Australia on holiday. On my list. Just leaded by the French – never will miss you and forget you guys.
Kuta, you poor bitch of a wave´s ashes.
By the way, why I never learned surfing?
Boys from the german countryside sharpen their shins and leathering their skin skateboarding the hillside, ruining their knees playing handball, coached by a louzy policeman. And disarming their dreams with drugs, drugs and drugs, and metal of course. Getting more pissed and flushed and pissed by unarming yourself, always being awaring of being a patsy, even though you are just a young kid experimenting with experiences. Instead of focusing on your dreams, you peer back at the judging adults, the uprights, the enemy, the ditch between you and your dreams. Jump over, kid! Don´t wait for the stream, you will never follow against. Against yourself. Rebellion is always exploring a way to make up with yourself, your disappointment, that the world is a hole of shit and that this will never change or you will never stop that storm of shit, however you try, fight or being pissed of. I never dreamed of being a surfer boy. Metal shrapnels are still too deep in my heart. But I ask myself how it would have changed my life, growing up near the alps, it would have forced me to wander, far, away, driven. Don´t you think it would fit me well? Me on a motorbike and my board. And more important, I would have something to go for. Instead of this brainfucking writing or shooting the most non-postcard image of a still conquered tourist toilet shit.
I envision, me alone, in the early morning at the shores of a waving horizon in its wet bosom the hot licking maiden sun. Floating. Waiting. No. Meditating. So waiting for my ride. Inside her wide spreaded deepness of a rolling Wo-Ha!!!
I can ride a bycicle. Proper.
And never dreamed about my belling horse and me, on the road, greeting the sunset.
Sucking visions of passion, satisfies like masturbating, a clean and sober way to piss of yourself without pissing on someone else and getting pissed by in return. What an pee orgy.
I am tired of it.
I need a real fuck, till all of my sensses are raw, suffering the strong greedy enhancement of a centered center, like that first drop of blood appears, after scratching the bite of a mosquito.
Being a part of an outside, affecting, attacking the inside. Not being the head of the dick, the glans of the iceberg.
Finally, maybe, and I will let you not know when I am finished rumble the bitch, this is why I am searching for that LOST. There, at this lost, are no surfers, no bikers or riders, no rain, no sun, just ground, a shadowless spot on a dark enlighten lost. No followers, no marauders, just myself, nor me, nor I.
This is how a nearly felt passing the gate of the orphanage. Lost in translation, like an exploited explorer.
So don´t worry, I won´t let you down, my self, I will not learn surfing and frustrate you with your unmotivated efforts.
I am gonna find my way back behind the lense. Tomorrow I ride the local bus to Banyuwangi, sweating and sticked for more than 6 hours, hopefully, with chickens, sacks of rice, stones, snakes, whatever you like, put it on the bus, I need some grainy life between my teeth!
– Nevermind, Australia, I still don´t know you.
