Lian Rangkuty reads Erika Landström at Der Grieche
We ran into each other on the street and we were both wearing white: white from head to toe. We said we looked as though we were going to be baptized. We found a pack of cigarettes that had been run over in the street. And the cigarettes were all white with a blue stripe around the butt, and we said her leg was like this cigarette since she was wearing long white jeans with blue sandals. And we said we were the Swiss Guard, for no apparent reason other than that we kept bringing up the rear while walking with a group of people who incidentally wore all black. And I said she would make an incredible actress. And I said “but you should only ever play one role.” Antigone from dawn till dusk, from now until the end.
She looked like a peach, her dress the color of the fruit. She was not plump and ripe like a peach ought to be, but she emitted a sweet scent. I could see her skin through her clothes, ripened by the sun and climate of her past. Her skin shimmered with glitter. I knew that she had perhaps applied a lotion that would proffer this effect, but I preferred to think of it as a natural state, as though she secreted molten gold. Her face was like an angel’s peach: feminine, young, juicy, sweet, fuzz. An angel that had not fallen but had jumped to earth. So when I went up to her she said four words “Speak of the devil,” and I was given three to respond and said “You got it,” she roared with laughter and made me feel sheepish but pleased.
The donkeys are braying in the field, so I go out to scream at them. Scream at them to be quiet, and of course they do not heed me. Instead of stopping one especially vile sounding donkey decides to unsheathe his donkey dick, which is in color, size, shape and texture simply revolting. He mounts what I presume is a female donkey companion, who in turn launches into a symphony of noises – brays I suppose. It is the sound one might imagine one would make if one had a knife stuck directly into one’s gullet and then this knife was twisted. I am next to their pasture gate now and I feel like leading them into a ravine to perish. Pack animals. I don’t see why anyone would need them today. I run along the pasture gate, which excites them and certainly does not help to abate their braying. I feel near clinically insane and then I am stung by a wasp in the neck.