(a translation from Romanian)
and narcoleptic and incredible creature
– the absolute pig –
in dreams 75% is possible
Hey, here’s an asteroid with a purse
Yeah, it’s a bimbo purse with an embroidered and coded message of absolute zero
there’s only one available end and it’s without parsley: HOPE
Up, everything is
said the narrator with pursed lips as if he’d got a fine
the narrator is a heavy lifter of the program for manufacturing plasticine from jardiniere rumba from the pink floor
the absolute pig
things fallen from paradise are on sale today
like a biscuit from Yoko Ono
brief opening credits
the first absolute dream
let the infectious beings enter me | said the absolute pig and opened the window wide so the last bird from the metalliferous species could whistle after a magnetic vulture.
and all those called came in a hurry
and the absolute pig closed the door and
the whole world passed a fart of relief
as the absolute pig found out, with tears in her eyes and in the pockets of the undervest and cloak
(the useful space in the middle of a monologue gets filled quickly)
tell me things with actual, coquette names | said the absolute pig to her bellybutton, to the ray of light inside it, to the absolute echo (which was too swollen to be able to answer clearly, all too often) and said again – to make sure it’s not just a dream |
tell me things with actual, coquette names, like the ones I’ve learned in the preDecember (before the Romanian revolution, n. tr.) school to write bruisingly, with spit, on the windshields of the country
the second absolute dream
the absolute pig’s dream, with sequins, glitter and small worms
in which an ocean of oceanic cats that go by the given name of BOBOB are wandering in search of a free shore where they could plunge their evil flag through which they declare THEIR ABSOLUTE DOMINION in all contexts – absolutely all geopolitical contexts of the last months before the elections – to all conquerors of free shores:
breathes the absolute pig
in her absolute dilemmatic dream
I feel like I’ve got no air
I feel… air
(upside down text)
in the dream the absolute pig gets emotional at the sight of a whole ocean of conquering oceanic cats who are calling each other in complete disorder
BOBOB BOBOB BOBOBOBOB
all in the same high-pitched voice and with a putrid smell of sea salt too heavily iodinated which makes the absolute pig lose her wits in a hostile moment completely unsuitable for (even theoretically) sticking a flag into any shore: aaaaaaaaaaah
she releases from her striped bosom of immaculate absolute pig and in the same time with the sound described by the narrator as cheerful, the pig falls head down, if only she had fallen towards the Cape of Good Hope, with salt in her nostrils and dry body it would have been better. It is with great shame that I have to tell you that the absolute pig sank –
the absolute pig believed that in paradise everything was a dream
and in broad lines she was not the least bit wrong
but in narrow lines, and even between them, the paradise was empty, empty of all which could be defined here and everywhere by the narrator as being content. there wasn’t even an echo, the paradise was not like an egg – if you turned it inside out, there was nothing of value inside, and if the absolute pig hadn’t had fallen from the dream right in the middle of heaven, or on one of its corners, the shy narrator would have rightly said that such void was slightly superfluous.
has everything that was here once fallen from a dream
she tried to say outloud but her voice sounded empty right away. too much absence was exactly that – too much. it was starting to be too empty on the inside too, as it was already outside, it was starting to be indescribable, the narrator mentioned silently. quite soon I’ll run out of rhythm and rhyme and discreet punctuation signs.
the narrator literally did the impossible and with these last words shipped her from the absolute paradise back into the dream – but another dream, like the one before the dream – full of actual things, fallen, maybe entirely, from paradise.
back into the first absolute dream
the impartial map of the infectious beings inside the absolute pig
under the nail | my friend, the metalliferous one, and her friend, the magnetic vulture
underneath | the astromagnetic astronaut with amber nails
in the soft and green part of the left ventricle | the spaghetti drained of the personal stars from Jeff Koons’ dream directly into the polka dot sauce of a known artist
in my favourite cyst on/in my main liver | my favourite gentleman, Cosinus Parasinus, an unshaven and discreet guy + his postDecember paintings
somewhere between the nostrils and the ear, to be more precise | the dramatic sounds and the donuts with black holes
in the spline | some P.V.C. toys
in the lip | the small biscuits of Yoko Ono + her milk
in the butt | Ionut, from another story that makes sense
in the nervous and tender spot, in the center, that is | Marx’s dance lessons with a salsa chequered bayonet
in the left stringy part | my lady Veravera + her favourite grandmother Babucacuca + her exotic lover + plum jam
here, in the snout | bread dried of the tears from my undervest, greased with bionic mayo
in the right stringy part: the Marquis of Quail (Pitpalac, or.) + his gravel hat
in the eyes | that smiling earring which I have sincerely detested for over 1 year
everywhere in the hair in the ears, snout, and the nervous and tender parts to which I am still profoundly attached even if many times and not too often they proved to be an easy to bear disappointment | worms, from Dune, the movie
you could say that the pluritude of beings and infectious things which parasitize our hero occupy with certainty her entire person, literally, and you would be right – it’s just that through her hooves a series of stories can be seen, without any connection to this one, but to which the narrator is greatly attached, as an absolute author.
