Poisonpasodoble (english version)



Two options.
More meaningless and bloody text that nobody is forced to read for-God’s-sake. Or the beginning of a story’s chapter that will end up incomplete. It is likely that I have chosen the first option. But I’ll stop it. Last time, I swear.

Each time I say something meaningless a wound is opened in my back. Or in my arms. Or in my leg. Every time I skip sleeping is some text I don’t memorize. So it’s blood splattered everywhere again. This time it came from my stomach.

It begins with a Paso Doble.

Irascible Spanish music tramples my conscience. The sad bulls burst into the arena that is my stomach. It’s a sickening fatal spectacle and that attracts the same kind of crowd that the fight between gladiators. Or public executions of criminals. They are proud – the bulls – and nothing else. He has all the rest, the bullfighter, and also ninja eyes. At the same time he kills them, he is poisoned by them. Poison. In the audience, I see Jack Kerouac and he nods at me. But I do not know. I only know the bullfighter.
OLÉ, OLÉ! MAHALO! DOMO ARIGATO!

I fall – as could not be otherwise – bleeding. He hits me, even though it is a cliché. It is cliché, the bullfighter-ninja. His colored harpoon tipped stakes hurt my neck without killing me. I have the strength to hold his hands and worship him. I cry. His hands touch my blood, and then he dances waving the yellow and pink cape, his black taleguilla moves with the passion of his hips and legs, his chest is white and stony, contrasting with my blood. Soon I’ll have no more blood. Now I poison him. In my veins runs poisonous fluids, as well as all liquids in my body. I run my venomous fingers through the muscles of his back. I cry because I want to scream. He wants to scream. OLÉ! Mahalo nui loa. Arigato gozaimasu.

We whisper.

We are observed by the dead bulls.

The silence of death invades our bodies and gives us sleep.

We sleep. Above the carcasses of our own poisoned, bloodless bodies.
He talks to me while sleeping, through his fingertips that – as could not be otherwise – dance. He asks me not to let myself get intoxicated by the poison in my own tongue. I ignore. His dance, his stakes and his colored cape still pollute my neurons. Everything is flawed in my head. As a sequence of short power outages, or TV about to lose signal. Was it the poison? Or the strokes? Was it the dance? I don’t dare breaking the silence to think about it.

He begins to drip on me, it’s cyanide powder diluted in some strong and fragrant drink, he shuts my body with an enjoyment coated of shadows.
“It’s late…”

– he whispers.

“…Too late.

You lost…”

– he says.

“… I won.

Live again.

And come back again to my arena.

You are dead.

But you are happy.

Because I dance.”


Poisonpasodoble.



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