A Death Of A Critic

I know how.

The sheets stinks. Its me. Its my life. My urine, and the damned sweat. The bed's drenched with it. My feet reek of dead corpses, they're... not mine! My toes are cold. On the left, on the right, at the rear of this goddamned bed they're gathered. Sad, distant people. Some relatives with blank faces I don't care a bit about. Another three or four disappointed persons I used to call friends. We've got a company! And who the hell asked the priest to come over?  

All right, Boss. It is time for da confession. You've busted me. Not one - two cancers. Both terminal. Hey, hey, listen up! - that's not the end. My right foot gangrenes, but the doctor is happy: he ain't gonna chop it off. No point digging in. There's a tumor in my throat and another one, smaller – in the first mother fucker. Is it lurid? Hell no! A logic symbiosis. Day after day I'd hammer myself with tobacco fumes, cold beverages in empty rooms, useless promises. I'll change. Oh, but I will! On a sunny day like this surely I gonna do it. 

I didn't have to. God got sick and tired of waiting.

Too bad.

Detective Chinasky crushed a fly on the table and moved on. I did the same to the ant who had the audacity to crawl onto the laptop while I typed my story. These patient creatures have visited our house three summers. My Mother believed their crusade had something to do with the icebergs down South. 

Willie's got cancer, and he still... hates Her.

The good old blast, weed, coke WITH speed, promiscuous broads, drinking till you forget what hour of the day, the damned day itself – it doesn't matter was it on Monday morning or Saturday evening you've started rolling down the hill... The saddest part is – I don't have books. I don't need them. I don't read for three years. At all. Those few authors did push me further. I've lost the only desire I had. And here I am strapped into the rag of death like some stupidly fallen angel.

Pathetically poetic.

Dear Bukowski – damn you were right! There are too many of us: the over-drunk poets, those poor never ever published poets. Some of them are good, really good, but the lame writers, the dull writers I hate in my bones. You Starbuck miscreants, you obedient serfs! Please! Stop, cease to exist. Die today horribly and terribly. I'm begging you! I should add – hallucinated editors, de-caffeinated agents, oh, you! Your Twitter feeds... I hate chu all!!!

Too bad? Visit Amazon's bestseller list. You know what you are.

Those faces carry the burden of a man I've once been. They don't have to. Told them many a time. What can I do? Even if you could teach a monkey to wash potatoes, still - she'd be a monkey. Not a sous-chef, right?

On the neck of our eldest-one coils that stupid know-all snake. Yin and Yang? Fuck me. Nadia likes to smoke. On her left arm, or shoulder, or both, hangs-on her partner. I donno, man. Damn tired of making everyone happy. Named Cindy. That name alone... Stop punishing me, God! I'm dying. The internet personalities care for a bunch of dogs and a team of cats. Both species get along better than the citizens. Cindy's mother did loose a bet against breast cancer, and her daddy went down due to domestic drinking. These zoomers, well, they're happy. They should be! Cindy's father last will wasn't modest as mine. A castle on the hill, a bag of gold and a responsible daily routine. Among those replete animals they keep three or four maids. Rich fellas, huh? To hoover the corners and nurture foster-kids. Geez, they have adopted four of them. Brad Pitt must be proud... Fight, goddamn it! What – have you lost your balls??? Unchain your demons as I didn't mine.

Too bad.

Cindy donates to charities for Africa, my stepdaughter's donated her life to Cindy. Or sacrificed. Cindy likes to inhale deep, Nadia likes Cindy. The lover of my stepdaughter shreds her tears harder than my blood and kin... ¬

They live somewhere in Palm Springs. Yep, we're close.

My little brother, the infamous wino's here. All right! Married the second time. Could chu believe that? He's brought out into the daylight a 5-year-old son with his mommy. Their snot – from the first verbal marriage. The biological-one pulled-off an act of bravery, the cunt. She had left Ted for good, she decamped Los Angeles also, so my brother didn't have a chance to think things through. Ted doesn't slap Bobby. He's still moved by discounted liquids as our daddy, and nobody could deny... Fucking hell, man! His wife's name is Cheryl. Okay. Both of you - do your thing. I wish you luck. 

Dear Gretchen's left the stock player. She did catch the stock player with someone. He did drag that someone home. Whooo-hoo! In the shadow my sister hides her son. Down syndrome. And tears on her face.  

