different stick. In Bali some of them are still years ahead of our crooked money driven thought process … though are getting badly infected as we speak.

The wisest are the poorest, though their wisdom is the result of centuries of dispossession and abuse. They have been so brutally disallowed and disempowered they couldn’t even think they were entitled in the first place.

The scorching sun is dying off my soft blue swimming suit, an embarrassing piece of clothing purchased in a department store that might employ underage kids from around this area.

I’m sweating blue at this stage, my drips disintegrating before reaching my cracked thighs. My phone is full of voice mails, around forty three of them, all belonging to my Corpo Fucking Master, a man who goes to bed in Barcelona while I wake up in Bali, takes out his phone, wraps it around his cushion, produces two ropes and a string and embeds his voice into it until it coils around my Eustachian Tube before I have produced my first yawn.

It is going to take me couple of hours to go through all of them, it is 2am in Barcelona and my Master is a workaholic whose voice becomes drowsy after midnight. Listening to him in the morning is the closest I can imagine to waking up inside a bad Valium. Would it work as a meditation technique I wonder?

Working through WhatsApp voicemails are almost worse than Tesco or Instagram, I wish I had crack cocaine instead of breakfast, though my breakfast has been provided by Bernardo’s underwear and the on-going flip-flopped-splashed orgasm.

The scooter renter explains carefully and extensively how to use the Catalan mosquito, and I don’t seem to have time for it. My Master voicemails keep piling up, ululating like a dying owl under the rotten hammock of my ball-sack, the unglamorous nest of so many undesired erections. It is then that I realise that today’s stuck soundtrack is not La Flaca anymore, but Like a Virgin.

Over the years I have come to the conclusion that every song that gets stuck into your head is nothing but a bottled messaged from your subconscious —unless, off course, you have been tortured by a raped ukulele.

Like a Virgin sums it up for me. I found myself whistling the song —whistling, also, it goes without saying, is an act of shame or anxiety, only produced to disguise the original source of that shame or embarrassment, like passing by the neighbour you hate, or confronting the idea of a foreign giant cock giving your ex-girlfriend all the pleasure that your years of chastity deprived her of.

I’m currently ashamed of being a corpofucking virgin, and I’m a ball of anxiety creeping and failing to choke the voice of my scooter instructor, who keeps talking as if the universe hasn’t being formed yet. I reach my pocket and produce thousands, I’m a millionaire here, and he gives up condescending altogether and I swiftly jump on my new horse.

Invisible is true

Back on the scooter I tell the invisible artist that I’d write her biography, a lifelong project that, needless to say, would be devoid of grammar, signs or any other sense of punctuation. A travelling weightless book imprinted on the Balinese landscape like the eternal drift of an unsmoked cigarette.

She breaths in while I zig-zag. She exhales on the back of my neck and I shiver, her ale so subtle it might not be hers. I can feel her thighs sliding around mine on the curves, no trace of brakes, let alone breaking. It is a smooth wordless drive of an hour that brings us to Canggu, a former idyllic paradise beach spot that suffered a borderline Aussie epidemic ten years ago.

Now it is some dystopian land where heavily tanned blonde G-strings talk to cremated blonde surf boards in the awesome language of plank-ness, a syncretic and minimal abhorrence of Ubud’s idiom, based on a two-headed word that has already been heard: ye-yo.

Raymond Carver would not Carve less. 

I drop the floating Kiwi in town and drive towards the dojo. I practice Aikido with a couple of Hombu dojo masters on their annual visit to Bali. One is the air, the other its breeze. They say centre, breathing and no memory. We embarrass them gently, the dojo full of geckos swallowing moths, swirling around invisible dust particles, mastering Aikido like only nature can.

At the end of the class I bring the traceless artist to a café where surfboards are chatting G-Strings up. They say ye-yo many times and I would swear for Mumruinho that I hear someone saying Yummy.

We jump back on the scooter overwhelmed by the emergence of the third word, and the ride is pure origami. We sift through the darkness and the palm leafs gently falling on the cracked road. I slide in perfect balance between the exhaust pipe and her ale, the petrol signs and the sleepless locals, gathering in random ditch spots around wheelbarrows and glass cases of deep fried chicken, and Ganesh and Buda altars.

We’ll elude all forthcoming road calamities in some Japanese fashion and she would say that darkness is a whisper and a gift, the ride mostly consisting of winding, receding roads that have never known the meaning of light at night, something she achieves in some sensual, travelling-skin-canvass kind of way.

