Tag Archives: bullshit

You boys want to kneel so bad !

Does my bedroom looks like a drug dealer’s filthy space? Why’s that? Must be the sofa. Sofa = friends = clients. What? Nonsense.
My idea of a sofa there has only porn oriented aims.

I finally got access to a huge archive of music I couldn’t access in almost one year. It contains all stuff from my Italian time. Wovenhand, Radiohead, Bauhaus, Chet Baker, McLusky, und so. It’s so much fun, even more than my gin and tonic. Hey guys: D.A.F. Ach, lieber Gott!

I could now put the carpet my great-grandmother sewed for my mom, because I am “ancient, as ancient as the sun”. I also found a little Persian carpet mom brought me from Iran. I talked with her a couple of hours ago, she in Japan at the moment.

I want to run. RUN. RUN! I find it so boring it’s taking weeks to settle everything in this new flat. Na ja, alles in Ordnung. Musicians in Berlin are so soft-pervert, it’s intriguing, but it’s not enough. Gehen wir! Wohin? Nach Hause. Meine Freundin wartet auf mich.
You must know I have discussed this with a drummer in the States, I’ll give him stories, he’ll write the book. I’ll tell you about your boyfriends. Once in Milan we were playing as support act for Courtney Love and Hole, a couple of girlfriends were shouting something at me, something sweet. Little time after some loser-boy who was there, somebody who wanted so bad to KNEEL, wrote that the girls were ignoring I just “wanted to fuck their boyfriends”. Oh boys! Boys are silly. Boys are little bitches, prude hungry whores-wannabe. I am so glad I’ve left that sick circuit.

I have plans I won’t tell here. But It’s countdown time, kids.

I’ve gotta go buying wine and such delicacies. I tell you goodbye listening to Nick Cave.

I’ll show you how determined I can be cutting a fingertip away

As a 15 or 16 years old asshole, I could do wrong or painful  or dangerous things If I wanted to. It didn’t matter if I was afraid, I would tell myself DO IT, and I would do it. It was scary how determined  I could be. At times I had a sharp knife in my hand and I really knew I could cut any finger. I would do it on purpose. Same thing with breaking things or saying something out of place/outrageous. Lately I’ve been trying to get that “strenght” back. This is how I had thought about saying “hey hi, are you enjoying the evening?”, and I ended saying “I wanna lick your nipple”. The process is the same. The violence as well.

A few months ago I could feel as punk as fuck and I would tell myself I didn’t give a shit and I could scream if I wanted to, and I screamed.
I would tell myself I could be kinky. Well, there I “failed”, because it’s not my nature to be “publicly kinky”, but then, I’ve tried.
It’s time to give up something else now. I must do it with the same violence, I have to do it. Just fucking do it.

I wanna enjoy everything I do.

Anyway, I like to promote artists. I’m listening to this dj set and I’m liking it a lot https://www.mixcloud.com/DJNEUEK/ds-neue-k-lithium-live-mix-set/.



Monday: first day of the week, I’m exhausted and I’m terrified at the idea of the following week. I’ll work like a fucking dull mule,without asking, without questioning, going on, daydreaming.

The beard keeps growing, I’ve trimmed it three time since I keep it “long”. I’m scared of trimming it, I may do it wrong and cut it too short. Is this ME? In the past years I’ve even shaved twice in a single day to avoid anybody could even imagine it, and to help avoiding that, I’ve used make-up to cover. I grew tired of myself. I’m tired of my look, I’m tired of my habits, I’m tired of my failures. I’m never satisfied, I’m never happy.

I’m reading this book, first and only german one, yes I’ve written it months ago but then I didn’t do it. It’s hard for me, I don’t have such a vocabulary, but it’s so funny, because I know the woman who wrote it, so classy and lovely, and reading about her getting the train without ticket or stories about her boyfriends, or whatever else, is something just different from what I see now: beautiful flowers, books all over the place, her being so shy. I like her. One day I’ll tell her I’ve read the book.

This morning D. showed me this sweet video of his son telling about “the guy with long hair, that when comes here the first thing he does is taking the shoes off and yeah it’s Nunzio!”. My heart melts with kids. Around four  in the afternoon I met the kid and he didn’t expect me to be there, he was, as the mother said, “erstaunt”. I tried to make some joke in German and then since he had a toy-guitar,  I asked him if he played and the father said I do, so the kid took the guitar and threw it at my feet. I want all Betty Poison supporters to be so determined!

In this flat we have “old windows”, which means double ones. With the cold weather the wood broke and now they don’t close anymore. Feel free to be minus whatever, I’m here waiting with open arms.

I feel such an atavistic melancholy. I have deleted time. I can’t explain what I mean, just because I would reveal. I’ve been a master. A master of loneliness. I may be going out now, walking through the dark park nearby. I’d get scared, I’d feel something, finally! I anesthetize my emotions, I enlarge them, they explode, so fast they’re nothing again. There’s nothing again.

I don’t want to sleep, I just want to scream.

