Sucking pain

I usually do not smoke. But I love the color, the blue. Most of all, I like the smelling of smoking men building a house. But I don’t like them, the staring & could live without the laughter when I’m gone. Fucking nice smelling they leave diese bescheuerten Idioten.* “It is im-possible to build a house without men, my daughter.” Hunters in the mountains with dogs and Schnaps and guns. Eine mir fremde und doch so vertraute Welt. Ich fühle ihre Körper durch mich hindurch, ihre Bewegungen. Ich kann mich nicht wehren: Immer bin ich versucht, sie zu verteidigen, wie dumm sie auch sein mögen.* 

That you have to be nice, smile, because “we need them”

Old bands of solidarity. The village. Dancing boys with hard muscles. Feuerwehrmänner im Blaumann mit Koppel,* they can repair your car. That I have to be nice, smile, because “we need them.” Mich fühle ich nicht, ich bin gar nicht da irgendwie.* Es ändert nichts, ob ich queer bin oder nicht. Ich habe gelernt mich zu be-nehmen, immer. The other thing is that their language is mine, their lack of culture formed my first words. “Du Sau.” “Apologise that you called your grandfather a pig.” “Sorry.” “Well done sweetie.” Their cigarettes and concrete smell through my childhood like Dieselbenzin und Traktoren.

Only one woman smoked, and my mother considered her dirty or stupid

1984 they built the house and I went in to live there. Only one woman I knew at that time used to smoke and my mother considered her somewhat dirty or stupid. I watched fascinated for the little red fires in her cigarette, brennende Zigarette. It was a game: Es leuchtet rot. Weg! Es leuchtet rot! Wieder weg! Rot! Wieder weg-rot wieder da: rot.* I carried cigarettes from inside our new built house, exchanging them with the neighborhood boys. Die Zigaretten spuckender stinkender Arschlöcher.*

In puberty, I just adored the smelling of Zigarrretten. Then, after drinking beer, ok, accept one from the boys. Danke. One, two, three, and then vomit. Not always vomit. Still, I loved the smelling of cigarettes. Like in the bars at the old port in Barcelona. Workers drinking red cava, smoking Ducados. Once I met a woman at a beach in the north of Barcelona, she gave me one of hers, but she couldn’t smell them. She had lost her sense of smelling for she had smoked too much. Smiling-she had yellow-teeth. With gold.  

My sister packed them at home in Krakow

Lukasz smokes like he is breathing in. In dem Moment, in dem er sie hinein saugt bekommen seine Augen einen ganz anderen Ton, sie weiten sich, sie zeigen auf einen anderen Ort hin.* Drogato? Olga forbade him to do it inside because it’s forbidden in Italy since the 1th of January. When the bus arrives from Krakow, he manages to get up at six thirty and carries the new packages home. When we meet later at breakfast, he’s like this: Polish cheese! Kurwa! It’s the best. With pasta, look, you must take sugar. I ate this during the whole summer. Braaa! Ci-ci-cigarettes. My sister packed them at home in Krakow. They are really expensive in Italy. 

Are you a girl or a boy? Are you a boy or a girl?

Relentlessly repeating roaring of the Hinterhaus, le terrazze, i balconi, street theatre with dogs, cats, house wifes and cats. We can see the sky from the Hinterhof. Lukasz pustet blaue Wölkchen Zigaretten in die weiße Luft und schaut unendlich in die Leere.* What do you do this weekend? There is a party in bar fiasco. Norwegian party I think. Yes, maybe. I don’t go to university parties any more. Can I smoke inside? Look, there is snow in the air. Kurwa, it is so cold.

Soon, it will be Christmas and we will all go home. Nice, isn’t it? Sweetness and bitter chocolate. Fucking Christmas, fucking home. I want to burst it out. I want to change it. I want to suck it, fuck it. And not only IT, but also the rest of my sweet experiences in Hetero-stan. To you out there, can you hear me? You suck, fucking jerk. Are you a girl or a boy? Are you a boy or a girl? I will tattoo your name on my ass in the world language.

I want to let my words free now 

I want to let my words free NOW. Free them. Horses they are, fast runners, don’t go back. I find a pipe. I find tobacco. I put it into the pipe and breathe it out. OUT, not in. I am the smoke. Jestem niebieskim niebem. I blush away my fucking world. I smoke smoking flat mates. I don’t need a drug, my drug is inside. What does pain turn into if you cannot express it? Lava. Then stone. But still, I am alive. I take a book that nobody told me to read. I take a book that I have chosen. I dare to smoke it with the pipe. I taste, it tastes, it tastes. How it tastes! I smoke all of it and everything and then explode my closed inside. I breathe slowly, I consider the pain. Then I take the gun and light the fire-pen. Out of my bursting cry comes an aeroplane. Das Flugzeug ist wunderschön und fliegt hoch in den Himmel. Hoch, hörst du, es fliegt hoch! Ich rauche meine gefundene Pfeife und überlege.*

 *English translation of German text parts above:
 1. * Diese bescheuerten Idioten (German): these stupid idiots.
 
2. * I feel their bodies through mine, I feel their movements. I cannot stop it: Always I feel obliged to defend them, even if they are soo stupid.
3. * Firemen with their blue uniforms, including the Koppel, which was also a part of the uniform of the German Wehrmacht and is still associated to it by young boys in the village.

4. * I don’t feel my own body. Somehow it is as if I wasn’t there at all. Being queer changes nothing in my case. I still be-have.

5. * It was a game with that burning cigarette: It glows in a red color. Then the light is gone again. There it is: Red! And gone. Red! Gone. And red again.The cigarettes of spying stinking assholes
6. * The cigarettes of spying stinking assholes.
7. * Right in that moment when he inhales them, his eyes get a very different tone. They widen in a way as if they show another place, another reality.

8. * Lukasz breathes blue clouds of smoke in the white air and watches eternally into the emptiness.
The airplane is very beautiful and flies high into the blue sky. Do you listen to me? It goes high, the airplane. I smoke my pipe, the one I found, I am thinking.

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