She is enlightened as lightless is the night.


I need to corpofuck so soon, I can sense Boris Johnson floppy fringe snorting my voicemails and Madonna reminding me who the fuck I am. I’m far away from any sign of wireless.

There is a skinny dusty track between the dying rice field and the road, and I struggle to drive it straight. Ten seconds afterwards I realise I have left my charger behind, so I take another turn to go back to the house, which, needless to say, is only reachable after taking another skinny dusty road, this one with little mounds forming up and down its distorted course. After getting passed the first one, one hundred metres away from the house, I negotiate the second one. It is an upside-down-bump and while I’m pushing the accelerator up, I go virgin.

I stop halfway through it and then accelerate again, only for my horse to whine a bit before uplifting the front wheel into the air only for it to fall flat on my left leg, battering it against the dust and the dirt.

I cry out loud, the echo of my virgin voice travelling as far as to a paddy field worker, who comes up to my rescue. I tell him I’m fine, though I’m bleeding, the sun tickling rough at the back of my spine, the blood drying up as my voice goes hoarse and Boris Johnson starts his flamenco choreography.

Fuck me fuck me fuck me, the horse still accelerating by the grace of my dead left hand, this being its way of stalling for a helicopter rescue. All over my penance my phone keeps vibrating, my mind blindly sifting through deadly beams and foreign ambulances, while the paddy field worker keeps ripping off whatever skin is left between the horse and my leg.

Fuck me fuck me fuck me. I need to start corpo fucking rather soon, the paddy field worker producing some Bethadine liquid under this tongue, licking the burn up side of my body and my oddly radiating left cheek, while I ask him his name, if he is alive, his address, and thank him for the emergency instant healing.

“I’m Wayan. Means number one in Balinese. I’m the one that rescues”, he underscores. ‘You should wear a Sarung’ he says. I wonder if Sarung is helmet in Indonesian. As I would find out Sarung is the skirt the men around here wear, a sacred piece of clothing mandatory in any temple.

I give him my wallet. Everything in it, which is almost nothing, and I manage to jump back on the w(h)inning horse again, drive home, get my charger, only to be enlightened then by some struck of genius: I will drive to the seaside before starting corpo fucking, straight to the Pacific healing waves, its rocky salt will be my ultimate medicine.

How fucking clever!

I leave some bloodshed behind me, a purple track that goes from the main door of my shared house to my room and back, the eager puddle reaching the edges of Bernardo’s headquarters, who sits there, in our shared porch, with his eyes closed over his stinky math, fucking around with Shiva.

It is my phone, not you 

The invisible artist asks me to stop, just a tip on my shoulder. Words are pointless around her and I shiver. I fear the end, a massive full stop. The stars are out. They were the icing to our ride just a few seconds ago, our ellipses, its radiance engaging like space dust with my headlights, towing her breathing and my eyelids with the narcotic accuracy of any unseen paragraph of vanished grammar.

My heart is racing adverbs as she descends ever so gracefully, her upper thigh catching the moonlight, her eyes as deep and hollow as mines.

“Don’t worry, it is my phone, not you,” she says.

That is the first thing I’d forever remember her saying.

It is the best zen millennial answer for every given cross-generational shake. Instantly reassuring. Her phone would forever be bigger than I am, and it is some fucking soothing fact, like non having kids spread all over ArgenChina.

She stops and checks her phone. How simple is that?

“Would you mind if we meet up with my friend S for dinner,” she asks.

“I wouldn’t meet up with Jörg Haider if you are to be there. I’d bring Boris Johnson anyway.”

She smiles not knowing, it is the ultimate smile.

I set up Google Maps and she says there’s no need to as long as I’m positive we are on the right road.

Off course I am.

Fine so.

We jump back on the scooter and as we approach Ubud she whispers directions down my left ear. I keep taking wrong turns deliberately. It is when she corrects me when her voice utters origami, mount Fuji syllabus under her spell, I can only tell it is now snowing in Hell.

We stop by a place called Kimset, heart of the pedestrian spiritual capital of Capitalism.

There is a little wooden counter with stools on it facing the street. We sit by the candlelight against some lush tropical plant ensemble, our backs to the bar, where healing-pollas are spoon noodling and credit card smiling

“My friend and I are Instagram friends” says Audrey Kiwi.

I wonder if Instagram would help them to face recognise each other. She says she saw her once on a static dance.

