For Igor Stepanov
Immense plastic surface reflected immense plastic surface. Lemon hair, potato nose, shirt, trousers. Distant music.
Rift of Beethoven, fart of Mozart, dash of Haydn.
"Which hotel are you staying at?"
"Schwarzwalderhof." I lied.
"Enjoy the local wine."
End of fire. Redlight district. Creak of stairs, unloosened, unhinged, unredeemed. Image of mindblistering cunt.
Breathless of the stair, caught between the devil and despair.
COMMUNIST PARTY HQ
4 men unfurling a banner. They direct me to a room on a lower floor. When I arrive there, a derelict, no voices, threats, enchantments, a burnt out derelict.
THE COMMUNISTS WILL EAT YOUR CHILDREN!
Banner headline. . .
I re-hook. Back and forth went the engine in the no nonsense night. Back and forth, into the womb, tomb and charnel house. I unhitched the lever, pulled and spewed forth the perfect story machine.
A slow motion shot of me ascending the stair, 4 men unfurling a banner, concealing the deep bucket of babies' bodies. Back and forth, back and forth thrummed the machine, it seemed to say, in the repetition of the machine's humming, in the thrum, the deep bowels of the machine, the story is generated. Back and forth, back and forth, my foot touches the 5th stair. Everywhere penises are pushing, pulling, back and forth, a tidal wave of semen is rolling down the stairs towards me, wrapped up inside a cosmic tortilla. A universe of babies, all neatly eaten, all gazing like dead squid with great rotund eyes, out of the bottomless bucket.
The red tide of Communism is stopped, because out of the vacuum reverberates the never-enidng push and pull of the miraculous Capitalist penis, pushing the Communists back and back.