A poor

Merely anything else
but a poor devil

Maria Pia Tiozzo

When someone asks me who I am, they look at me inquisitively, wondering the origin of magnetism that attracts everyone to me. I sometimes answer with a sly smile, other times with a charmingly sharp one (so I’ve been told).  My smile is what reminds me of the place I come from, the place I hesitate to call home just because a poor devil has no fixed abode. Let this be clear, I have no nostalgia of any kind, but I sometimes surprisingly find myself playing around with useless thoughts: “who knows what I would be like if I had remained where I was born”.

Thoughts that I would dismiss immediately, yet always a second later. A poor devil, most certainly but a devil nonetheless: daydreaming does not fit my constitution, it is a mortal thing. Fantasia is my nature: a journey taken, a circle that forms and takes shape, an insistent niggle that becomes an obsession. The whims, the suggestions, the cravings that one can avoid pursuing, these are just simple things: mortal things, indeed. I say this without the slightest moral judgement, albeit with admired gratitude: if it were not so, I would have no reason to exist.

The orgasms under the methoxetamine with which you get your ass stung are the most miserable things that have ever inhabited a brothel.

 If not for this weak perversion, this structured inability to desire dissolution to the fullest, which mar your plain and crystal-clear existence, I, even if I cannot truly die, would rather die every day. What I find wonderful is how you feel the rush of what is beyond your comprehension, creeping through the cracks of your existence. You are intrigued by it – as children are by pain, children who are the true devils with their innocent pursuit of whatever stings their senses – yet, at the same time, you rarely truly experience it.
I laugh at the effort of your squalor: the most diligent of you find themselves turning around in nothingness, amongst already emptied bodies, thinking they have embraced annihilation. Then, as soon as they’ve just stopped turning, my bell rings its last toll and they return to their comfortable ordinariness, without even suspecting they have scratched beyond the surface… of dissolution. 

 That is why we are here, to tolerate the stinging stench of your flesh, as we hand over what you are paradoxically depending on. If you think it is fun or delightful to play the devil, you are wrong. We are here to carefully administer the feeling that you are totally in charge of your existence, so much so that you can annihilate it. Gratis malus, an old friend would have said, and what we give you is free indeed; we do not earn anything from it. In fact, we stay here wearing ourselves out, forgetting about the place we came from, that place we cannot call “home” while you are disguised by your clothes or looking for another body to discharge your convulsions – the mephedrone in the martini hammers you. While thinking you are erotomaniacs standing on the edge of a precipice and you think you are life in the raw screaming and triumphing – the orgasms under the methoxetamine with which you get your ass stung are the most miserable things that have ever inhabited a brothel. We are here wondering why we exist, in fact joining you would be disgusting and tedious, and your filthy dreams cause nausea. It is here that we poor devils have the most amusing enlightenment – sneer, yes, “oh, the enlightened devils” – we understand the primary reason for our presence by your side. We wake you up and whisper to your minds – or what remains of them on a Monday morning – that you are still here, worse than before, ready to start again.
We relish, deeply relish your condemnation.

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