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This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.


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Sunday, May 08, 2005

entry arrow5:06 PM | Freewriting

[see what's in my head...]

The surest way to die is to inhale a thousand fingers of smoke and watch the fumes run over your body like a plague, and feel the clammy hand of death rip over you, and only then can you feel the vomit committing your brain to a single line of a sentence and then you don't really know what to do except to stare at the sun and the maggots suddenly covering it. All you see is the green of the body beside you, which is the smell of peptide and fish, and all you can really think about is the way the music washes over you as you swim through the promise of the shore and finally the boy you love tells you he is the whale that tells the waves to go easy on the cowboy on the beach because that is how the cojones tells the crab to fish the octopus which ate Jonah. One day, the sultan of crap went on a binge and then he told his wife of a tale of gold in the sand, which is really the truth behind the assassination of John Lennon. And so it goes that way. The frog and Cinderella part like friends watching Monday Night Football, and Tyra Banks can't really do anything except to stare at the sad night that appears before her like a plague of spaghetti, with the dentist yelling all sorts of obscenities as if his face is not obscene itself. The tooth, however, has fallen out from the crypt, and all that anyone could really think about is how the smell of the pus that came out of Moses's mouth is all the rage in Santander, that town where they burn witches for fiesta, because there is no food, only sardines ten thousand years old, and all of this is real, really, like the dream of goldfish Naya talks about in her poetry. So, there you go, the end of the longest night of the rest of your life. Hitchhiking through the muck, like it was an actor without work, only the television as salvation. And not only that: there is blessing in Freud's excuse for language, all the clocks and stopwatches in the world suddenly mute except for the tick of the mite that will destroy the mountain which is the blog of all discontent. So, he thanks the Lord for all that is sundry. And all that is fishy, even the gapless, toothy mellow young woman singing out love songs like lime and like crap; the way the light falls on her face... It is the very blessing of God, if God was a disco dancer strapped to a stiletto heel. What am I talking about? I am talking about the truth that there can be no one to stop you if all you do is wish and pray for the rays that will flood the earth, and only then can you know what it is like to taste the curry that will become any Indian's bandana. So there you go. Mentally insert all of that into your puny brain, and see if it doesn't explode.

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