you feed me bullets
you feed me uncooked butterflies
you feed me drain water and lemon soda
you feed me sunlight and ass
you feed me crap books and boring satire
you feed me boiling water and salt stones
you feed me all the hells at once
you feed me breasts and legs
you feed me day and night
horror and hatred and fright
you feed me tears and kisses
you feed me gasoline and nitrogen
you feed me when no one else does
you feed me anyways.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
Early morning. Heartbroken. Defecating this loneliness and shit. Irritated by the tap water tapping on the bathroom floor. Now, what else is there to do. My blood will be taken away in a short time and it will get analysed and I will be declared a lunatic. Not a bad consequence of being alive all these years. Somebody’s footsteps outside the bathroom door. My neck is aching, like an elephant sat on it while I was asleep. Anyways, I am done here and same goes for my writing.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
I had a dream. Well, fuck it. It’s been a long time. I have been drunk so much since then. One bottle after another. One night after another. One song and then another. Nothing ends. Everything is on repeat. The food, the people, the bars, the cities, the roads, the beer cans. Everything. How would you like a table next to mine? You might like it. But were you here, you wouldn’t have a choice but to hate it. It’s like that. Life without choice. Zero from birth to death, from death to rebirth, from rebirth to another cycle of bondage and torment. How would you like that? You wouldn’t, I guess. It’s like that. You liking this and disliking that and in the end, you die. I am dead anyways and still drunk.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
From my red room. Dirty as hell and unattended. The only light before my midnight. The only songful haven in this goddamn graveyard where not a grass grows. This is my red room and I come alive here and fall dead here almost every day. My disgraceful coffin inside which I lie and I lust for you and twist and turn in your absence. You light me on fire and run away to your video conference or an interview. I wait for you and your errands to end. I wait for you. I kiss you a million times inside my head. I kiss you here and then I kiss you there and in no time, I am kissing you everywhere. My red room keeps glowing brighter. It is open for you all days of the year, all hours of the day, all years of my life.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
It’s the same road, only more damaged. I am heading on the same route and coming back via the same route. It’s the same dust rising and settling down and, the next morning, rising again. It’s the same people greeting me in the noon, the same tea in the evening, the same foolishness all day. The same men occupying the same chairs, breaking the same desks, laughing at the same jokes. The same people asking for silly favours, the same people farting egos, the same people screaming for nothing worthwhile. The same sky with nothing but clouds and a handful of rain. All the seven hundred of my life and I cannot differentiate any one from any other.
We could make love right now, right here. Right here and now in this little den of mine wherever nobody ever comes and only I am the one leaving. We could make love right here and now, only if your were here and I weren’t alone under the stars, staring right up, waiting for the sky to tear up like a whore and all the rotten cum to spurt out and run down and out of my sight and out of this world. We could make love right now in my chair but you aren’t here. You are buried under files, or you are losing your shit somewhere or battling another headache on your own. I wish I were there but I am here, wishing you here instead. I look around. Not a man. Not a dog. It’s so quiet. Utterly quiet. We could make love right here and now and break this quietness.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
I had plans. They kept failing. Nevermind. Now, I can tell everyone that failed plans do not stop a life, that life goes on anyways in one way or another. It might not be the way you wanted but it is still going on in a way. That’s nothing to feel sad about it. There’s still time, and things waiting to be done. It’s some hour of night and I am half naked in my red room, staring at the fan blades, watching them cutting air again and again. Not a word or a scream. All dead things are lying around so quietly. I can barely take it.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
It is almost midnight. I write this to you as I step into another day. Everything is fine here for now. The virus is still far from here, but for how long I cannot say. In the afternoon, two folks, a man and a woman, visited my home with masks covering their sweaty faces.
‘Tell me your name,’ the woman said.
‘Why should I? Who are you?’ I asked.
‘We are asked to survey in light of the rapid spreading of the virus. Now, tell me your name,’ she replied.
‘Oh OK. OK. Fine,’ said I and told them my name and cellphone number.
‘Has anybody visited you from outside?’ asked the man.
‘Nobody visits me from anywhere. I live alone,’ said I.
‘Fine,’ said the man and took out a sketch pen from his pocket. He wrote a sequence on my door in big, bold characters. ‘What the hell,’ I said in my mind as I read the characters.
I understood the idea of this exercise. In case I get the virus in the future, they can track my home and burn it down to ash.
— TOMIC RITER
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