Philosophical Swill

Will you be my swine? Can I drive you? Can I put you in a pen? You would be the perfect listener, with your long swine ears. I could confess to you, all my sins, even harmless ones, while I shovel your shit away. Of course you’d be an organic swine, you’d be able to go out, if you wanted to, and you’d get purely organic swill. Far better swill than humans get. Our days would be perfectly measured I would think. It would be best if you were a flying pig, then I could get on you and we would fly to France or something. Paris. I will fly you, it’s better than driving. We will enthuse the Parisians with our organic swill, in the physical, verbal, and philosophical sense.

pigs-1520968_1280

The Blog…

… has been languishing. Languishing badly indeed. There were things Hellstrøm could have posted, but… nah. They weren’t ripe. It’s not like Hellstrøm hasn’t been writing, but it wasn’t the right stuff for the blog, or it just wasn’t ripe. Write, let it lie, look at it sometime, write more, edit, write more, cross out half of it because it’s shit, write again, it’s still shit, and so on… That’s the way it goes, and it isn’t something that fits itself to the blog. Fifty and more posts in petto, it goes its own way, and one picks and chooses what comes in the blog, because God knows Hellstrøm doesn’t want to expose you to everything he writes, nor does he want to expose everything he writes to you. He is a judicious son of a bitch, and you should be thankful for that. It’s bad enough as it is.
But, in spite of not wanting to encourage anyone to expect a surge of posts, I can say that there may be a couple of things coming. Have a seat, brace yourself, haha! No, but seriously, you know that joke about the fleas in a New York hotel, the ones with hunched backs…?
The main problem with writing things for the blog, to be honest, is that most of it is foolish drunken ranting. There may be a grain of truth in drunken ranting, but you have to be drunk in order to do it. Or, to be more specific, you need not only be drunk, but be drunk alone. Can’t write in company, for Christ’s sake, writing is a solitary occupation. And if your life is normal, you don’t get drunk alone, nor are you alone at all very often, late at night, in front of the computer, in a writing mood. Which is to say that Hellstrøm’s life has become somewhat more normal, no real desire to get drunk alone. Besides, Hellstrøm may write drunk, but his editor is stone sober in the morning. God help the son of a bitch (which one?).
The fact is, Hellstrøm is getting on in years, and even Hellstrøm can’t stem the tide, much as he’d like to. He has responsibilities, the old bat. One might almost say he’s become a responsible person. Almost. He manages to steal away, now and again, and he always hedges his responsibilities to an acceptable level. In spite of all the requirements he has no intention of ever meeting anyway. If there is one thing Hellstrøm knows how to do, it is staving off the world to keep himself from going insane. Hellstrøm will always fight them off (I haven’t the slightest idea who they are). Just because he’s paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get ’im. He’s a million miles away, motherfucker, you’ll never get ’im, and though he loves writing all this shit, he doesn’t give a flying damn if anyone reads it. He’s got other brands in the fire, other cats to whip.
Hellstrøm is doin’ good, God damn his dirty little soul. He don’t deserve it, but he ain’t been abused lately. Try as he will to make it all bad, he’s doing good. The devil braying outside his door is being ignored. God only knows how long it’ll go on, but he’s taking full advantage of the situation. He’s a hound that’s taken the scent, and he won’t let off until it’s reached its end. He has the feeling it never will. He wants more. He’s riding the Big Wave, he’s cruisin’. How much longer? Well, good luck to him, the sucker. At the bottom of his soul, in spite of it all, he was always naíve. On the other hand he’s an old codger, so look out. It’s a dangerous combination.
Listening to Jubilee Street from Nick Cave. Look at him now. And then Ska Fort Rock from the Skatalites. God damn, let those horns take you away…!

Terrible Beast

There is this terrible beast. It stays up late at night and drinks rum. Tsk, tsk. It writes silly stuff. Sometimes it writes funny stuff, or cynical stuff. Occasionally it writes pathetic stuff. Once in a great while it writes good stuff (well, that is what it flatters itself). It knows better, but it drinks rum anyway. If it would just stick to wine, things would be better, but, well, it doesn’t. It wouldn’t be a beast if it did what was good for it, would it now?
Listening to Battle March Medley from the Pogues, by the by.
Beast

Tenderness

It’s not sex, it’s not your good looks, it’s tenderness that wins a man’s heart, and honesty. You may have looks and style. You may sigh or scream just the way he likes to hear when you come, or something along those lines. That certainly doesn’t hurt, but, by God, it’s tender loving care he wants, just like you. And in keeping with that spirit: loyalty, faithfulness, no matter what goes down. No matter what.
lovers-785071_1920

Me is Dead; Me is… ALIVE!

How many personalities of mine have died? Over the years… I have changed so much. The old me is dead. It’s died again and again. That is one side of the coin. The other side is, I feel young, and it is still me here.
But that’s it, that’s why, dammit, I feel young because I’ve changed, again and again. Whether I wanted to or not, I haven’t stayed in stasis. Sometimes I chose change, more often that not it was forced on me. At times it seemed hard, but in the middle run it always was for the better… because it kept me young, flexible.
And I’ve died a thousand deaths anyway, Billions, more like. The greater part of the cells I am composed of aren’t the same ones that were me a month ago. I am, physically speaking, a new person. Each morning Hellstrøm the zombie awakens anew, shuffling through the day grunting at innocent passers-by who have no inkling that they too are zombies, that they are all gradually dying and being renewed at the same time by a power which they only dimly understand, if at all. ALIVE!
zombie

She Shook Her Hips

She’s lying quiet, fallen asleep. The most beautiful woman in the world . . . I get to watching her, sleeping. I watch her closely, the way a lover does. Objectively, looking at every detail. Subjectively: Roundnesses. Not the jutting hip-bones of a young girl. The beautiful full hips and breasts of a woman who has suckled a child in her day. You (reader) have no idea of how beautiful that is (well, maybe you do). Rounded forms.
She lay there, on my couch, and she shook her hips, before she fell asleep, like a belly-dancer. For me. With a little suggestive sigh. She’s wearing a beautiful off-white dress, and I’m crazy for her. She is the most wonderful thing in the world. She sleeps, snoring. I treasure that snore even as I walk in to the other room, to write it down.
My God. She shook her hips for me, for a short time, though she was utterly exhausted. I know she’d do anything for me. She looked at me, smiling, a glance that said everything, and shook her hips.
belly-dance-323313_640