Improvised reflections on romantic love

Im addicted to romantic love. There it is. I’ve said it. Im addicted to remembering how fucking sweet your lips tasted because of the special cigarette paper you always bought. I’m addicted to think about your beautiful naked body holding me with absolute surrender. I remember your smile and your eyes and how you actually heard what I was telling you. That is not love, I repeat to myself, that is not love. Could someone tell me what love is? Is love a mother fucking dog eating us up while we dream of yesterday? Is love the best way of being melancholic?


“What would have happened if Romeo and Juliette had never met?” You asked me. “They would have died anyways” I replied. We will all die. We will all forget. We will never love. So, here I am in a foreign country, with a foreign tongue and nothing else to do but to remember you and try to figure out if love makes life better or worse. Romantic love is for stupid people, they say. We are all stupid anyhow. We like to buy hopes and beliefs wherever they sell them.

Im addicted to romantic love, I repeat. It seems like the best excuse to suffer. What if we would run out of excuses to suffer about? Because pain is not the same as suffering. Life is painful but some of us decide to suffer. Is beauty located between suffering and lightness? Hanging from that line that only dancers can grasp by delicately moving their arms and legs?

I wish I had 10,000 tits so you wouldn’t get tired of licking them. Our bodies could dismember into a million and one tongues to touch every running thought that goes around when we make love.

I remember the time you fuck me in the princess room, I felt like a new born baby. You erased the woman in me to bring me back to an unsexed, oversexed amorphous being. And we laughed.

You didn’t write back, I haven’t done it either. What difference would it make? Never go back to where you once were happy. I have learned my lesson. Gifts are better kept unwrapped.

That is not love, I can hear you guys thinking. Of course it is not but you are as stupid as I am and have no real idea of the world that surrounds you. You try to have your own explanations, your rituals, your ego and your memories. You don’t have a clue. I don’t have a fucking clue.

When do you know that you have fallen in love? They say that you cannot prepare yourself to love, that it merely happens. What is important about falling in love is the fall, says Zizeck. The fall. Or is it the tear? The licking? The crumpling?

A fall can never be planned, it can never be acted.

(Part of the performance “El amor es un perro infernal o eso dice Bukowski” together with Sabeth Dannenberg)