….Kerouac is on the verge of a stroke trying to follow the beat, Baudelaire horrified, shaking like a little girl – and Bukowski can’t get enough from the fish-ass taste on his tongue:
Narcisa, Our Lady of Ashes is here and she is yanking them out of their rotten graves to rape them with to most powerful of all drugs: reality.
This is a story of commitment. Commitment to love and the absence of consequences; like every great love should be.
From page one till the end, it is hard to take a breath of air. And forget about pure air by the way. There is not the slightest moment of hesitation by the author to dive head first into the deepest realms of hell, have brunch with Mr. Goat Head in person and let the reader be shat on with pure pain. No compassion whatsoever.
After going through so much immorality on every holy-fucking page of this Goddamn-Bible of Hell, I found and learned one solid moral:
“Love is a piece of maggot-infested, putrid meat that hangs on a hook of an abandoned Butcher’s shop in hell. Only those hungry and brave enough to eat it like a fancy carpaccio will be blessed by the sickness, the wounds that only God himself will heal and transform…”
I got all this and more from this book. Salve Jonathan Shaw,  the most authentic person I know.

- Antonio Luiz “Tonico” Monteiro de Carvalho

“Meu fumodromo narcicista,” she said proudly, displaying her latest creation, a new psychedelic juxtaposition of household objects.

Nothing ever stands still or stable around Narcisa’s world in constant flux and kinetic motion, forever and always rearranging the furniture and every other material object within her alien reach in an endless hyperactive mission to create and recreate from the material world an amazing shape-shifting sculpture of her own bizarre futuristic archeology…

Her “narcissistic smoke-a-drome” is the latest “novidade”. Consisting of an antique mirror with a little marble shelf piled up with three rubber balls, a few little boxes and a butter knife precariously balanced on the top.

“Uma faca desafiada,” she said, her bulging bughouse eyes boring into my limited non-altered perception like alien laser beams. “What on the fuck I am gonna do with a dull knife, uma faca desafiada! Hein?”
“Desafiar a existencia?” I ventured. Challenge existence? A spontaneous play on words almost worthy of Narcisa’s own supersonic alien poetry.

She got it. She gave me a supersonic glance of minute quasi-admiration before turning her attention back into whatever unseen dimension she was traveling back and forth from in her brief visits to the mundane world of matter.

Now she’s tearing through the latest issue of TRIP magazine, ripping out scraps of pages as she reads random phrases, mumbling out load to herself.

“La donna piu bella!” She said in Italian as she examined a picture of a naked girl, then tore it in half.

Now she’s making strange exterrestrial music with the pages, rubbing her fingers up and down, rustling, tearing…
“I wanna KNOW ’bout the texture of things, the speed an’ the quality. Velocity… I can make my own instrumento musical from the recycle things, only paper. But I wanna know how to do it, no the way THEY do it, got it?”

Suddenly she farted.
“Why is always these GASES come out my ass when I e’smoke, hein? … May be is some e’spirit come an’ put his finger in my ass hole when I no looking?”

Then she started singing in an alien language I never heard before, something haunting and oddly familiar, like a cross between moaning and whining like a dog and whinnying like a horse. Amazing.

She hasn’t slept or eaten in two days now. She picked up the package of biscuits I left for her and started scavenging. While she ate, she read the little words on the back of the package out load.
“Lua nova industria e produtos alimenticios, ltda… Ingredientes: farinha de trigo enriquicida com ferro e acido folico, fermentos quimicos bicarbonato de amonio, extrato de malte…. What the fuck I am eating here, man? Drugs?!? Great, Max!! Is pretty good for me!!”

“Ahhh! I am a scientist, an’ my laboratory is these e’stupid body I got here now!”

Just for today I have to agree with her.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

Congratulations Max on selling out your book!

Narcisa is a living legacy jerked out of a diseased typewriter. A broken bottle to your throat, a steel toe to your head, the electric socket you’ve been waiting to stick your dick into. Jonathan Shaw is a dangerous thinker, an indestructible wolf, and a scab vendor unraveled.

-Max G. Morton, Author Indestructible Wolves of The Apocalypse Junkyard (by Heartworm Press)

Here is the foreward to Narcisa: Our Lady of Ashes, written by the amazingly talented and beautiful Lydia Lunch.

You can’t save anyone from themselves. You will lose everything by attempting to play savior.

You will never heal the wounded. You cannot repair the damage already done by selfish parents, vicious ex-lovers, child molesters, tyrants, poverty, depression or simple chemical imbalance.

You can’t undo psychic wounds, bandage old scars, kiss away ancient bruises.

You can’t make the pain go away. You can’t shout down the voices in other people’s heads. You can’t make anyone feel special. They will never feel beautiful enough, no matter how beautiful they are to you. They will never feel loved enough, no matter how much you adore them.

You will never be able to save the battered from battling back at a world they’ve grown to hate. They will always find a way to pick up where the bullies have left off. They will in turn become bullies. They will turn you into the enemy. They will always find a new method in which to punish themselves. Thereby punishing you.

No matter how much you’ve convinced yourself that you have done absolutely everything in your power to prove your undying devotion, unfaltering commitment and unending encouragement, you will never be able to save a miserable bastard from their self.

The wounded will always find a way to spread their pain over a vast terrain, like an emotional tsunami which devastates the surrounding landscape. An ever-expanding firewall which will singe everything and everyone in its wake. The longer you love a damaged person the more it will hurt you.

They will mock your generosity, abuse your kindness, expect your forgiveness, try your patience, sap your energy and eventually murder your soul. They will not be happy until you are as miserable as they are. Then their incredible self-loathing will be justified by the perpetuation of a cycle from which there is little recourse.