We order food and talk New Zealand, myself asking, relentlessly, if only to seal my virginity, which is also my erection.

I find out that Kiwis, unlike Aussies, seem to respect the legacy of the Maori; not only do they avoid pissing and shitting on indigenous people and then eating it, but they respect it, grant it and embrace it. Maoris have been dispossessed but never embarrassed or neglected, or so it seems, in New Zealand. Audrey Kiwi Hepburn is half-Chinese half-Kiwi and tells me New Zealanders revere Maori sacred land and culture, and that she did work with them back in college. They did produce a volcano cloud installation that also evaporated, as with everything else she has worked on. It was a representation of one of the original poems.


Red Coral, No Re Reef 

I speed up to the seaside, it is 9am and the sun finds its way to set my left leg bubbling. I feel nothing but longing for her soft hands, her accomplished notion of nursing my lack of everything, especially my lack of blood, the one thing my system seems to be missing at this stage.

I throw the scooter over the sand, the helmet rolling up like some ghostly beheaded rider, my bones gently finding the salty balm, my mouth opening underwater, my arms extending, the Milky Way is like fucking Mars now, the sea water spreading its salty ointment on my leg and Boris Johnson gargling altogether, if only for a while.

I keep stroking the dead waves, letting them in, embracing the Pacific as a mystic of sorts, ducking the blue oil, flapping my flippers and submerging, leaving a thin, red purple wake behind me like the slimiest and longest period ever blooded.

I dip inside blue silence and open my eyes.

It is then when I see them: beautiful, otherworldly corals, resting like the endless sculpture of an ageless psychedelic wielder, a stream of neon gliding miraculously, forming a floating rollercoaster that sifts through the blue with the grace of a tiny ice skater, nursing the agony in such a chewing brain shape that spongy forms my throbbing, until I find the ultimate gate to pleasure within pain.

Fucking hell, I’m in outer space and I’ve Marques de Sade cradling my hand, I’m blessed and sacred, I can only be grateful for it, and I can’t stop swimming, my eyes laser red, though my vision is clear like on ayahuasca. The planet that lays ahead of me it is exactly the vision that Mother Nature gave me first: a multi orgasmic fountain of flashy colours that shatter consciousness in a mother of fuckt kind of way, a slashing fish tail that makes you realise that anything you ever thought is just a fallacy lying in the empty foundations of your perception, namely the mother of all lies.

I keep swimming and engaging with Mother Nature, I’m free, I’m a drifting healing fish abhorring the notion of hecticness, Mumruinho is a goddess and I’m her grateful creature, somersaulting the waves, healing all over them.

I’m actually crying underwater when its colossal perimeter rises up through the rays and the floating algae and the otherworldly fishes.

It forms itself behind my eyes, for my own sake, an incandescent red vaulted porous tower that smiles at me, that whispers to come closer, the mother of forgiveness, a bloomed, gigantic magnet engaging with my dead cells and my sunken gums. The white plastic bags are all over here, my climbing as effortless as my swimming in the infinity pool.

So I do, I obey, the fuck I do, and then my right palm moves freely towards her, and I’m a Catalonely inveterate, a formless submarine, just flippers and desire, looping and paddling the dream, reaching its belly, coming strong.

I stroke the towering creature with the non injured side of my body, I curl around it like a free fish, for only then start noticing a strange, almost pleasantly rough tickling wave, the hottest I’d ever felt.

The pleasure lasts a split second, my first underwater erection giving way to the most stringing pain I have ever experienced. I push myself away from it, a flashy stream of ache travelling the right side of my body like some mercurial jellyfish. I swim like a dead rat back to the shore; Lorenzo, that is, the sun, laughing his head off, the crust of the Earth making breadcrumbs on its dimples. Mother of the fucking Dragons, Boris Johnson’s might have been radiated to death, but the right side of my body has never been so utterly ripped. Or dying.

I make it to the shore.

My scooter is waiting like a sunken castle, an ocean of scratches covering my right side like the claws of thousand dragons, little coral reef pearls embedded on my new raw flesh, digging into it, building up an infectious, peeled off avenue to Mars.

I’m as skinned off as an innocent tangerine nightmare in a nest of vipers.

I collapse in some ultraviolet fashion.

After the bandages and the nurses I will find out that they go by the name of red coral reefs, irresistible looping mermaids, blessed with the power of instant burning anything that dares to get close to them. 

