like a rabbit...

In your oven
(like a rabbit in your headlights)


I overheard a conversation the other day Mr. K. People. Two individuals were pointing fingers at each other…. Why are we so obsessed with overhearing? Why are we so delighted if there is death? Overhearing becomes something that we do all the time… overhearig stories on the news, living stories from fairytales and soap operas… loving like they do in the movies. Sometimes even forgetting our own lives.

Other times we just play back our dirty fantasies as if we wished to get sick… To throw up our »being good every moment« inside us. All the stories that are ours. That we hate and fear. But again love when we read them on paper soaked with yellow piss. Tabloids. Being shocked by the stories we already knew…
I wished for ten moments that I was brave like you, Mr. K. And knew how to steal the wisdom from their stories and make it mine…
Just mine…




»I' m wearing a coat that smells like you my dear«
(occupying Palestine)




As I'm working in a morgue… day by day through the same routine. Dark places without windows, without light, but with a strong smell. Smell of dirt mixed with the sweet and sour smell of death (just like that dip you liked so much at the drive-in). But once you get used to the smell, you see beauty… beautiful faces… even if distorted by death and the wrecking force of walls... rocks… cars and bullets… you see beautiful women. With skin cold as ice, and that bluish colour. Reminding me of flowers blossoming. Beautiful lilies when being hit with bruises of rainbows. Gorgeous crysanthemums when the blood is gone… Beautiful hyacinths when being dead.
Every once in a while they even smile to you. Those peaceful bodies lying on their designated places. Peaceful. Even if shot through the head by their beloved ones, even if left alone by everyone, they smile. Even if just for a moment. Even if their smiles last for seconds and then disappear in your sick mind like moments. One, two and they're dead again. Being [sajkik] psychotic. A see-through day-by-day appearance [chain (see)saw] of painful [loud] sounds… A chain(see)saw tearing its way through flesh and bone, tearing its way through wood… chips (of flesh) flying around. They sounded like smiles. Disappearing but still leaving an echo in the empty hallways coated in cold tiles. Working in a morgue. Quiet part.

Beats of the »pneumatic cutters« against screaming sounds of our »skull drillers«… the everyday routine of sounds that break the silence in between their smiles. No wide, shiny teeth looking at you from a toothpaste commercial but beautiful cheerful smiles. So vivid yet so empty.

Sometimes I go to funerals. To see my artwork. All of you are my paintings. And every funeral is like an exhibition for me. I put my art on display in a wooden frame… just like a painting or sculpture (if the bones are broken) in a coffin. People dressed in chic black. Sipping white wine and having the jibberish conversation about the exhibit. Aproaching it every once in a while to have a closer look.

No reality is more beautiful than you were… Dead in a car full of red roses… the reflection of your coffin in a black tainted window… no jewelry is more beautiful than the golden polished handles of a casket… No red dress is more suited for you than the red velvet of a coffin… fits you perfectly. Wraps your body in colour… like a gently worn coat. A famous red one. (ups). The smell of formaldehyde coats from high white collars. And red necks.

»I'm always wearing a stethoscope so the girl at the 4 a.m. coffee break will notice me. I probably look like a doctor working late nights. Actually she's the only other person in the room (besides her[you]). Two ponytails, each at one side of her head. Fat brown plastic frames. Brown like the wood of the coffins that we sell. Maybe that's why I'm so fascinated by them. Never smiling, always looking at the ground. Just like in a movie. The typical good girl. Nothing like you were. Maybe that's why I fell in love with you… Slowly decomposing in my 2-bedroom apartment. There was no funeral ceremony. The red roses were bought by the government. No priest. No holy water… no holy nothing…
So maybe that's why i dug you out of my dreams. (filled with soil)

At first we only spent time together when I pulled you out of the freezer… Stone cold crazy foxy. The twinkling neon light always glittering in your eyes… the sweet sounds of water dripping from your skin. Unfreezing. Little drops of sweet rain dropping onto the tiles on the floor as the ice on your skin was melting. After the ice was broken and gone, we started to move because the water was gone. So we started to go out from the freezing room. After a while I even took you home. Dinners for 2 --my place of course-- scents of the candles to cover your smell… me staring into your beautiful face… with the gloss of skin turning blue at first, then to green. I even called you my little rainbow, remember? Your eyes staring into mine… without moving… your curly hair covered with dirt… Little brown reminders of the soil back home. My little sunflower growing in the middle of the field. That hair of yours always reminded me of those… little sunflower roots. So delicate… So gentle, so full of life. And dirt hanging from them. The very dirt I liberated you from.… Those curls covering your left eye… playful moment almost like seing a naughty child playing with the magnifying lens and ants… Burning them. A pocket-size crematory.

