I’d like to lick your sweaty armpits again before I die. BadSeedZine for Lampoon Ruvido

«I need to taste you again as I run my fingers over your handwriting. I need to feel with which form of violence you imprinted yourself on the paper. And that is the most erotic thought I could allow myself»

BadSeedZine for Lampoon

Tile: I’d like to lick your sweaty armpits again before I die

Everyone has a pickup truck in Snelling, Merced County. Someone carries building materials, other ones, children. Most of them, as far as I could see, hauls dead animal carcasses – especially dogs. In September the Sandhill Crane comes back to be seen in these places, along with the Monarch Butterfly. Snelling would deserve its own Scott Sandage but it was gifted with this butterfly, which probably is the most awarded bug of The United States Of America, so they can live happily in admiration of it – we are in California not Vermont, but please settle for this. The most recognition a resident of Snelling has got in his lifetime is a punch in the face from a drunk man in the middle of the afternoon or a firing just some days before Christmas. The Monarch Butterfly was elected as the United States national insect in 1989 but it is also the national bug of Alabama and other states that I can’t remember right now, too hard. Look at these so celebrated butterflies and choose a record for your burial Snelling residents. I beg you to leave Carissa’s Wierd just for me. In these twenty-seven days that I have been stuck here, I have a raw feeling that I am trying to process. In the distance, the following message exchange.

ME: I need to taste you again as I run my fingers over your handwriting. I need to feel with which form of violence you imprinted yourself on the paper. And that is the most erotic thought I could allow myself.

L: I miss you like the first time I listened to my favorite song as a teenager. A song that now. I’m not sure to remember anymore.

ME: I think I came inside you when we were in Naples.

L: Berauschte Welle. Gottfried Benn. Bitter Fruit. Bobby Sutliff. I take you as seriously as the last rock I threw before going to jail in Australia. [Emoticon of a knife].

ME: I did mean. And after cumming inside you, I thought of a picture of Alyson Hannigan in a red and white racing driver’s suit. A picture I saw a few days before your arrival in Naples. I was feeling like as I had the same expression as her at that moment.

L: [Emoticon of a knife]. That’s me I asked to cum inside me, but I don’t think you did. I have a raw feeling that doesn’t allow me to answer you. It’s almost night, here. I go out barefoot searching for the most elegant inflorescences of Alkali Sacaton but I only find a fucking spike sticking into my foot. I was born in September, a few days ago, but September is not a good time to enjoy the wonderful trivialities of this plant. That’s me the asshole: I deserved that spike. I ask in return, from the drops of blood I pour, to make the pain clarifying but I can feel only fear. Ever since I was a child I’ve believed in the value of raw things because in these things it seems like to read the true history of the world and the meaning of my ending; it seems like I lay my hand on the fragments of Gobekli Tepe as you did 11,000 and something years ago and I understand you. What is conceived as raw by most of the people is what is truest to me, but this feeling has no truth and allows no reading. It allows a spike to pierce my flesh because I feel afraid to answer you. It allows the stars to make void the last turned on light in the Baptist church. It allows these rainless days to make me a monument of affliction in the desert. You’re going to work, it’s morning there. I’m giving you a shitty day by not replying to you, and I feel like total crap because of it. It’s cold. I sit on the floor to check my foot, sweating like that time we fucked in your uncle’s sauna. I’d like to lick your sweaty armpits again before I die. Not that I’m dying right now because of a stupid spike or the fear of becoming a father; let’s be pretty clear. I know I still want to lick your armpits before I die, I want to feel the roughness of your bitter hairs and then the smoothness of your skin, bitter as well because of the sweat. One more pickup truck is passing by in Snelling. Maybe it’s already night and maybe the raw feeling I feel is not fear. I will fall asleep here on the bare ground like that time, while watching Kaufman’s Synecdoche, I fell asleep on your knees. I just want your hand to caress my head.

BadSeedZine Manifesto

Badseedzine is a movement, not a simple zine; there must not be any shame for the human being. The body is our creation in the orb’s cage. Each creature is moved by our bad seeds. our nails screech on the limpets wall. Our seeds are invading the city of fiction. Sprouts on the fire deer’s cranium. Our bad seeds. Will release the city. the hawthorn arms already laid down on the head of the exiled saint.

Photography Alessandra Pace, Luca Matarazzo and Marcel Swann

Illustrations: Luca Loretti
Graphic design: Giuliano Manselli/DROMA studio
Thanks to: King Koala Press

Marcel Swann

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