Once you enter their free fall, it will be virtually impossible to turn your back on them. You will be racked with guilt, frustrated by your own impotence and made furious for ever buying into their shit in the first place. Of course the more damaged, the more charismatic. The more brilliant. The more sexually intoxicating. The more dangerous to your own mental health.

Love is a battlefield, a landmine, a slaughterhouse, a refugee camp, a whorehouse, an insane asylum, a prison. A purgatory of abusive repetition rippling off into infinity. A twisted funhouse mirror which mimics Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell. Where the lonely souls of the eternally damned dance a wicked dervish. Steeped in the desperation of those determined to throw themselves deep into the pit of a flaming volcano seeking a baptism of fire. In search of paradise, nirvana, heaven, a return to the Garden from which they have and always will be banished.

Jonathan Shaw’s ‘NARCISA — OUR LADY OF ASHES’ is a heartbreaking tome of diseased lust which oozes a poetry of bloody sweat and sperm. A grotesquely beautiful love song steeped in the perpetual twilight horror of an unbearable trauma bond. Where the twin Furies of Addiction and Codependency bitchslap you with a big dick whose own insatiable hunger attempts to feast. And in return it feeds back to the victim-turned-victimizer a mad love whose overwhelming sex magick is magnet to the darkest forces of our own primordial essence.

‘NARCISA’ is mandatory reading for anyone who has ever been fucked up, fucked over or fucked with to their very core in a fit of possession. Anyone who’s been blindsided by love and lust, shackled by passion to a lowlife scum-sucking junkie vampire whose devastating beauty and raw animal magnetism painted them as Dark Angel and Ancient Mystic. A Purifying Fire-breathing flesh-eating Demon whose warpath and wrath against the world and everything in it, by some twisted kink in our own psyche, became the tortured path we willingly spiraled into in search of our own redemption. In the desperate hope of saving our mirrored reflection from the bottomless pit of love’s eternal negation.

Lydia Lunch
Barcelona  2007

READ LYDIA’S BOOK, PARADOXIA. IT IS TRULY AMAZING.

I picked up Narcisa at bedtime, thinking that, like many books people give me, it would literally bore me to sleep. Quite the contrary! I stayed up, compulsively turning the pages, and read the whole thing in one night! Wow! What a story! How the author lived to tell it, only Jesus knows. Jonathan Shaw is a true Alchemist. In his work as in his life, again and again he has turned shit into gold.

- Inger Lorre (The Nymphs, Motel Shootout)

After a marathon 40-hour crash, finally she emerged like Sleeping Beauty from her coma, stretching her long elegant frame with a sleepy, cheerful groan. “Aiiiiiiiahhh…”
She was hungry like an animal of course, so I went downstairs to the little boteco and brought up all the breakfast stuff she likes.
Fried eggs and ham on fresh baked French bread, a hunk of soft white Minas cheese melted on another loaf of bread, fresh squeezed orange and passionfruit juices, sweet light coffee and chocolate milk, and half a dozen pink bubble gums. Bubaloo, of course.
The rain had finally stopped and the cloudy sky looked crisp and clear when I opened the shudders. The world outside smelled unusually fresh and green after our long, rainy, timeless hibernation.
She sat up on the sofa looking puffy and disheveled. She greedily devoured the food I set down before her right out of the brown paper bags.
By the time I brought some plates in from the kitchen, she was already done gorging, laying back on the sofa burping loudly, moaning, whining for me to cover her with the blanket. She was cold, shivering in the warm humid air.
I was breaking a sweat from all the running around.
I put the blanket over her emaciated frame. I started back toward the little kitchen with the empty plates and ravaged paper bags when her hand darted out from under the quilt like a silent albino cobra, grabbing at my shorts.
“Don’ go, Cigano, don’ leave me ‘lone now.”
“I’m just taking this stuff to the kitchen, princess. I’ll be right back…”
“No! E’stay with me now, Cigano. Don’ go!” She cried, as if I was about to board a one-way flight to The Peoples Republic of China.
I laughed and set the stuff back on the table. Then I sat on the sofa beside her, working myself down behind her under the cover.
“No no, Cigano, is not the enough e’space for you here,” she whined.
“But baby, you said to stay here with you. What am I supposed to do, just stand here? What?”
“Shut the fuck up, Cigano. I wanna smoke the crack now. Fuck fuck, e’smoke e’smoke, go go go! Let’s go up in you bed.”
I knew it was time for sex so she could go get her drugs. I also knew it was gonna be a bum fuck. But we tried as best we could.
I got it in there and worked it for awhile until she passed out. I worked it some more as she began to snore lightly, intently watching her comatose pink mouth as my dick got harder and harder deep inside her, fucking her long and slow, the way I like to do when she’s sleeping, lost in the endless, timeless obsession, the warm, sweaty holy limbo realm of fuck fuck fuck.
I coulda stayed like that all day, drinking her sleeping breath as I held her taut skinny carcass, running my hand through her dirty hair, smelling her intoxicating odor, feeling her warm white flesh all around me, swimming in her eternal crazed sacred essence…
Then she woke up. Narcisa never wakes up in a good mood when she’s coming off a crash, especially when she wakes up with a dick tucked up inside her. And me sweating on top.
She freaked out.
“No no no no no… Get off me, get out get out get out!” She screamed, raising her hips off the bed, expertly popping me right out of her tight little snatch like a Pop Tart from a toaster and that was fucking that.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

Found these today, thought I’d share them.

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CLICK FOR LARGER IMAGE

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.