flawnt » man

01:46 – San Diego, California

flawnt — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 17:48:03 +0000

― Something very strange happened to me today as I came out of the homeless shelter in the small hours. An ill wind blew from the sea and I wished I had camped out on the beach instead, but then I remembered they don’t let you do that anymore for fear you might soil the pristine waterfront. The joggers don’t like us. They want to look out over the sea and feel good about themselves before they disappear in their glass cubicles to make the world go round. As if. The strange thing that happened wasn’t a thing as much as a woman in pyjamas, who seemed to have lost her way. She reminded me of Virginia Woolf. You know who I mean and you get the picture. She drifted past me like a specter but I wasn’t drunk and I knew that she was real. As I looked, she turned round, came back and stood in front of me just like you now, only closer, much closer, so that I could smell her womanhood. Man, I was hungry, I was tired, I was sick, but that made me feel so good, I can’t tell you. She said only one thing to me hardly opening her lips, said it to my bare, stubbly face, which made me feel as if I had brushed against fine gauze: ‘You’re lovely, Gary’. She said that, I swear, she said it twice even and it made my day.

Monahan

flawnt — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 13:22:37 +0000

(Excerpt of an in vitro novel “Bloody Management” for NaNoWriMo. Unfettered, unedited, but not dispirited. From chapter 17, “Monahan”.)

They tore themselves away and, sighing soundlessly, each in his corner, got dressed, eyeing each other shyly. Nicholas thought Maggie Monahan was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Men can be simple that way if they want to, usually to an honourable end. Maggie thought Nicholas could need some trimming around the beltline and that he was a nice man with potential to be a lot more than a nice man, a treasure hunter, a mysterious, hairy gollywoggle. She had enjoyed the sex, too, more so than she had in a long time, maybe ever, but such memories are like autumn leaves: they rot where they fall, they cannot and should not be preserved. They must fuse with the forest floor, they must return themselves, by their own free will, supported only by the gentle gravitational force, to the great circle of coming and going, of giving and getting.

My hood

flawnt — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 07:36:02 +0000

My father was a writer and a great man, and his father was a writer, as was the one before him, and he was a great writer, too.

So that I got confused sometimes if greatness came from being a man, or a father, or a writer, or all of them at once, since the attribute ‘great’ seemed strewn so carelessly among my forefathers.

As for myself, I am a man most of all, then a father and a writer last, but great I am not in any of these, be it character, destiny, or occupation.

I can spell very well and I can raise a storm from a single drop of holy water.
And I sprinkle my verse with fairy dust to make it fly.

My greatness is fidelity to all things I observe from the lowliest love to the highest hatred.

My smallest word is ‘I’, which I use as an eye to look around from under my hood.

Published by Metazen, Oct 2009, with “iCarus” by ms flawnt