Sweat tastes good

It’s a matter of attitude, it’s all how you see things, then they become something specific. The weak, WEAK, thing is that everybody wants to be so cool. What’s so fucking amazing about being cool and unique? We’re so many, who gives a shit. We all are, we all are not. Last night there was this asshole, I’ve met him through some dark music-oriented event or something, I said hello and asked what he was actually doing in life, not that I cared that much. He said he was playing music, djing, about once or twice a year. You boy wanna make it sound like YOU’RE SO COOL YOU ONLY PLAY ONCE A YEAR. I’m not sure you really do that in life, boy. I asked what music, he said “a bit of everything”, I said that didn’t mean much, but then again, I didn’t really care. Then there’s the spanish girl. God it took me ten attempts to understand the work “e r o t i c”. Did I find erotic men dancing in underwear? Then the topic became “flaccid penises”. There’s nothing really wrong with that, but I guess usually is considered not so “manly”, and everybody wanna be a perfect show-off, which means if you’ve to be naked, you’ve to be “well structured”, which is very boring indeed. Then I met this australian guy who had a custom design shop where he basically sold t-shirts. I don’t usually care about how people live, but I asked if it went well, yes “incredibly well”. He was very glad to have left Kreuzberg. He now lives in Wedding and we started talking about a place I love with all my heart there, “Tango Loft”. I worked there for a short time and I’m so glad I’ve met such beautiful people. If you wanna have a taste of beauty, among lilium and candles, go there.

I guess I’ve to spray some antispetic on my nipples. They are insensitive. This means I’ve to keep an eye on them if you pull them or something, you may even rip them off, without me noticing. Licking them is only for your own pleasure, and I always feel a bit strange. The best result you can get is infecting them. Anyway I do keep them clean, so it’s fine, if I wouldn’t do it everyday I’d have a little tit right now. Moreover your boyfriend or lover or whatever is getting back and I have no contract with any of you, but I perceive he is not enjoying the view.

I had a really long talk with this norwegian guy. He’s actually supported from his country to create art, which is mostly painting. He takes pictures of very spontaneous moments (you wake up in the morning or something) and then he paints them, making all of that a bit less “natural”. The grandma was sicilian and she was called Teresa. I had to tell him I had watched a documentary about Maria Theresia, lovely Holy Empress, fighting Friedrich II. In such circumstances, like 9am with a guy in underwear, I may even discuss which is the best way to cook pumpkin. I’m a MASTER in good-talk-in-the-wrong-moment. While fucking I may even ask you why you divorced. Not saying I haven’t done it yet.

At the end of it all, it was a really boring night. It started with a guy asking me if I had drugs and it ended up with the same guy at the Garderobe asking me if I had had fun. The most funny thing was to see these people dressing in the courtyard, all going back to “ordinary life”. In fact I don’t understand why people need cages and labels to feel free.

It’s alright baby, you’re only choking.

Control, selfcontrol, it’s all bullshit I don’t even wanna write about. I’ve wrote so much about all of this shit when I was a boy, and it never brought anything helpful. I guess I’ve been writing the same bullshit , again and again, as if it were any rehabilitation formula I’ve been prescribed, I’ve wrote about the shit that filled my body up until I felt like choking and I’ve been so diligently told myself that I had to find a good healthy solution to all that shit. Something like painting your bedroom walls light blue, shading into grey you know, it’s  a good colour,  I do advice you that one, but don’t dress me up like a princess. Well then, nothing worked out and I just gave up my medicine, no more writing.

I must confess I feel like writing pointed out a few things I wanted to know, if I could read about them, I would know them better,  the absence of means cut out way too much. So here I come again, writing bullshit, imposing myself to have that selfcontrol I never had. As I am writing this, I do smile, and it’s rather a sneer. I do pity myself. Still I don’t give a shit, everything sucks, and I don’t want to discuss this with my friends, what for? Oh yes, I’d get advices, but you know what?, I just get pissed off.

I decided to do this whole shameful thing online because I’m the kind of person who constantly takes notes, I am actually compulsive, I have many agendas and such books I fill with whatever, and I’ve got notes on my desk here and in my jeans’ pockets and in my backpack. I don’t even look at them afterwards. This shit I’m doing now sounds more like a one-night-stand, just throw everything into the fucking loo then.

I do flush now.

Il controllo, l’autocontrollo, tutte stronzate di cui non voglio nemmeno scrivere, di cui ho scritto talmente tante volte quando ero ragazzino e non è mai servito a niente. Ho sempre utilizzato la scrittura come una forma di disintossicazione, scrivere circa la merda che mi soffica e ribadirmi i soliti “buoni propositi” pastello… stronzate senza nemmeno la puzza di merda. Allora ho smesso di scrivere. Ho smesso di preoccuparmi, perché tutto quello che mi sono sempre imposto di fare e di non fare, non è mai andato in porto.

Tuttavia ho come l’impressione che non scrivendo tendo ad ignorare completamente tante cose che invece non voglio considerare futili. E allora scrivo di nuovo e fingo di avere controllo. E impongo a me stesso quell’autocontrollo che a volte mi manca. Già mentre lo scrivo sorrido, ed è un ghigno. Mi faccio pena. E non me ne frega nulla, perché fa tutto schifo, e non me ne frega di parlarne con gli amici e di ricevere suggerimenti e consigli e sai cosa, mi incazzo e basta.

Scelgo il supporto virtuale perché prendo continuamente appunti, sono compulsivo, ho diverse agende e fogli sparsi ovuqnue, negli zaini, nelle tasche di giubbotti e pantaloni. E allora così è una botta e via. Tutto nel cesso.

Tiro l’acqua.