My name is Timi Actually but everybody calls me Mr Actually because from my livingroom couch anyone can see his/her reflection in an aquarium with original Canadian dollars that belonged a year ago to my father, the initial mister Actually Nae. Before my father gained possession over the dollar filled aquarium everybody called him Mr Tron, after my grandfather, the initial Mr Tron.
My mother calls me Mimi, her father calls me Mircu, her grandfather calls me Mae, however I am the Awaiting Saint. I am an ancient and over-enlightened being that awaits the propagation of the beta carotene waves from the cosmic space in tragic verticals which, at the moment of contact with the lucid part of my skull will release a series of 12 chemicals in the form of interstellar vapour which, once condensed, would be the favourite matter of breakfast. Yes, it’s true, they also call me Johnny.
in the back hooves, hung to dry like a bag, a longer story about which the narrator had almost forgotten
My name is Tomi. I was born from a cosmic egg, which makes me one of the interstellar space children. I was born in the same cluster as Bibi and Mati – we are probably related. We slide several light years apart – we are very close. A while ago I joined a cluster of cosmic eggs. There were other children waiting for me there, but I cannot remember their names. There was an adolescent too, the only one I saw until now, I’ve exchanged a few words – some of them very useful, verbs – but I haven’t kept in touch, which is of no matter. I was hoping to see how the eggs hatch and how the children get out of them, sometimes twins, other times dead. It’s supposed to be an experience that changes you, but I could barely see anything, because I was standing far back to avoid the squash. In the end, slid to somewhere else although I really wanted to change.
the narrator remembered why he had neglected this story, it was melancholy and he pretended to be an über tonic guy.
the narrator saw some stories entangled in the back hooves and thought that another opportunity to become an author in the real sense of the word might not appear in this dream, so he took out his magnifying glass he got as a present from his mother Leontina in the time when she was trafficking useful stationery across the border during the embargo – but this is another postDecember story.
My name is Leontina and I am a serious person, I am a trusted person – this is my talent. Because my mother Vetruvia left me the following advice on her death bed, TAKE CARE YOUR OWN POTENTIAL, I decided to practice the only job that requires the possession of a single talent – that of being trustworthy – the job of a spy. From many points of view, the realisation of my own potential was a mild disappointment, as it might be for many, especially if they have a single talent and they read motivational literature. What stuck with me from the Cold War are 12 boxes fully filled with wigs, glasses, mustaches, newspapers with holes for surveillance, cyanide capsules, micro photographic cameras for which I have no film left, two pairs of shoes with empty heels, a pair of edible underwear, and a magnifying glass.
My name is Vetruvia and I am an author of motivational literature after being a long and medium haul pilot, a taxidermist specialized in capybara, taxi driver with my own car, and clairvoyant. As yet I have no bestseller, but I’m only at my second book, and I’m working with a specialized publishing house.
the absolute pig knew all those stories, of course, she was moving them around, from one dream to another. but she enjoyed hearing them again because she wanted the narrator to be her friend. the absolute pig was convinced that this had a vital role in her own story, anyone in her position would have thought the same. after 5 PERSONAL STORIES without any narrative connection with the story of the absolute pig and her dreams, the narrator should have been content. and he was, he was content.
PIG, YOU ARE MY BEST FRIEND
the absolute pig gazed at her absolute belly button, at the ray of light inside it, at the absolute echo which answered back, clearly
I’M TELLING YOU THINGS WITH ACTUAL, COQUETTE NAMES OF WHICH WE LEARNT IN THE PREDECEMBER SCHOOL TO WRITE BRUISINGLY WITH SPIT ON THE WINDSHIELDS OF THE COUNTRY
actually, the absolute pig was born several days ago, in December. after the national holiday and before the mourning period when we think, more often than on New Year’s Eve (for example), of history as being divided into two large ages:
PREDECEMBER and POSTDECEMBER
the narrator knows that there are actual nuances within the two ages; in the first there are the periods known by the author immediately and those known intermediately, the two have no clear borders, as one would expect from personal histories. then, and the narrator knows that all too well, during the postDecember period there is a first decade, almost mythical, when, among other things, Leontina, the narrator’s mother, was trafficking useful stationery across the border. it’s hard, the narrator knows and can sympathize with the author. it’s hard to tell actual things when you’ve got this far with the reading… as the saying goes, so much recent history has gone down the drain, and what’s more, , the absolute pig is still dreaming, there is another chance of rhymes and rhythms, of discrete signs of punctuation, and more so + more so, others talk enough, who am I to.
