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Voor een betere wereld

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Petra Hermans

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“You know, you spend your childhood watching TV, assuming that at some point in the future everything you see there will one day happen to you: that you too will win a Formula One race, hop a train, foil a group of terrorists, tell someone 'Give me the gun', etc. Then you start secondary school, and suddenly everyone's asking you about your career plans and your long-term goals, and by goals they don't mean the kind you are planning to score in the FA Cup. Gradually the awful truth dawns on you: that Santa Claus was just the tip of the iceberg — that your future will not be the rollercoaster ride you'd imagined, that the world occupied by your parents, the world of washing the dishes, going to the dentist, weekend trips to the DIY superstore to buy floor-tiles, is actually largely what people mean when they speak of 'life'. Now, with every day that passes, another door seems to close, the one marked PROFESSIONAL STUNTMAN, or FIGHT EVIL ROBOT, until as the weeks go by and the doors — GET BITTEN BY SNAKE, SAVE WORLD FROM ASTEROID, DISMANTLE BOMB WITH SECONDS TO SPARE — keep closing, you begin to hear the sound as a good thing, and start closing some yourself, even ones that didn't necessarily need to be closed.”

“Hey! look at us We're digging and digging Into stubborn, ancient earth; We're discovering Where we came from, and how we came. "but where are you going?" Hey! look at us We're learning and learning Into stubborn laws Of nature and space And non-nature and non-space; We're discovering All there is to know. "but where are you going?" Hey! look at us We're planning and planning Into stubborn years Of education and training And hopes and dreams; We're discovering How not to waste any time. "but where are you going?" Hey! look at us We're shiny and bright And clever and sophisticated And witty and well-read; We're discovering How to really fill up This old life. "but where are you going?" where? "Yes; where?”

“Beatha - do Mháire Mhic Amhlaoibh, An Fál Mór, Co. Mhaigh Eo. - Níor airigh tú caint ar an slabhcán? - arsa Mary Nell le hiontas, an slabhcán a bhailíodh sí ina gearrchaile di ar charraigreacha an Fháil Mhóir, a thugadh sí abhaile is a ghearradh go mion, é a bhruith ainsin le deoirín uisce. Nuair a d'fhuaraíodh sé dhéanadh sí leac - an blas a bhíodh air leis an ngráinne salainn! Níor bhlais Mary Nell an slabhcán le dhá scór bliain: - Ní bhadrálann éinne thart anseo a thuilleadh leis, Róleitheadhach atá siad. Ach an stuif sin a bhíonns ag fear an tsiopa I bpotaí beaga a thigeann sé, dath pinc air - 'Yoghurt?' - Yoghurt. Yoghurt! M'anam go liveálfainn ar an stuif sin. M'anam go liveálfainn air. -”

“Once I'd cunt licked these assemblages to orgasm - mother, daughter, yoghurt - we began cock fucking. OK, so I can't prove that the yoghurt had an orgasm but it is equally impossible to state definitively that it didn't. Amid all that woman becoming dog moaning, who is to say there wasn't yoghurt becoming woman moaning? Dog, woman, yoghurt, tongue, cunt, all played innumerable polymorphously perverse roles in our oral fucking. I got on top of one woman becoming man assemblage and battered my way into his twat, as I did this the other woman becoming man assemblage stroked, squeezed and caressed me. We moved around, ground around, prick penetrated new cunt. At some point arse became cunt and finger became prick. Cunt arse, prick finger, orgasm.”