Our middle one's taller than her mother. She's a dancer. Her moans I'm afraid of the most. Diva had managed to unchain Snapchat afterall. She rents a studio, makes good money, gets thousands of propositions for a deep-throat. Nothing serious. Her last hubby did find someone taller something.

That name, I know. That name suits perfectly perfect for her studio. 'Diva's Street Dance'. Should you expect more, be my guest.

Too bad. 

My Little-One's sleeping in the stroller. I'm trying not to think about Her. Well, yeah. I've been a shitty father. Here's the thing. This one's been adopted. I've managed to convince my wife there are better things in life than being sucked into IKEAian discount vouchers. She believed me. She did it three years ago, just before the Great Fall. Why, why? Weren't there three enough??? 

What about Amanda, my biological daughter, my own kid? She's here, She's five and a half...

Could I've made things worse?

Why are you here? Those weary palms, those tired eyes, exhausted presence. They say mother's love is the strongest thing in the world. My birth-giver, my dream-crasher is sitting all shoulders, a small, crumbled creature. Throughout those years She's changed, changed completely unrecognizable, gotten old, the life has abandoned Her. But I see something else. I sense guilt mixed with hatred. She's screaming at me, praying. My Mother's soul got grey surpassing the hair. She blames me, my Mother blames Her son for he didn't manage to become the person She had believed he would. 

Mother, its not your fault. 

PLEASE, FORGIVE ME.

Your glance is tearing me apart. I know I'll go soon, I feel dandy: the sight of Yours makes me cower. Donno what it means. All kind of folks crouch down in fear, in cold. Your eyes, that glance. An immeasurably bottomless abyss. An invisible wall overwhelmed between us. The wall we have built ourselves. 

My entire life I honoured You with my lips, but my heart were far from You. 

The One and Only, my Magnificent Little Woman, my sweet Wife, the Mother of our daughter, my Warmth, my Shelter, my Rage. There's this lonely despair in Your eyes, a way worse than my Mother's. She had stopped fighting Herself years ago, that's true, but You – You're just getting there. I have lost You for ever. Please, have mercy on me. 

Is it the right time to ask for it – both of them! - when one deteriorates into a half-dead? Stupid idiot. 

Henry pours me a decent amount of it. As if I cared. Nadia and her mother helps to sit the daddy up. Your eyes are dry. Nadia's face overclouds due the stench. A green mucus I cough out on her sleeve. Cindy's about to throw up. Yeaaaah! Welcome to the SkidRow, bitch!

I hit the glass. Damn, my last booze. Can't believe what I've become. But? No but! Look at me, Ma - I'm dying. Leave those regrets for me. I don't need your permission.

Father, I've never been the same since you died. Is it a good thing? You tell me.

If we meet.

Red Label melts down smoothly. Red Label! What a taste. Hell, why can't chu bring with cha the treasures of this world downstairs?

Oh, Holy Cat, take me to Your cradle: cuddle me, murk for me, kiss me. Kiss my eyes, lick my nose, and moan, moan! Let's moan together for those who had lost their toes in the Crusade.

Pray for me!

Beware of sharp bends, my pervert companions, my freaks and accomplices, my filthy devils. I love some of you, I do, though I hate pretty much everybody. Yet, follow me through if there's no way out. 

But! But beware of sharp edges here and there. Keep an eye on them day and night. Don't forget your closets. Don't clean your closets. Long for the time with your closets. 

Love your closets!

It is easy to drown in the Jordan river, so damn easy to dive in and never come back.

Are you with me? Do you hear the birds chirping? The torn birds. Morning already It is the morning. Its 4:53 AM, again.

Fucking great. 

Shit! Almost forgot:

Shave me. Shave my face, my legs, my armpits also. Don't touch my beer-tits. Put on a black Armani suit, a grey tie, a white shirt, no sleeves. Fuck sleeves! Shoes – black only. Cover down my face with a yellow fedora. Arrange expensive oils - I donnno what for - ignite candles, but don't pray. Keep rolling the best beat of THE WU TANG CLAN, "It's Yourz."  

My last wish goes like this:

“Throw my body on the curb. Leave it on the curb. Summon up the ravens. Scatter out the remains in TikTok.”

Engrave on the tombstone these:

“The faster it comes...”

Now I'm ready to die.