The right hand of Pad Thai

One minute after our food is served the Instagram friend appears from behind.

I turn around in some disbelief: there she is, the right hand of darkness on a long white tubular dress that matches her immaculate tooth alignment.

The Kiwi makes the introductions and it seems clear that she does not recall who I am. She remains standing while we are sitting halfway between her protruding waist bones and our supper.

They engage in light-heavy conversation. The right hand of darkness tells the Kiwi the story of her recent break up with mandala kid and stresses that he has taken her laptop with him to Malaysia, where he appears to be visa running.

“I can’t believe he stole my laptop,” she says and blinks biblically.

Their conversation goes on until the right hand of darkness asks me if she can have some of my Pad Thai. I disguise my surprise by offering her the seat in between us and my fork.

One second afterwards she asks for some wine.

Off course you can, we are the heartbroken trinity I explain to her: the Kiwi artist found herself in Bali after running away from her boyfriend of two years, I myself having been dumped by an Inca Dog a few months ago, so let’s drink to it I say. She sits down and we fill her glass with half of ours.

The right hand of darkness is Canadian and an artist, as she states. It only takes a couple of seconds for her to produce an Iphone6 from her tiny purse and show us her Instagram profile, where I reunite with the vomiting naïve monsters with big white egg melting eyes.

The Kiwi artist checks her art and I tell her it reminds me of Nikki de Saint Phalle’s. She doesn’t know who she is, but she says many people have compared her to Dali and Picasso.

She is not playing table tennis, so it seems, and I unearth my own iPhone from under my kimono, down in my backpack, and start searching for Nikki’s drawings. I show them to her. She takes my phone, registers an unimpressed look, scrolls, mumbles, curves her upper lip and keeps checking the healing-pollas in the background. They are all over her.

She blinks and smiles and has more of my Pad Thai and then she says that her boyfriend was total envious of her art.

What do you mean, I ask. She says that she knows what she is after, and that she is always creating, whereas he is just trying but doesn’t really know what his art is about. He is just young you now. I wonder how old. Twenty-three. And you? Twenty-seven. And for how long you’ve been calling yourself an artist? Always she obviously says, though it appears that her flowing hand only started to come to life seven months ago. She has been drawing ever since.

Once the Pad Thai and the wine are dealt with she stands up, hugs us, and says goodbye.

Myself and Kiwi Hepburn are back on our own. We gulp swiftly a third glass of wine and set off towards home: we are both staying at the same homestay. It is 12 am and my erection splits the moon in two. She jumps off the bike while I’m parking it, outside the homestay, says nothing and fucks away.

You don’t need to go through her filmography to understand why the fuck she ran away. A stupid tear rolls down my sentimental cheek, its millennial creases, Boris Johnson swallows the erection with his lizard tongue and all of a sudden my rear veins are dancing flamenco again.

I could be a castrato. I don’t care. If my fate is to remain virgin I would embrace it. I’d still have Aikido. And my phone. Though oddly enough my phone is nowhere to be seen. I check my pockets, my handbag, the scooter. And only then the inside of the fridge, my arsehole, Boris Johnson, you sly motherfucker. But nothing. It must be on the restaurant. I jump on the bike. My dick so tiny, the moon so massive.

The other Hitler

Every second person I met is an Austrian, all of them millennials that have never heard of Thomas Bernhard, Elfriede Jelinek, or Peter Handke.

The third one is nameless. And he’d remain forever nameless.

His voice is stronger than quartz, steel, age, dead; it pierces substance, drills ice, shatters engines. It is the kind of voice you might listen to after your heart is already sinking down the Mediterranean and your bones have been burnt. Yes, it is after death shit.

Though I might not yet be dead as it turns out.

He comes to me like most Nazis. I’m outside my bedroom, in my little tiny porch of a small tantric island south of Bali. I’ve heard him before. Everybody has, including God, or Kadek, for that matter. He lives two bungalows up the villa. On my first day here his sliding glass door opened and a massive local guy came from the inside. Himself and a girlfriend greeted him off.  His piercing voice said:

It’s all about love brother.

I immediately got suspicious.

I can hear him now, as I write. He keeps having unbearably long Skype conversations outside his hut, knowing that I am the only person working outside. He keeps talking and talking, the more he talks the louder he gets, while I keep writing and writing, the more I press the keys, the stronger it becomes. It is the only way to fight the evil forces: to engage with them, to merge with its frequency for them not to trespass you. I’m wounded though. Boris is bleeding. But I will keep on writing.

