Oedipus twisted, come daddy, dance with me!Look at the screen: I have killed my own mother, who is mentioned here for the first time. The recurring image? The haunting?A large room, into which suntanned seal hunters have been lured and assured, that they have crossed the equator. Neptune with a toilet brush in the foreground, bits of whistle on his sundried lips and a ghastly image shaped by the computer's cursor: "Fancy having a little woman around, you blasted bitch... shut up, I said... listen... I said, listen... say something, talk to me... I said, damn it... what's wrong with the picture?"Surrounded by  eternal ice and spitting oil cookers, at last rewarded and reunited with the brothers of brawn, simple butchers to make me relaxed and mellow, TV dead dreaded suspended in silence, milking the moments of eternal youth in the corn fields and ejecting the special glue for making the kites fly higher and hang gliders escape the gaze of curious bystanders.Some less than four inches, some certainly bigger and this: a seal hunter's pride quite suddenly exposed to a neighbourly show off, holding it unassisted ten matches long in the air, a scenic tribute to jolt the lower groin, packaged as an unforgettable experience, rare feature of mortadella sized bordello stuff, kindly soiling the book of seal hunting techniques  placed upside down on the cross like Peter or George or whoever unsoiled and not yet padded, hundreds of square miles enlightened by interlacing taboos with wild compassions mildly exploding in spurts, having a fast time in the downstairs laundry with questions of life tattooed on stark naked steps, doctor and nurses in perfect balance, machining the smoking skin, crates of Molotov cocktails thrown between each others legs and hurrah to another Mills & Boon: "Go and fuck your own mother..."Node is a node is a node one nine two three five, a footprint stamped on her ravished face, suits me fine, as long as the sack is still palpitating, some life left in the hole, from which air escapes at the rate of the thrust, suddenly gaping. You feel close to the action, but you don't! Being exposed red cleaver for the next generation of the seal hunter's play time, rugby in detail, this is lousy dancing indeed, fucking the body still warm and wrapped tight in some oil skin right under me, as it moves with my movements, either way,I have videotaped it and I am going to release it!Brain sloshing seal blubber blurring her bashful smile as ornament in an abandoned whaling station, therapeutic little movements by making love to her thrashed against the sloping wall of a sticky oil cooker, big eyes of voyeur, oh my god, big boiling wobbly in super high heels making her head spin, banners of foul play wrapped tightly in incest peelings, while the crustacean gear is shed quite openly on TV. Notice  how the illusion of being a free citizen rapidly dwindles, as soon as you crawl towards  your first public performance, licking  her shiny boots with a nervous twist in your face... faster... faster... give it that sheen you've seen on TV, hot ash from her thin cigar dropped casually on your neck line, guillotining the stack of polaroids you were hiding, dirty pictures of crash victims gurgling the gristle, all done with holograms of course, a full time environmentalist disembowelled quite openly in front of a studio audience (don't press charges), lips quivering capped under a lecherous loin lecture, reclined teachers and parents with tongue loops so vile and so blazing, their skin embossed with a swinish phone call, lubricated by quickly torn pillows: give in to the idleness of forbidden games, bleed freely in the richness of never seen landscapes, and slit me, bone knife dipped in Eskimo Vaseline, effortlessly used as erection soap for the sake of some local pain for the shackled priest, a mere hastening through human history, finally letting them have the screaming pulse of the cameraman's cod piece...Look at the screen! A nasty cloud of ammonia is hanging over the monitor, a message lean yellow supporting pissed in the snow: 'Save our beloved laboratory rats!' (Stranded whales resuscitated mouth to mouth on another channel). Innocent women in seal furs rabbit tear lipstick all over their face skin lotioned with strangled screams of turtles, dancing in unison with their own kind, lousy dancing indeed! I'm quite determined now, deliberately straining the fine juxtapositions, as another glass of warm nourishing oil is served with a straw, easy on the rectal temperature, in harmony with the inserted garden hose up yours, no doubt, this whole affair must have somebody's blessing, because it becomes quite natural once inside the circle, not to forget for a moment such brand names as Kellogg's, Coca Cola and even the Colonel's secret herbs and spices, look at the screen, I said, look at the screen, rugby in detail, with a facial expression of non-comprehension, dropping the lower jaw about players sent off the ice field, rugby in detail, if only I had brought my camera, a notion exploiting the trend for perpetuating the blob, clearly choosing the easy way out, making it suit the philosophy afterwards, to widen the already huge gap between those in the knowledge and ordinary members of our society, up yours with a rubber hose, just wait for it, will you?Back on the track, sweating out another skin collage, its size emphasized by the queen mother giving birth to strangely shaped quintuplets, desirable detestable, forcing her frame out of alignment for the great hunger of the media, reporters kneeling and praying in front of the image, separating abdominal braces, the layers of shit, post menstrual discolouration and several full frontal pages about identical oil dots, picture this, five freakish shaped seal puppies pushed  in the mouth of cameras and microphones, clearly every inch of the moral code knocked straight over the edge and why not!It just has stopped! More warm oil administered by the nurse, another meter of garden hose pushed up my arse, in the hospital yard a polka dot party teaming with indoor cowboys in animal skins. But look at the screen! Look at the screen! Some cute little seal baby beaten until blue in the face by crushers and crusters with minds of blubber, rugby in detail to pamper people like me as gifted idiots, flip flop over torpid furniture suspended in black oil, smashing the TV set with a baseball bat, avenging the ever aching gloves of caring mothers, quite deliberately calling a ghastly tune thrust against their natural state of violent dance fever, hard on the legs like kneeling and praying, in spite of the classical orpheean mercury dip, offering alternatives and breaking the routine by finally fucking her flawless to death! The skin with dried blood spots as a blanket pulled over her saucy face, before cracking up in front of TV: "O yes, let me twist your body to the very left while it is still warm... not now please... yes I must... really, not much to it... really... what's wrong with the picture?"Very well then, I have planned it since a long time. Taxidermic inclined and bothered by windbreaks, none of the family pictures shows me laughing. Going by the shape of the blanket of skin, it was a primitive venture. With hindsight, and if one is prepared not to belittle the efforts of St. Francis, shouting his messages in vain to  the larches, it all is related to the images how they come, wrong data, damn it, hundreds of them dangling from open cracks. Polaroids? Of course it is I, looking the other way as usual. Show me, show me, who's that? A photo of your fucked up mother on the slab, I told you about her, having them just on the verge of sagging, shame really, beautiful woman she was in her hay days, black gym bag full of whale bones for throwing oracles! How did she handle those, I ask you? Terrific dancer she was, went on in spite of everything, marital breakdown, half her kids run over by drunken seal hunters, wrecked home life,  sit up straight, you fuckin' moron, (as one possible approach to educate properly), yet kisses so tenderly distributed among all of us and social security checks used for wiping our tiny arses and our tears, move over, I said, move over... rugby in detail. If only I had brought my camera.