22/05/2002
art mécanik
hurle
motel murders
xia

 

TAIPEI HWAHSI TOURIST NIGHT MARKET
16-Welcome



SEIZIÈME RIZIÈRE ROUGE.

I drink the blood of the snake.
Everybody shops, every one is for sale. The street beggar is lying down, his head banging on the pavement, his money getting cold in his hand. The street monk prays, begs and stares silently at the cheap horny porno DVD. The porn actress never smile. She opens her legs. The small temple is open too. Pictures are OK. Everybody prays, even hookers, even birth mark stained pimps. KTV kiss, Buddha is a schizophren with 1001 blue personality. Burning papers, red incense, plastic dildos, snake skin, snake blood, snake bile, street sellers on cheap microphone, come and buy dried calamary, no picture here only in the temple, in the centerfold hairy magazine.

The street beggar lies on the hot dusty pavement, near the tires, under the 1001 street signs. And the crowd goes by. The small temple never close. The porn daughter never smiles. The penis enlarger never works. And the crowd goes by.

I drink the bile of the snake.
No picture, no day, follow me in the dark alley, let your life go by, let the barbershop beauty cry. Kill the snake, drink the poison, change your skin, pay the Hi-King master, spin the turtle, put your rice grain in the orange bowl, sing the song, follow the white ball on the karaoke tv, smile to the horny lady.

The street beggars doesn’t move. 1001 street sign shining, 1001 Buddhas in light bulb cells, magic pot cleaner screaming in lousy microphone, he thinks of something else, looks at the nice young ladies, underage, underfed, overmakeuped. Come and pray, come and pay. Pay to come. In the dark alley behind the market, smoky temple, fishy gambling, night horse racing on loud TV, endless porn DVD, acupuncture and poison blood, the street beggar is dead, his head on the night pavement.

The street beggar is dead. I got lost in the night market. I saw your eyes in the snake, saw the snake getting killed. I forget. Introduce me to the cobra’s dream.

I drink the anti-venom.
Introduce me to the cobra’s dream. Let the poison flow. Read me slowly the forbidden books on a silk pillow, let me lie down in her almond eye, on her jasmine skin, in her perfume pagoda that flows between her spicy legs. Let me kiss the sexy poisonous dream. Buddha is a schizophrenic in 1001 light bulb cells. The street beggar is cold by now. My blood slows down. The old monk is blind. His apprentice goes in the dark alley and open the red barbershop door, and pays the oily scissors man, and lies down on the tiny DVD star. The Hi-King turtle spins and spins and spins and never lands, she takes my hand, makes me forget, her eyes as small as a leaf, her skin as soft as a dream, her mouth that swallows me down, into the boa’s body. I dream a 1001 dreams of her. She can suck the venom out. She is the poison. And I start to feel numb. I have been bitten.

And the street signs flickers.

 


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