Yesterday he came by my porch. I was writing about healing. It’s been an on-going piece of writing that has been utterly damaging,

A watermelon smile on his long, bony face:

“Working hard, eh,” he said.

“Yes” I replied.

“What do you do?”

“I work” (I learned that one from a Russian guy in my Dublin dojo)

He doesn’t get it.

“No, I mean, what work do you do?”

“I corpo fuck.”


“I fuck with corporate clients who fucked me in the first place.”

“How come?”


“But, what kind of job?”

“Writing mostly” —I can’t lie. Since jail, it is some kind of twisted penance.

“Oh really, you write?”

Fuck me, here we go.

“I actually don’t. I translate.”

“Oh really, you translate?”’

“Yeah, I can translate that you are Hitler’s son English into Catalan.”

“What? A Kitchen song? Really”

“A Hitler nun.”

“A kitchen song, that is astounding. Are you on Facebook?”

“I Facepuke.”

“Good for you. We don’t need Facebook. I have a business, you know. With my girlfriend.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“You did? That is good so. We were actually looking to translate lots of stuff. English into Spanish. Sewing machines. We deal with sewing machines.”

Fuck me. This is getting fucken emotional, now.

My Inca Dog used to deal with sewing machines. She did produce these beautiful handbags. I was on the dole, cracking poetry. She employed me quietly. I did try to be her thread. I stitched myself out of it. But I can’t manage to do it now. It’s easier to escape from love that it is to fall into Hitler’s lap.

Hitler has splayed his scary long and thin legs along my porch. I can almost see his pointy little balls. I’m standing up. I’m happy not to sit down ever again. Fuck you Boris: death by gravity.

“I don’t do that shit. I’m a man of words. Literature. I would never do sewing machines.”

“Oh, literature? Really? How amazing. I love literature. And meditation. You do meditation?” He points at my Aikido kimono, hanging on my hammock.

Fuck me, I don’t want this, but my mouth is sealed, swastika glue all over me. I’m paralysed.

“My girlfriend and I we do manifesting, you know what that is?”

“Ewa. Is her name Ewa?”

“No, no manifesting. So you just sit down in a meditation pose.”

“And you extend towards the sky and the earth, right?”

“Yes, exactly. And then you breath in and out through your nose and you think about what you really want. But not in a loser way, I mean, you really think about having what you really want to have as if you were actually having it. So if you want money, just think that you are a millionaire. But not only think, but moan it”

“You mean own it, right?”

“Yes, exactly, own it.”

I could translate your arsehole. It owns your brain. It is subletting your shame on Airbnb.

I want to die but I don’t know how to own death. I could sit down and ask, but I won’t sit ever again

“You want to get rid of death? Well you can, as well, I mean, for a while I’m sure. My girlfriend the other day she manifested a scooter. We wanted to rent one and she asked the universe and she was told to go down the road, five houses. Can you believe it? So deadly!”

“So deadly, and yet I’m still alive, am I?”

“Yeah, man, and you know what?”

“Yes I do, you went down the road and you found the fucking scooter for rent and it was half as cheap as mine.”

“How much was yours?”

“Double yours most likely.”

“We got it after five houses. There was a guy there, along the fifth house. He was meditating. Can you believe it?”

I point to the porch of my next door neighbour. He is meditating. Beside him there is a sign: Scooters to let it reads. Hitler is too excited to see anything but himself now though.

“And you know what: there was a sign behind the meditating guy. It read ‘Scooter to let’”

The sign is on every fucking house in this island. But Hitler always gets it for half price. History is a wise cunt like that.

“Fifty thousand rupias a day, he says. How much did you pay?”

I paid for it with my life

And I’m still hearing you

And I will keep on hearing you every morning I have left in this beautiful bungalow compound, softly licked by the lazy Balinese gulf, no matter how early or late I walk down to have breakfast, you will be there, piercing other innocent ears with cheap parables on how to fly. And after breakfast and the morning swim, whenever I decide to go back to my porch and write, you will also be there, your voice owning not only the atmosphere but my fingers, my words, the whole lot of my shrinking voice.

And I will still be alive.

But not long after you, son of an Eagle.

If I end up in prison again, I will enjoy it as much as I did twenty years ago. There is justice at the end of shadows. And there is poetry behind bars. It is bad, but you are worse.

Liked it? Take a second to support Cassandra Voices on Patreon!

About Author


Comments are closed.