5/6/10

Maggot and Piranha – A Fiery Tale
By Bernardo Bolt Gregori


The volume knob of the yellowish radio sitting on the vanity table had been ripped off before it really got that old. Yet a buzzing, ashen tune, reminding a Portishead groove, escaped through the speaker gridirons.



The first time I saw you I encountered me for the first time The first time I heard your voice I listened to me for the first time



“What attracted you to me?” Heath asked in a careless way, while tying up his shoelace. He almost wasn’t interested in the answer, but he almost freaked out at her hesitation.

“Ah, well, the smell of your feet.” Clara said.

“What?”

“You asked me.”



The first time your eyes met mine, mine meant something for the first time



“Ok. What else?” He started tying the second shoe.

“The way you smile with joy when you eat your snot.”



Heath defied her with a gluttonous stare.



“Is it the smile you like or do you feel like trying it, too, sometime?”

“Nay. It’s the joy of enjoying a treat.”

“What else?” He almost drew back the question and stopped tying the lace, repented.

“Your fart.”

“Oh my god! Do you love me or do you hate me?”

“I do love you, can’t you tell?”

He was over with his shoes, got up and was heading for the door when Clara shot a question.

“What about you?”



He paid attention to the faint song for a while.



The first time I kissed you, I missed you already, au rutti, all lite The first time I was inside of you, we were inside of you as mite



“What about?”

“What made you attracted to me?”

“Your tampons.” He, smirked, snickered, guffawed.



Sui generis sui side earth regenerates a soony cyke



“Seriously! I answered all your questions.”

“Seriously! I like the way they smell.”

“What do they smell like?”

“Like cinnamon.”

“C’m’on!”

“I’m not lying.”

“They do?” she widened a magical smile.

“Yeah, they sure do. Like when you sprinkle cinnamon on a cod.”



We’re together to bother the bladder that weeps wasps, hasps hearts with stingy tongues



“You maggot! Not fair!”



Free ways, open doors, herein dece deuce, meanings obtuse.



The song was over, the radio dead.



“All right, all right! My goldilocks, instead of neurotically trying to manipulate my actions, you horse-whisper my most intimate dreams like angelical stars enlighten our instincts to, on a dark night, do the right thing.”

“Why didn’t you say so? It’s so beautiful, Heath.”

“I’s ‘fraid I’s gonna sound sissy.”

“You did.”


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Although Bernardo Bolt Gregori mostly writes both in English and in Portuguese, his drive is to create such a unique style which will culminate in another language. BBG believes writers are mysterious vessels; true meanings reside in each reader.