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Friday, July 30, 2010

Lisboa could be this right now

(if it wanted)

Grace Jones' and Divine's birthday at Studio 54

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Killer's Kiss (Part 1)

She stumbled upon them, in the stable, locked in a torrid embrace. Their mouths exchanged torrid seas of saliva. Their eyes, wild, savage, bore into each other, the flesh as one. Her husband's neckerchief had unravelled, revealing a heaving chest of dark hair. The other, the other clasped her husband's buttocks as though they were rocks on a cliff face, holding him aloft. And there it was, the word of damnation - HIM. Her husband, exchanging bodily fluids with another man, their groins treetrunks, heaving at the zippers of their corduroys, desperate to spring free and sing the song of passion, the song of the ciganos! Maria Serrano Pinheiro's hand grasped her own throat, as if she wished to strangle herself, as if she wished to die!
There would be death tonight, but no, it would not be hers. Tonight was a night for revenge. Torrid revenge.

(15/07/10 - 20 or 30 shots were fired in a fued between gypsy families of the Lisbon bairro of Carlos Botelho, injuring a number of people, after Maria Serrano Pinheiro found her husband kissing another man. Torridly.)

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Sunday, July 4, 2010

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner

Any night, you go to a gay bar and there the older men sit, all jutting, sharp elbows and legs crossed, perched on bar stools, alone.
His name is Vasco, late fifties, sauve as a cocktail no one knows. "Talk to me," he begs. "I am so lonely, empty."
You try and reassure him with platitudes that he won't understand. He blames the Church, in all (Catholic) seriousness and he talks, on and on about his mother, as if we don't have one and will never understand. "I am rich," he says, like it helps. He's more drunk than anything else, a filthy, decaying inebriation.
We duck and weave, but it's true NO ONE talks to him and perhaps we are the first in a long while. He clings to us. It's embarrassing. At some point, a banality I dug up from the self-help recesses of my mind inspires him to rage. He spits in drunken fury, profanities like tar, and then just as fast, he is sobbing on Lennie's shoulder, great wracking convulsions of loneliness and incomprehension of how gay became apparently so... nice for those younger than he.
We eventually shake him off, and before I leave the bar, I see Vasco again, swaying on a drunken ship of sorts. He has an impish smile, as if he's enjoying himself there - just for a moment.