Kitten Called Friedrich

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A text about family.

Submitted: May 09, 2016

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Submitted: May 09, 2016

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Actually it’s that point my eyes are fixed on since I left the room with the smell of scalded coffee. And actually it’s the asphalt that painted scarves in the face, not the ingrain wallpaper in my parents‘ house.

I let him bite the bullet and finally pick up the phone, hang it up directly.
A few fags freed from their frosted jail, I sit in the garden, my head feels tightened to a rhythm I can’t hear. The terrace’s door is ajar, the flies are imprisoned in the house, my dog will hunt them later on.

Itching mosquitos try to save their accomplice from a drinking trough that was meant to be for birds. Without success. Weak comrades, little mosquito.
Now their accomplice dries on a tissue.
Foretaste to the throne, dear, I clink my glass of wine that it will take from my veins later.

My mother jumps around with her new clothes in the garden, and asks me what I think about that stuff.
Wrong daughter, dearest woman, I reply raucously quiet, and turn a page which radius is determined by the author, adhered to the hand of a graduated weaponchild.
Snappish her facial expression changes, just for me. She turns around.
And the plastic bag which content I „seriously just have to survey“, inside textile crimes, is glued to my legs because of the summer heat.
I touch the nonsense and say, unpretty. Her eyes lose some blaze of glory, puzzled, hurt ?
Distance between my words and her body, the gap is vast, a crosstalk dancing on air, frazzled by tweezers. Cynical and pink, we argue again. It’s like a foreign language that doesn’t work.
I polish my conscience, swallow answers with cold wine and open the terrace’s door.

An odyssey through this house, full of impurities, I’m bound for somewhere but take the wrong direction, I want to bump my head against these plastered walls.
Color is empty, everything is color. I can hear raindrops not falling, they chatter like broken keyboard-keys, acoustically clamped.

She is flustered, stubs out her cigarettes on ants, left on the window ledge.
Go on a party?, she asks.
No, I smile, I just want to sit on the edge of the bed, I say.
Your thoughts belong to the trash bin, she yells at me.
Maybe, I reply.
Activated keyboard, deactivated Me. Photographs on the wall, you and you and you and you and me and my sister and the others. I look at their faces, their faces look at me.
None of the photos stay on mind, only the tripod and a toothbrush left.
Weak and full of senses the air distorted, until anatomical joints break, pitted eyeballs roll around on the ground, questions answered by ignorant Ahas, until colorful the eye witnesses crash into the marble, throttled by their own scarfs.
I observe two figures in the mirror, one with a cup of coffee, the other one with a guitar, hypertonicity of funspasticity, stuck in an antimovement like mummified fruit flies, the umbilicial cord was ripped before I was born.
A locust’s memory for the lose of identity.
Tough ?
Rough ?
Through ?
Instead of patches.
She leaves the room with a shrug of the shoulders, empty-handed I stand in front of myself, my personality fits in a drawer, and I have to think about the aquarium with all these noisy fish inside.
She has cut pieces out of your life with some scissors, the pieces lounge around the ground, invisible but hurting like cullets. There are white holes in the photographs now.
Why ?
I bang the door. That’s the way life goes, Thank you. Disasters happen and I watch them walking around from my electric rocking chair.

The strawberryground has come to nothing. When I look down at my feet, I have no idea what I am standing on.
You know what, he says, -this child is starting to get on my nerves- and then he says, the strawberries look a little bit like hearts, the anatomical ones, he gorges it and it stops beating. Gagged and handcuffed.
That’s the punishment for the ignorance. We run after it to get some attention, it turns around, we are startled, it pricks us and we get holes in the stomach, afraid, I can’t breathe with this.
I open the fridge, want to fill the holes. Small bites, my throat hurts, cereals for cerebrals.
With pieces.
I’m sick of this sickness.
Meat in plastic, red Little Riding Hood will entice the wolves from the forest. Clever shadows haunt in their ghost dresses, wearing their best clothes and play a freezing game with time.

„I rediscovered my language, it was lying next to me all this time“, I tell her.
Antics, figures, elements.
I prefer the frowst of the garret instead of standing next to these confused raised eyebrows.

The room smells like death.
Like every year.
Your smothering presence, can’t abide it.
„With your blood I wrote my novels“, I scrawled on your grave.
But.
I need a Now. I tell the Now: World has gone bad, you have to make it good again!
But the Now just clears its throat and is bristled at my verbiage.

The suitcase is waiting.
Packed my stuff.
Set my alarm clock.
Nerves blank.
And this day I learn why dogs are not allowed at the graveyard.
Paper absorbs everything until it shouts. No language, just inanimateness, keyed up and drunk by colors.

I took a photo of a dead cat. This person asked me why I sent this picture to him. I ask how he can ask while sitting next to the pink glitter girl who is my mum, using the same cup and the same toilet.
I could barf.
I wash my socks in the font. Maybe you can find out by yourself what it’s about, the cat’s name is Friedrich.

With a wrong bike I vagabond the town of 77 legends, salute Kafka’s grave and right after that sit down on an empty bench, drawing pictures with the alphabet.
I felt a bit sorry for Friedrich, someone has stubbed out a cigarette on him, maybe it was me, I don’t fit to the audience and don’t belong to the stage.
There’s too many butterflies on the highway.
A monkey noshes legs, arms wide spread as if it was his.
An hourglass counts wasted moments of toughness. Drank too much coffee, it controls my heartbeat.
Lizard’s spit is glued to my skin, the doll drops and pieces of unknown knowledge touch a sore spot.

I touch cool earth and wonder how long you are supposed to stay at a grave.
Maybe it’s easier to get this fever of zero gravity, this hypersensivity of crying people, public needs tears. Then you’re allowed to leave. I never cried at a graveyard, I just notice slowing time, I walk upright, even if my body feels buckled. I do not function in that way, get along with it. Even if I wait for that fever, it does not come, there is not even one tear to dry.
Empty-handed company, I just walk back like this.
Shy of exhaust fumes the pavement swallows me, cold larves sigh, people present themselves, dressed up, metallic whisper, I roll my eyes. Wasps caw like crows, guzzle spoiled meat.
A theatre presents „The Exploded Me“, I reached my family’s home safely. The mosquito on the tissue is ahungered, a teaparty with ten different tastes that night, one of the tastes is me.
I should become the junkie, not this wrong bee.

My colorful mother still jumps around in the garden, I see her through the first floor’s window.
My eyes touch the wall, searching for something inside the family portraits from which you’ve been cut off.
I see you now much more than before, you are the white holes of her scissorhand-midlife crisis. The wanderlust of time hurts like a gulped photography in the throat.
I want to put my hand into the mirror to regain my mind, I lost it in this house. I want to take out DNA and pin it on the wall, to make me understand it and to fill the holes in the frames.
Because I never lived in this house, I am happy about the endurability of the past, it fits in a tissue. Even if reality is different, vertical laughter enjoys the tastelessness, up to the edge of my temporals. Even a battered hourglass can’t repair this.
Sorry about your hourglass.

I betray my senses and go to sleep, the accomplice from the drinking trough has lost its wet feet, it’s already waiting at the ingrain wallpaper.
That’s the last carelessness of the day, I have to leave this town, my life’s not here.

by ::kapuz.art/MBEKUSHOUTS
(2014)


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