Tomic Riter

Tag: writing

  • Thought about your ass in my hands.

    Some cool guitar acoustics playing on my speakers. Another day. Stayed in bed until noon. Made love to you. Got up. Brushed my teeth. Threw everything out of my fridge and into the trash can. Kept the door closed. I am the biggest criminal. I am the violation, the wound, the biggest crack in this earth. I am the one who gets killed. Sat in my chair, turned on my laptop, thought about lighting a cigarette, thought about your ass in my hands again and again. Lit a cigarette and smoked and thought about your ass in my hands all through the noon. Turned of the speakers, left my chair and got in bed again.

    Finally got up from bed at five in the evening. Took bath. Played some guitar acoustics again. Sat in my chair. Lit another cigarette and smoked Looked outside the window. The same old leaves hanging down the same old branches. The same old cloudless sky. The same old sound of the rustling of leaves. Ache in my eyes. Maybe it’s from the cigarette smoke. Maybe it’s from something else. All I know is that it’s there.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Somewhat like the blues.

    Some electronic blues on my speakers. Let’s see what these new fuckers have to offer. First song finished. Next. Next. Next. Next. Next. It’s good but not good enough. Not as good as the old blues. But that’s how modern sadness is, I guess. Something only half felt or felt not at all but spoken about twice as much. Something only wading on the surface, but not ready to plunge all the way down. Also, all their music sounds the same. Which makes me think, how can two people feel sad in the same way? The idea baffles me. Have they started copying each other’s emotions as well. Crazy! This music only sounds somewhat like the blues but it’s really not the blues. Anyways, I am nobody to criticize. I am no critic. Maybe this music will sound better to me on some other day, at some other time, when I am in some other mood. Maybe. I will listen to some more. Nothing better to do.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Leaving all behind once again.

    Wore my pyjamas. Wore my blue round neck t-shirt. Wore my leather slippers. Never combed my hair anyways. Picked up the keys. Stepped out of the door and what the hell am I looking at! Three men standing in the front lawn with a chain saw in one’s hand and three trees fallen down. Took me a moment to grasp the scene. What is really happening here. Is this a dream. Have I really not woken up. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my palm and looked again. No, nothing was wrong with my eyes. I was awake and standing there and looking at all that. Everything seemed real now. Three men. The chain saw running. The three trees on the ground. Then I looked at the men’s faces. One of them was my landlord, wearing the same brown sneakers, dark green t-shirt, no hair on his head, all hair on his football face. His yellow scooter was parked just outside the main gate. Another man had black goggles, a muffler around his neck, white pyjamas, The third man, well, he was standing behind some bushes. I could see only his ass and his half face and I didn’t recognize him. I looked at my landlord. My landlord looked at me. ‘Hello, Mr Tomic! No work today?’ ‘No, sir. No work until Tuesday,’ I replied. ‘Oh great. Great. Everything alright?’ ‘Yeah, pretty much. Thank you,’ I replied and then I walked to the main gate and unlocked. I really wasn’t interested in knowing about what was happening in my front lawn. I reversed my motorcycle, turned on the ignition. The sweet thumping of the engine was back in the air, and it shook me back to life at once. I put my motorcycle in gear and drove off, leaving the main gate open, leaving all the confusion behind.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Reading cigarettes, smoking Murakami.

    Started reading another story by Murakami. Damn that’s tragic. Depressing. Makes you want to cry and break down and cry some more. Some time later, drove out. Bought a pack of cigarettes. Took me some time to find out a shop that was open and selling cigarettes. Strange? Yeah, I know. Finally found this man standing at the door of his house way down this ripped street that ran like a wounded snake through old tent-like buildings and roof-less houses. He was standing at his door when I stopped my motorcycle right in front. ‘What ya want, man?’ He asked looking at me. ‘A pack of cigarettes,’ I replied. ‘Anything else?’ ‘No that will be all,’ I replied. He went inside his home wearing his white soiled vest and brown trousers, and returned with a pack of cigarettes all sealed and neat looking like a diamond thrown down from the sky by the devil itself. I took the cigarette pack, stuffed in the pocket of my pyjamas, paid him and drove back

    And at one point in the story came this line “There’ nothing worth getting in this world that you can get easily.” I stopped right there after reading the line, and thought about it. I had already smoked two cigarettes and suddenly I wanted to light a third one. Some good old morning blues was playing on my speakers continuously since morning. I finished reading that story, got up from my chair, took a piss and walked out of the door thinking about all that I had just finished reading. So good and so moving and so full of the silent tragedy in our lives.

