Diary of a Loser

A policeman

Having reluctantly fucked one of my girlfriends – for some reason I got excited over her ample body – dozing off, I suddenly recalled how a policeman tried to seduce me, and I laughed outloud. It took place in the summer. I was invited, I think, by the Neanderthal Boy (maybe it was the housekeeper, I don't want to be exact) to go to the country, even to the ocean, to be with some big and far-flung family in a garden, where, having hung the arrows and lanterns, we/they were ready to picnic, to eat and drink. The host was a policeman, already graying, and his children of various ages ran around. His wife, a sizable woman with a red face, was busy preparing food.

Tying a ribbon with balloons and flags to some strange species of shrub, I noticed a great swarm of bees sitting and hovering over a shrub. «That's nothing!» said the gentle and nice policeman in shorts. «I want to show you this shrub from our house, from our window, and you'll see that over on the other side they have their nest.»

We went into the house. I looked at the bee's nest and politely expressed my awe. The policeman, looking at my bare arms (I was in a T-shirt), suddenly said, «You have a great tan. Your skin is practically brown! I've got a pretty good tan too,» he added, «though my skin isn't too fair to start with.» And he suddenly pulled his shorts down, appearing naked, his impressive penis hanging down severely. With this, the policeman looked at me half-inquisitively. I got embarrassed and mumbling, «yes-yes, nice tan…» I rushed out of the room.

I forgot about this episode half-an-hour later and would half probably forgotten about it entirely, thinking that «this» – he and his penis – appeared in my mind only, had we not needed a barbecue grill which the policeman, another guy, and I went looking for in the basement. The guy took the grill and went upstairs, I lingered to have a look at the policeman's weights. I didn't look for long though: the policeman mentioned his tan again, and again, in an instant, he bared his inquisitive penis. I turned away and ran out, and since then I made sure not to be left with him alone.

Down below, across from my window, by the store's display glass there often stand two or three police officers where they either catch the rays of the March sun or wait for somebody. One of them keeps looking onto the street from behind the corner. I have a desire – which I have no way of explaining – to throw, to drop a grenade or a bomb on them. I'm thinking this without any malice, as of something clearly self-evident, something like «here're the policemen, they have to be eliminated.»

I have neither a bomb, nor a grenade, nor a sniper gun which in my mind I exclude from my arsenal for eliminating policemen: «The trajectory will give me away,» I reflect. Besides, I want to get the operation over with quickly, I don't want an exchange of fire. That's why I'm leaning towards a bomb.

I even had a dream today that I've had thrown a bomb at them, not out of my window, but from the roof of the house where they stand. Perhaps it's their uniform that's the cause of my desire?

Recently a crowd of drunk young men kept me up – they hung around and yelled at the same spot where the policemen hung out earlier in the day. It was in the small hours of the night. I hated them. «You, disgusting pimples,» thought I, having turned the lights off, watching them from my dark window above. «It'd be great to slash your heads and throats with a burst of a machinegun lead.» Besides, they harass passers-by, even the elderly. The police officers are angels by comparison. Perhaps it's a case of atavism: like a duke or a prehistoric man, I consider the space below my window inviolable. Or like a cat, a lion, or a dog – is this my hunting ground? And these shit-heads – probably some students, or workers, or clerks – they got drunk and now think they're God's gift to the world. Fucking fish heads! They hung around and swore.

And I – without batting an eye – firmly sided with evil: with witches, vampires, sinners, Nazis, with Ravillac who murdered Henry IV, with Oswald who murdered Kennedy, with Che Guevara and the losers who haven't murdered anyone, those doormen who spend their entire lives stand at the entrances of rich houses, wearing uniforms, bowing their heads in deference, welcoming and seeing off rich old ladies, rich old men, and rich children. A doormen like that – within himself – stands all these years, teeth clenched, and something is growing within him, it sticks out, and at times he can hardly keep himself from raping a young, long-legged Kristie – daughter of the famous oil baron, she's sixteen, having fun living with her girlfriend in a huge apartment which takes the space of an entire story; boys and bleary-eyed men often drop by to visit her.

Yes, I've sided with evil – with the small newspapers, with the Xeroxed leaflets, with the movements and parties that have no chance. None whatsoever. I love political meetings with only a few people attending, I love cacophonous music performed by untrained musicians who have «Chronic losers» written on their faces. Go ahead, play on, my dear ones… And I hate symphony orchestras, ballet – I'd cut down all the cellists and violinists if I ever came to power.