So we started to go out together…. Not just at my place but proper out. Like lovers do… Drinks with ice... remember it kept u from smelling. The wooden wheel chair in which you were always seating like a stuffed animal (that's what you are, after all), a stuffed teddy bear, at first didn't bother me so much… The squeaking of the wheels even sounded pretty to me… like the »strange snorkling laughter of your ex«

But then we started to get into fights… Those little habits of yours, once so cute and simple, which you made so unwillingly, started to bother me. And you couldn't stop making them.
And people started to notice that my only one isn't so vivid after all… Waiters started to find offensive the way you never talked to people… I started to be tired to always have to order for you too… I mean you talked to me, why wouldn't you talk to them? Always the same question: » sir, is everything all right with your mrs.?… She's starting to be a little… ahm… blue in the face!?!« So we started to stay at home… You were suffering from a »postmortum depression« I read… And there was an ad about it after Doctor Phil's show. No more fancy candles. From now on, only the twinkling light of a Russian army torch.

We were never able to have candles because they would burn your hair every time you fell on your face in the soup plate… Every time I picked you up from your plate, the noodles were hanging from your face. They reminded me of little worms… Making me sad because your end was close. After all, you were decomposing.


God I miss those slurping sounds that you probably made when you were alive.

But now you smell like tar.. and open-air fire in the middle of the night… Fake dreams of invented realities… memories like snapshots.. glued together with pictures from newspapers and travel catalogues… We visited all of those places…gluing your post-mortem pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower with a piece of scotch tape. To accompany the scotch on the rocks in my hand… almost real… Clearly showing that on the back of your head it's not the steel of the Eiffel Tower but the cold shine of the steel operating table. That was your bathtub once, remember… as you let me wash you for the first time. You seemed so peaceful and quiet. To accompany the scotch on the rocks in my hand… almost real…

The same rocks you once fell on… that's how we met, my little bee… b(e)e suicidal… that's what they used to call you… little be(e) suicidal flying from flower to flower. From depresion to depression. From addictive habit to addictive habit… From that cliff straight to my arms. Your tender skin tearing against those rocks… bones breaking like shattered glass… as our little coffee table you (once) again fell on… as the sound of the electric and pneumatic cutters that I use. They're my tools. My chisels that create perfection… that carve beauty out of death. To be on the cover of dreams. Young boys getting wild when looking at those pictures. Women gossiping about the type of make-up I used to cover death. As they used to hide the scars and bruises as their husbands waved goodbye on their way to work. The little be(e) suicidal always flying.
Head first… just like you used to solve our problems… head on… on the rocks…Another double please.

I was always scared that they would find out… how much I loved you… back then… It was forbidden. We were different and they could never understand the beauty shining in our necro dreams. There was no one fighting for my rights on a tv show… the different ones just called me sick. All I wanted was to love you… if they were the different ones than why did they call me sick? I really loved you…more than they did when you were alive.
Those rocks were the reason we met… the thing that brought us together… as two lost moons attracted by their gravity (as you were back then), flying towards those rocks…
My lovely one… I never found the beautiful sea shells that kids sell on the street… even if I kept on and on… searching those rocks… then one day I saw your empty shell on the rocks… It was in the news. I even got an e-mail with your face before and after your change. But even if your face was different, I could see the inner beauty of it. What a coincidence that they brought you here to my morgue…

I could never be myself with any one like with you… You were the only one that could really listen to me. But the fights started to be older, there was more and more broken glass and the plates got bigger and bigger. Part of it was because you never even bothered to clean up the apartment. I had to wash my own shirt for work… my long white robe started to have brown spots… I got them because I had to lift you on the bed every night and off of it before I got to work. A quick cup of coffee before work and lifting you up from the bed. Sometimes in the hurry I forgot to change before going to work. Sometimes I even forgot to iron. So people started to notice the round stains… round like your breasts. I even started to think you started cheating on me. If I didn't wake you up, you would just lie there naked.
»What were you doing on the bed naked all the night and alone? Alone! Don't lie to me! Who were you with!?!!«
The fights started to get louder. But I didn't hate you. I loved you. I even cried when they came and took you away from me one day. The neighbours started to complain about my screams… and your smell. So they broke in one day… men dressed in uniforms, breaking down the doors and screaming something like » burn the witches!« I couldn't understand their mumbling. Their faces were covered with helmets and the guns were scary, so I couldn't concentrate on what they were saying. I think they started to call it concentration disorder. They even claimed that I pushed you on those rocks so that you would stay with me. But they are lying… remember? You jumped. You must remember. You decided that it was time to go. I wasn't even there. I didn't even know you back than.

That's what they said when I was on the news one day. Imagine…we were on the news. Romantic like two lovers… Romeo and Juliet on the news… Not in some dusty theater where nobody goes anymore… On the news… I always repeat things 3 times in the letter to make it more theatrical… I know you would love it… more epic… more me (us).
The publicity I got was overwhelming. I know you mentioned afterwards that I started to enjoy the feeling of my ffteen moments of fame. I was on the news every day… the star of the hour… the scoop of the moment ... the court case of the year… my very first title… I fell in love with the moste beautiful girl again. I feel in love with you. After all, I had to remember that you were the one that brought me here. You were the one who brought the attention at us. The one to reveal our love to them.
They even paid for our counseling. They call it psychotherapy, call it couple's counseling. I love you sweet one. I always loved you, now I adore you. Since you are a ghost and follow me around the empty halls of a psychiatric clinic.


»…the same white tiles that remind me of home!«
Sincerely (someone, spoken source)