    But while I got up and I was walking to the toilet, a number of thoughts crossed my mind. The way he wrote that story. The way I write things. There’s no use of tough words to write something beautiful and readable. I have always believed in that. Always. My focus is more on the formation of the whole sentence. I want no extra word in there. I want no word less either. Just the right amount of words and I somehow feel it inside me when I get those right amount of words and I somehow know it when my sentence feels complete and right. My focus is on forming such sentences that can reach somebody’s spirit without minimal obstruction. I do not write for the mind. Academicians and intellectuals and philosophers are doing a great job at it and they are doing a better job at it than I ever will. Mind is a terrible terrible place. Took me a lot of years to get to this understanding. Mind of a scientist, a beggar, a teacher, a poet, a retail seller, a chain smoker, a sweeper, a yogi, a lunatic. All minds are terrible, and so I am never concerned with them. I prefer to keep myself away from all minds as much as possible.

    Lit my third cigarette of the day. Never owned an ashtray. Never used a thing meant for the sole purpose of that thing. My bowl is my ashtray now. Thinking about reading another story. Thinking about masturbating. Thinking about lighting another cigarette. Thinking about playing some goddamn blues again. Thinking. It’s night already. Crazy! Never thought that another night wold come, and now look at it. It came just like that.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Another day killed.

    Today. Did’t really write much. Didn’t write much but thought about a lot of poems that I could have written. Headache killed a major part of the day. Killed my mood. Kept me away from my desk and my chair until late evening. It has stopped raining now. Everything wet outside. The tree leaves. The roads. The iron gate to my house. My motorcycle. Wires swinging between the electric poles. Men and women who couldn’t reach home on time. Everything.

    This place is devoid of writers, artists, any human with a spark. Here, people just exist and then the die. Rarely, something moves them. No books in their homes. No paintings hanging on their walls. No cassette players or MP3 players or gramophones or records or even a pair of goddamn speakers in their houses. If you ever go to somebody’s house, all you can hope for is a nice cup of tea. But that doesn’t mean that you will get it. You can grab your balls or squeeze your breasts or do whatever with whatever you got while the tea is cooking for you but nothing can guarantee that the cup of tea that you get would be a really nice cup of tea. And no coffee. Absolutely no coffee. You cannot even hope for a cup of coffee. They don’t even know what coffee is. If you tell them, they will run behind you with bats and beat you to death. Coffee is like sin to them. And god knows how much they are afraid of committing sins.

    I don’t visit anybody. I never socialize. I can go months, even years without feeling the need to open my mouth and talk to somebody. I listen to music and I write and I read and I masturbate and that’s pretty much it.

    Ding Dong. Ding Dong. Somebody’s here. I hope their stay is short and I am back in my chair before long.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Nothing on a full moon night.

    Coffee on the heater. Miles Davis quartet playing on my little yellow speaker. Its sound isn’t that great but it works fine. Works fine for now. Drove out to buy cigarettes. but everything stays closed, including the tiniest of shops where you can easily find raw tobacco and cigarette packs. Outside its pretty windy. Looks like another cyclone is coming. Or maybe it’s because tonight is a full moon night. The perfect moon with all its blemishes is already up in the sky, shining bright yellow. Everything is quite beautiful this evening. The bright moon. Some cool jazz. Windy atmosphere. I don’t even feel like writing. I don’t feel like doing anything. I could pick up my chair and walk up to the roof and sit there all night listening to jazz. I think that’s what I would be doing pretty soon. Writing and everything else can go to hell. Wait, what’s that smell? Shit I forgot about the coffee.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Goddamit that took a minute.