therefore, the only thing that comes to mind which transcends the two eras, both actual and irelevant, within anyone’s reach, which doesn’t offend anyone, doesn’t create a shit storm, as the saying goes, the one which in December, any December, can be seen peacefully and freely, a pale form of bullying, written with a dry finger or one moist with spit, on the windshields of the country, the narrator knows all too well what I’m talking about, is
the story of the absolute pig is finished but there are many other meaningless ones which one might read if one feels like it
the stories of all infectious beings
the first story
the last metalliferous and her friend the magnetic vulture were taking cover under the nail. in a mystical labyrinth woven in harum six by the absolute pig’s army of intestinal worms. it was rather cool, with tons of details, and it reminded the metalliferous of the universe she was coming from – a place in time and space that you can picture as an oil bubble, full only on the outside. inside it you cannot find any cucumbers, as the absolute pig thinks, inside it’s only the paradise – because it’s the only place empty of everything. the metalliferous had been the last creature to fall from paradise, which got her the name of the last metalliferous, the pig knew.
the second story
in the soft and green part of the left ventricle are all the spaghetti drained of the personal stars from Jeff Koons’ bloated puppy dream directly into the polka dot sauce of a being who at the moment bears the name of Yayoi Kusama. Yayoi Kusama has more polka dots in her lungs than Damien Hirst outside his lungs – this is the truth. in a hyper duel between the lungs based on inspiration vs expiration the absolute pig would be unsure on who to bet. the absolute pig knows that in her own ventricle are more spaghetti than polka dots and this seems ENOUGH, for now.
the third story
in the snout of the absolute pig, from time to time, there’s a loaf of bread dried of the tears from the absolute pig’s undervest. the loaf is greased with interdimensional jam, wrongly called bionic mayo. the confusion is absurd, the two greases are very different in preparation as well as in usage, as one can easily tell:
|interdimensional jam||bionic mayo|
|wormhole jelly 10 parts||android spit 2 parts|
|brown eyes from a shortsighted cyclop 10 pc||unfertilized cosmic eggs 111 pc|
|two dimensional bone marrow pre dried and chopped 3 parts||forelocks from a meta inverted panacea 1 pc|
|turquoise nailpolish with interstellar glitter 7 pc||poem without syntax from the past millennium 30 quatrain|
|cheaply cryogenized glucose 8 parts||bionic screw nuts 2 parts|
|burgeoning mustard 7 parts|
the fourth story
in the favourite cyst of the absolute pig, placed safely on her main liver, there’s the absolute pig’s favourite gentleman , by the name of Cosinus Parasinus, an unshaven and discreet guy + his postDecember paintings in the shape of fluff and feathers from preDecember pillows painted multicoloured on the sides and black on the inside – nothing special, and yet Cosinus was singing from time to time of his voyage on the Mississippi River, of his mother, whom he held in his breast pocket in the winter, of his rollerblades made of candy. Cosinus had about 12 songs ready and for a year now he had been thinking of releasing an album or a short clip on the INTERNET
the fifth story
in the spline of the absolute pig there are the following P.V.C. toys of the worst quality and alloy layers – totally real
atomic kit – small laboratory with a geiger counter and an electroscope. it’s supplied with four types of uranium, too – the Gilbert Atomic Energy Lab
negligible superheroes – excessively muscular humanoids e supplied with fluo, translucent, and interchangeable insectiform heads. they can be, at any given time, the rulers of the universe, but they choose not to get out of the package – Superhead Muscle Fighters
warmongering nurselings – smoking nurselings riding robotized and militarized gorillas, supplied with rocket launchers and propeller – Battle Babies on Coptorilla with Beano Bomber
and nothing else
the sixth story
in the lower lip are the small biscuits of Yoko Ono + her milk, individually packaged in excessive plastic to prevent souring, drop by drop. each time when a drop of milk expires, a dolphin breathes in petrol somewhere, where no one can see it. the milk is consumed in draped nude and only in negligible quantities because it is 11 times more hyper potent than royal jelly
+ excessively pricey. the whole production of milk is stored in the lower lip, naturally.
