2010 :ALIVE
BRUCENNIAL
Playgirl 2012 Mandalla.
scripted text
as performed at the Berlinale Film Festival
Kopietheatre program Febuary 20th Berlin 2010
Matthew Lutz-Kinoy
There was to be, a new hedonism to save us from that harsh, uncomely Puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival.
To sing you must first open your mouth.
The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song and I am singing.
The world around me is dissolving,
It is not even I, it is the world dying, shedding the skin of time.
The whale with his six-foot penis, animals with a bone in the penis.
The world is a cancer eating itself away-----and when the great silence descends upon all, everywhere music will at last triumph.
Indian blue, water of glass, trees glistening and liquescent.
O Tania,
where now is that warm cunt of yours, those fat, heavy garters, those soft, bulging thighs? There is a bone in my prick six inches long. I will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big with seed. I will send you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned inside out. Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a cunt. I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent. Your boyfriend is a little jealous now? he feels something, does he? he feels the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores a little wider. I
have ironed out the wrinkles. After me you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, drakes, St. Bernards. You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. You can shit arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across your navel. I am fucking you, Tania, so that you'll stay fucked. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately. I will tear off a few hairs from your cunt and paste them on Boris' chin. I will bite into your clitoris and spit out two franc pieces…
"You insist on knowing, Basil?"
My mind is far away. I'm thinking of Jessie and how he tugs away at his cock. I'm thinking of lots of things that are gone and buried. Thinking of a summer afternoon in Greenpoint when the Germans were romping over Belgium and we had not yet lost enough money to be concerned over the rape of a neutral country.
A time when She had one foot on a little table, her elaborate Brazilian dress was lifted, and with her jeweled hands she took up rouging her sex, it was like a giant hothouse flower, larger than any we had seen, and the hair around it abundant and curled, glossy black. It was these lips that she rouged as if they were a mouth, very elaborately so that they became like blood-red camellias, opened by force, showing the closed interior bud, a paler, fine-skinned core of the flower.
"You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know
everything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you
think."
"Shut the door behind you,…
So you think that it is only God who sees the soul?
I made a wish. Perhaps you would call it a prayer . . . and I was wrong. It has destroyed me.”
"It is too late, Basil,"
After it was over I asked him to play something for me. he's a musician, George, even though it sounded like broken pots and skulls clanking. he was weeping, too, as he played. I don't blame him. Everywhere the same thing, he says. Everywhere a man, and then he has to leave, and then there's an abortion and then a new job and then another man and nobody gives a fuck about him except to use him. All this after he's played Schumann for me – Schumann, that slobbery, sentimental German bastard! Somehow I feel sorry as hell for him and yet I don't give a damn.