Our city is quite imperial. Today I had a dream that a president's wife fell in love with me. Carter's? I don't think it was she – this one was young and I liked her, a blonde, and I kissed her and stroked her hand and made a date. She promised one but not tomorrow, she said, because she has to go with her husband on a pre-election campaign. And in my dream, the cars sent dust into the air. In one of the cars, somebody was standing in a white suit giving a speech about jam/marmalade. And the road was pretty shitty: pot-holes; the passengers were bobbing up and down like puppets.

Eddie, oh do I feel like shooting myself!

So that they welcome me as an April Fools' Day boy – happy, excited – into a guest room where every turn and movement mean something unusual, September- or April-like.

This civilization must be destroyed everywhere on earth – in Russia, in China, and in America. Destroy it – this goal must unite all those dissatisfied. And none of the privileged classes, none of the workers' dictatorship – why should the factory workers be better than anybody else? It's nonsense. Better is he who hates this civilization more. We don't answer the question – what shall we build on the cleared ground? We say, «Destruction is our goal.» And it's not just to the ground as it says in the «International.» We'll dig deeper, uprooting, leaving behind no trace, just dust – destroy it like the conquerors destroyed ancient cities and then plowed them under.

They will all come: Hooligans and those who are timid (timid ones are good in combat), drug-pushers, and those who hand out bordello ads. They will come – masturbators and lovers of porno magazines. They will come – those who wander alone in the museum halls, and those who leaf through books alone in the halls of free Christian libraries. They will come – those who, with no money to buy anything, loiter away their time at Macy's and Alexander's. They will come-those who drink just coffee for two hours straight at McDonald's and stare sadly out the window. They will come – those have lost in love, money, and work, and those who were unfortunate to be born in poor families.

They will come – those who are sick of everything, who already wasted part of their lives on the absurd, endless work in a bank or in some department store. They will come – the coal-miners who are sick of the mines, factory workers who hate their factory. They will come – the hobos and some staid family people who are sick of their families. They will come – soldiers from the army, students from their campuses. They will come-the brave and the strong from all fields of life, they'll come to distinguish themselves and to find glory.

They will come – the homosexuals, walking in pairs, hugging each other; young men and women in love will come, and so will the lesbians in flamboyant clothes. They will come – the actors, and so will the artists, and musicians, and writers whose work doesn't sell.

Everyone will call in. They'll take the arms, and they'll put an end to this order once and for all.

And city by city is conquered by the revolutionary forces of losers. Giving heed to the blood which flowed through the veins of many generations of losers, the soldiers of the imperial army tear off their imperial insignia and with ecstatic eyes and flowers on their hats, they return to their own tribe, they embrace their kin.

City by city, starting with the explosion in the Great New York, America is becoming free, and I, E.L., march in the lead column and everyone knows and loves me. And my hair is faded from the revolutionary summer.

And everything anti-human is crumbling down – the banks, the offices, the courts, the factories, all the chemicals, metals and other shit like that.

I don't want to fuck her (the Bald Diva) anymore. She's not my piece.

Doesn't excite me. Barely fucked her twice. All the same, I look at her as something crude, like a thickset wench with big ass and thighs. It doesn't excite me. I'm an unhappy man, right? And it turns out that I don't need females. And why is that that I choose the busty ones, why? The busty and crude ones?

My ideal, my secret, has finally formed within me now – a tender girl or boy with un-swollen limbs, slim, fragile, who lives in the world as though it's an enchanted garden. I stared – enraptured (not sexually) – at a rich lady's son sitting at his mother's birthday party, wearing a gray little jacket, the same color vest, a bright tie, and black velvet trousers. He had long dark hair – an eleven-year-old prince.

The females, they're just good buddies to me, that's all. I now understand all my torments. And the Bald Diva left with my craziness stuck all over her. Now, that you understand yourself so well, Edward, stop dragging the females to your place, picking them up at parties or elsewhere.

If, when awake on a rainy spring morning, and after you've stayed in your bed a little – thinking, listening to music – you are suddenly able to say to yourself honestly: «After all, I'm nobody in this life-I'm shit and dust,» then it's too early to give up on yourself. But it has to be honest – a confession to yourself, not for others.