Powieści i opowiadania

Death of the artist in fishnet stockings

Upside down she is dangling on the branch incalculably. Artist in cabarets with a hole on the toe. She is hanging and she's waiting, her thoughts shrink. She is dangling hanged by the ankle on a silk rope. She is making wild circles with her arms, she hasn’t slept for a month. She's waiting. She is well trained in expectation, which is probably the domain of fools in today's world. But, she knows states, about which others can only read in colorful press. If he wants she can make a dream lover, if she cries it’s only in the dark and in her pillow. When shee eats - the food is all of one colour. If she drinks it’s always to the last drop. The strong will to live she inherited from her grandfather, who once went to war with his sabre and war songs. She is as proud as an owl and makes fun of her ancestors.

Is she tacky? Liar? Imagined, or dumm? And will I ask her for more than only to “make me drunk”? The phrase “you say you got it” cannot be true for her, cause her in her head there is this magic worm swirrling and eating her mind. If you approach her she shatters her body into pixels and folds herself into a small piece and then... hides in a casket, burries in the ground for one hundred years. Such is the soul of an artist, as my mom used to say, from a burnt theatre. She’s like a box with chocolates – all wrapped, except for two in the middle which are not. These two are always eaten first. Her body swirls, bent as an arrow – she divided that body into pieces. Her life is a bit of a fool’s dance - quite logicall, in fact, but nameless. It’s easy for her to lie and switch the syllables.

However, she doesn’t feel like laughing right now seeing the executioner’s hand. The card of fate was thrown on the table. You have written down your lyrics you little idiot, but what for? I love you, Mr artist of the Polish rock stage. You are a song writer quite big in the dictionary. The hiss of the language gets into my bones. Fuck, how I miss it this fucking spanish organisation of emotions. I would caress you gently on your legs, your thighs and then your crotch. I would lick it as an artist for an artist, and the, indeed, we would have a union. And if after this sharply cut fucking situation you were kind enough to wait until I come I would be your play doll assigned to you in your papers for the rest of my life. But this dog doesn’t listen to me, it has rubber eyars and keeps them flat. Goodnight fatalist, he says to me going to bed that is cold for his wife’s affections.

Finally, she fell from a tree, this whore artist, divine scrubber. Time taken by her memories cannot be given back by anybody. So, she must burn in the flame of love forever. She will fulfill this crazy act even against the laws of science. Because she's aware of her nasty existence she is not worth any respect and mercy she hates. She wants pain that would soothe her wounds. She wants to suffer without the right of mercy, for those who loved too strongly and blindly. Therefore, she will sign her sentence herself , she will invite the devil to the table, she will sit down with him, give him a glass of vodka, she will undress, she will drink up for the last time, drink so much that would kill a cow, she will spread her legs and cut her cunt in half. One half for the husband, the other one for the lover. The devil will laugh out laudly, he will pat her on the cheek, crack his whip, he will run his spur across her pale body and then fuck her joyfully.

This is the way whores die, at their own wish, as they sold their impure thoughts for nothing, sold their bodies cheaply. Left alone they rot and decay. For shure, this is the way I will end, as well, for to sell my body for a penny is an undescribable joy. End of this nonesense. Amen. Go. Sacrifice is done.

Suzi Volter

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