Blog

The one thing about Narcisa which I’m constantly reminded of is that she really doesn’t have to create any specific artwork or poetry.She is Art itself.And, on some weird, psycho intelligence level of pure animal alien intuition, I think she really knows it…When I woke up in the late afternoon today, the apartment was completely covered in millions of tiny little white balls of styrofoam, all flying around like snowflakes, blowing about crazily in the wind of the ceiling fan…Still groggy and half asleep, looking around the little room covered in jumping, flying, dancing little white balls, I didn’t know what the fuck to make of it.Narcisa was chasing around the room with a broom, trying in vain to somehow curb the unmanagable flurry.”What have you done now, ya little maniac?” I blurted out.”Don’ to be angry to me, Cigano,” she cried in childish desperation, her big expressive eyes shifting around the room like a crazed little jungle cat.Narcisa.The little girl who ate all the cookies.It was impossible to be mad.I just sat there looking at her.Narcisa. Living art.

 ”I go to open these e’stupid thing for look what inside,” she cried, pointing to the my little leather bean bag chair, as I gawked at her, bleary-eyed, too befuddled still to even laugh…”I open it the zipper and… BOO!!! All these million of the little e’shits it come flying out on my head an’ BOO!!! Now is the e’snowing in these place… Is NO my fault, Cigano!!! How I gonna know these thing all inside? E’stupid sheet!”She yelled, suddenly kicking the beanbag like a pissed off 5-year-old, causing a new flurry of the little dancing white balls to fly out into the spinning whirlwind of the fan.”Is e’snowing on the Rio de Janeiro, Cigano,” she squealed in delight as I scrambled over to zip the bean bag closed and contain the mayhem…Still groggy, I stumbled off into the bathroom and threw some water on my face in preparation for another day with Narcisa.While I was still brushing my teeth, she slid up beside me like a ghost in her little denim miniskirt and tattered skimpy tube top, looking like Lolita meets Burning Man on LSD.I knew what that meant.Time for the good morning wake up fuck.I was half awake by now but my dick was still sleeping.Narcisa told it to wake up and it did.”I been the good girl, Cigano,” she whined as I stared absently off into space, watching the little white balls dancing around the apartment like thought balloons blown to smithereens as her brain exploded like repeating fireworks.But we do love the crazy girls, don’t we, boys?”I have for letting you e’sleep for all the day and I no make the noise an’ bother to you, no?”I had to agree.She really had actually let me sleep for more than four hours today.That in itself is a small miracle.And she was in a very good mood.Another sweet surprise.That’s Narcisa…A walking, talking universe of surprise, drama and high-risk adventure… super-charged with an electrical overload of raw life force that, if somehow ever harnessed, focused and directed, could light up the whole world forever…A rock star without a band.A general without an army.A burning bright shooting star of the apocalypse.Narcisa.A living work of unschooled, unrehearsed authentic outsider art and absurdity.A genius.My goddess.My eternal nuthouse Muse…

Now she’s dancing across the room with a jar of greenish cloudy water she keeps vomiting into as she wiggles that magical moribund ass around and around like an alien hypnotic death bomb of pure obsessive fascination.I can’t take my eyes off that gyrating perfect ass that’s jumping into my mind, teasing every brain cell, as my dick gets harder and harder till I think its gonna snap off in my fucking pants.And I only want to unleash it into her sweaty warm fever hole again and again and again.And she doesn’t stop, can’t stop, never stop, go go go…. spinning and dancing around and around like a crazy, endless wind up toy… and she is the most perfect creature in the devil’s arsenal of terminal torment and temptation and insatiable, endless Want.When I try to take her jar of bile away and throw it in the toilet, she fights me off, clutching it possessively to her breast like it was some precious treasure trove.”Leave it, Cigano! I wan, for know what it is coming out from my organism now….”How could I argue with such impeccable bughouse logic?Narcisa.Psycho art of the highest fucking order… 

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.