scram

 First of all I have to speak of my automatic writing trials. I will tell everything.

my mother had a hand made ironing board. an in wood one rolled in several kind of cloth. Under, one or two bed in old blanket for ironing cushion and a sheet over, for no friction. All was at the beginning well tucked and sewed for eternity, well i had believed it. My mother put the board on the top of two back chairs to iron at spot high. "better than ready-made board" "easy to put away" "not expensive", so on. The set had a stretcher look or an operating table one, or better one could play with to a spill overboard for the stiffs : One hand to the cap, other one in making bugle, gun shots up, splash.

There, i had drawn a little man on the board, well just his head which went out of the covers, because the ends were opened, head and feet of bed : just alike the rotten board for stiffs i tell you. No short sheeted-bed for these ones.

My mother had a look with full of emotion for this head of the little man, i wasn’t ill intentioned to jest, he didn’t look dead, he laughed even. Though also, and there the significations dawned upon me better than at this time, this sheet tighten around the board took soon a damn good patina, well i want to say it had wearing and turned brown places, brief a bit yellow where the iron could be forgotten.

even with the damp cloth. The damp cloth, that burns through yet.

over all i put my hand deep under to machinate with a lead pencil, a very short one, this kind of scraps of pencil you write wrong with you know, a one a yellow fingers smoker would have sucks to the butt, here is a good cliché of these days, a filthy dirty pencil, a one which would be in good use in playing doctor for taking temperature and not in the month, brief a pencil which had long history, childish patina !

i put my hand under the blanket, it was just enough slack for my tiny hand and this stimp of a pencil and i scribbled things on the board. Without to see and i find that rather great I see only the pencil to move itself under the sheet as a small gostly prick. Admit i would not say ‘gostly’ in this time, but notice that changed nothing in contentment i had in seing my mother in ironing over. She knew nothing. Nothing so bad, impish that’s all. i didn’t know either so exactly she was ironing her so clean linen over such a damned mess.

when young, one knows to forget fast.

Quite the time where i want to come, a day of course the ironing board looked alike something as a stretcher where soldiers of world war 1 would kick the bucket in line. Next. With the last wet fart in the back of the neck for the count and its shovelful of embers in the pants for good trip. Ones wouldn’t dare to imagine the launchpad of the navy. So much play in the right and gap to the left that the great Ocean, how they Would miss it and rather bam right on his shoes of the captain.

"ok, this time i am going to change the set lining, really it disgusts me"she says.

Whore o' whore ! change what !? but i find it can do much of use till.         One must not waste.

"the sheet is creased and it’s really too dirty, and on two sides ! No, no, it’s time".

What are we seeing ? and what to do ? the world would be perhaps wizard enough for cleaning off all. i.e. when one scribble again and again at the same place, at the end it can do decoration of an intellectual, or a sort. I know, such touht till couldn’t occur to me at this time, then i would say write ‘shit to the one who read it’ 20 times at the same place, and the one who has to read it doesn’t see himself. there no more point.

Whore o whore ! and so you have to reckon with the curiosity, the ‘morbid’ one. What could be left of all of that : may be it was the only time of my life i would do something like art. there it’s the big who speak, the young would say : ‘something of interest’. But it no worth, you could not exactly realize

Whore o' whore o' whore o' whore…

Come on to most important : most of the suspens was even though as if my soul was going to bottle out, much more the point to be told off. My honour is lying under and i would send back it to a depth of 5000 meters as the dead old females ones in titanic. Don’t disturb the dead specially if your pants was crawling all wet with. i had a shame as great and sharp as a church-tower which would have screwed my ass. a shame to the sky.

And from then on ones would look at me as far as my eyes can see as urined soaked saint michael, prostrate in his trots. My mother take out his killing chicken off ginormous scissors and rip, she cuts the sheet and the rotten blanket out.

Whore o' whore ….

Huge svastikas, pricks, cunts, macaronis in vomit, vermicellis in crap... And svastikas till which soak in hole glanders and mucus Whore o' whore : at that point the doodling was just at its cap it all, i.e. just a little more and it would grow dim. But there you would ear the worms of ass, complaining of hunger, so spry in this runs as fit as a fiddle.

For my mother it was as if she was working herself to death age ago to launder her linen and then after to iron it blindfolded on a old rancid door of john, soused to the bone. her mask off : i was a pitch dirt pig.

Not only the lay and underlay went into the fire but the board in kindling. I never see it again. and during the ironing, i was nomore welcome, i had the evil eyes, even both of them as two ass of a fly which could dirty the laundry with a backward leer. Let i speak and it was for fluting out some shit in all the sewing.

Scram !