in the absolute pig’s upper lip there’s an ultra magnetic radiation, a kind of household waste belonging to the magnetic vulture under the nail.
in the middle lip are the notes of the narrator, carefully indexed according to texture and smell.
the seventh story
right in the middle of the absolute pig, the nervous and tender spot, are all Marx’s dance lessons with a salsa chequered bayonet, the sauce, not the dance, as one might think. the vibration caused by the absolute pig’s heart have the same rhythm as Marx’s dances – very useful, the narrator can acknowledge. from all the moist inside the absolute pig, lymph and such like, the dance lessons got damp, here and there, on the heel taps and trigger – the hotness of the salsa sauce doesn’t help at all – which gives the absolute pig a burn when penetrated. if you have some remedy for the dance lessons don’t hesitate to use it, and thus, through sympathy, the absolute pig will surely be cured.
the eighth story
in the right stringy part of the absolute pig is placed the inconvenient Marquis of Quail + his gravel hat, manufactured by a grand master hatter, by the name of Mary Sleepcap, from dust and powder brought via intergalactic import, sometimes legally. the Marquis of Quail is cube-shaped and with each breath he takes his corners pick the strings of the absolute pig, which has lead to the saying that he’s an inconvenient marquis. before he had positioned himself so inadequately, before he had purchased the gravel hat, even before he got to be a marquis, he was just a cubic quail, among many others. he lived in a grove of baobabs and baobabes – a kind of forestry sanitarium, actually in a sort of blissful amnesia, because everything was right. if he weren’t himself cubic, the marquis would have forgotten how good it was.
the ninth story
underneath there’s the astromagnetic astronaut with amber nails, bitten down to the quick,and the turquoise socks through which the amber nails can be seen, painted with a nail polish of an infinite blue and English red mixed with blood and lipstick. the lipstick is in the favourite colour of the astronaut’s mother – cosmic dust – glittery, honeyed, loving, royal and stands majestically sparklylicious between the silver folds of the astromagnetic astronaut’s fuselage. what total bliss the astronaut experiences in the inner universe of the absolute pig, no one and nothing can dilute this complete beatitude, not even the narrator – a morose character, who survives on an ultra-holy diet, of chamomile tea, infused for 10 minutes in the astromagnetic astronaut’s helmet who cries and bites all his ninety two nails, oh great.
the tenth story
in the left stringy part of the absolute pig has lived for a while now the lady of the absolute pig by the name of Veravera + her favourite grandmother Babucacuca + her exotic lover, in the shape of a freckled ananas + plum jam with almond pits crushed by the scratched knees of the absolute pig. Veravera is the only real person the absolute pig knows, hence the name. their love, when the fall comes, is resumed to the manufacturing and stocking of plum jam, based on the desacralized recipe of the favourite grandmother Babucacuca and her exotic lover. in all the other seasons, their love knows no space-time boundaries, it transcends the physiological limitations of the absolute pig and her lady Veravera, and the logical ones of the narrator and author.
the eleventh story
in the eyes of the absolute pig is a smiling earring which the pig has honestly detested for over
she doesn’t know how she got it, it must have been one of those stories with little meaning in which she found herself entangled at the time of her fall from paradise. the earring is detestable for its stupid humour, this is obvious to anyone who knows it at all. the earring, though, holds the absolute pig in high esteem, one could say it appreciates her in an absolute way. the pig blinks shortly and rapidly each time the narrator shows her the earring from her eye and she tries to change the subject. this reminds the earring of its birth, a painful and obscure process of which it tells sometimes, at night, from under the supersonic and ultraviolet eyelids of the absolute pig.
the twelfth story
somewhere between the nostrils and the ear, to be more precise, are some dramatic sounds, like the ones of hungry albatrosses, and some doughnuts with dark holes for earrings with tribal motifs of which I swear on pink I will never doodle, not evereverer, on any paper. the dramatic sounds, it’s known, are of many types, some crooked, some crisp, some dirty and moist, some mephistophelic and miraculously manufactured. those are MEGAHYPERDRAMATIC and that’s all.
besides that there’s nothing more to say
there’s another book with the absolute pig
in the language of English
about cosmic travels and maps for running away
ana kun is a lowbrow artist | who lives and works in Timisoara | and especially doodles anakun.com