    Drunk dying rifty rafty flying to the bottom of the ocean goddamn ocean but where the hell is all that water and all those mermaids and all those dead kittens with their wiggly tails and furs destroyed by mites I cannot believe I am seeing such suffering OH GOD what a world we are living in really but let’s forget about this world for a while because this song is fucking kickass isn’t it ISN”T ITTTTTT tell me it is because it is it fucking is but we can’t stay on that so let’s move on to what else what else yeah the stupid food but what about it because it will soon be cold so cold colder than the icebergs that put the hole in titanic and made it sink for eternity speaking about the eternity it was right in my ass until few hours ago when i shitted all out this noon HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA and I am extremely sorry for your loss and for everybody’s loss and for the loss of this whole goddamn universe because now eternity is just gone like pufffff in the air and we got nowhere to go.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Them and another cup of black coffee.

    The urge to listen to that rock song once again woke me up this morning. Strange? What is not strange. So many decades gone and I still have to wake up everyday and take shit. But it’s fine. It’s fine as long as there’s good music to listen to. What if, one day, all the music just disappears from all the devices, all the hard drives and flash drives, all the cloud systems on the internet, all the music apps. Man, I would put a bullet through my throat. I would have my eyes snatched away by vultures. I would have a road roller run over me. I would pay the driver three times just to do the goddamn job without any regards to humanity. Yeah, money can do that. Money can buy loyalty, but only for as long as the money lasts. But really, how long does it last. And it’s useful only on this little dying beloved planet of ours. Today, some guy is the richest man. Tomorrow, some other guy will take his place. Guy or girl, whatever. It doesn’t matter to me. They talk about one dimensional progress. That’s the problem with the people who keep using too much of their tiny brains all the time – they think they are getting somewhere. It’s all bullshit. They are just fooling themselves and trying to fool everyone else. God, it’s a difficult matter. Grave matter.

    Sometimes, I think I am doing all of them a favor by just sitting here in my chair, looking out of the window, making love to you all the time, not doing anything much about the distress we have brought upon this beautiful world. It’s still a beautiful world and this life is still a beautiful life, pointless but beautiful, but for how long either will remain so, I really cannot say. I can feel the fangs of evil growing out of everywhere, reaching everywhere, tearing our flesh and our spirit to bits. Really, what man has been spared in this long history of ours. Almost everybody dies with a stabbed heart. Only more hearts keep popping up, waiting to get stabbed all the same. How pointless. And it just doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop. I could keep drinking all day and night to keep myself oblivious to all kinds of shit happening, but it won’t matter. The shit would still keep happening. All kinds of shit.

    My induction cooker is beeping in the kitchen. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. The eggs must have boiled by now,and whether they are ready or not, they are going through my teeth all the same.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • All bluesy without you.

    Your hands would have been on my bare chest. Your lips would have been on my bare chest. Instead, I am here alone, listening to the blues, thinking about making another cup of coffee, thinking if I should have a quarter rum instead. My kitchen looks like a graveyard. We could have made love there and make the place explode. Your tongue licking my tongue. My cock in your beautiful wonderful perfect ass. You sitting on me. My finger in your mouth. Your hands grabbing my hair. My hands pulling your hair. My lips sucking yours lips, your breasts, your neck, your ears. We could have made love right now. Instead, I am sitting alone with a stomach full of plastic, and a cock without an erection, listening to Shotgun blues, to Mr. Hooker who is going to kill some woman because she is maybe fucking too many men.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • After waiting for half a day.

    Back at home from work but later than usual. Everything else can go to hell now. Just me and you. Watching you as I sit completely naked in my chair. I am already feeling your lips around my cock. You taking me in so lovingly, urgently. You taking me whole. You are my therapy. I am closing my eyes, feeling your tongue slowly sucking me in. Slowly but completely. You ask me, ‘Do you love it?’ ‘I do. I love everything that you do,’ I say. Your hair held in my hands. I am growing on your tongue, growing right to the back of your throat. Your mouth leaking a river on me. I keep giving you. You keep taking me. Sucking me in. Sucking me all the way.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.