title:Art Shit ver.2.0.1e
by Taro Kimura
BY ARTHUR KOESTLER
Now it is quite possible that some sexual (or even scatological)
motivation may enter into an artist's work;
BY MARTIN AMIS
'Well hi,' I said. 'Hi, it's me, the little shit.'
A car passed down the street, throwing a stripe of light
across the fucked-up hippie's face. He was awake and his
eyes were open. He had been watching me. 'The big shit,'
'Things still rosy? Life still treating you right?'
'Some guys get all the breaks... Hey, you've done
something to your place, haven't you? Looks different.
Had it done up or something? Been shelling out the cash
'You're not funny.'
'Neither are you. You're not anything. I wouldn't
swap you for a dog-turd.'
'Fuck me? Fuck me? You'd better watch what you say,
tramp.' I knelt, and added in a whisper, 'I could do what
I liked you, you dumb hippie. Who would protect
you? Who would care what happened to you? No one
would notice or mind.'
'Go and shit yourself, shit.'
BY IRVING WELSH
In addition tae cramps, aches, sweats and an almost complete
disintegration ay ma central nervous system, ma guts are now
starting tae go. Ah feel a queasy shifting taking place, an ominous
thaw in ma long period of constipation. Ah try tae pull masel
together at Forrester's door. But he'll know that ah'm suffering.
An es-skag merchant always knows when someone is sick. Ah
just don't want the bastard knowing how desperate ah feel.
Ah whip oaf ma keks and sit oan the cold wet porcelain
shunky. Ah empty ma guts, feeling as if everything; bowel,
stomach, intestines, spleen, liver, kidneys, heart, lungs and
fucking brains are aw falling throwgh ma arsehole in tae the bowl.
As ah shit, flies batter oaf ma face, sending shivers through ma
body. Ah grab at one, and tae ma surprise and elation, feel it
buzzing in ma hand. Ah squeeze tightly enough tae immobilise it.
Ah open ma mitt tae see a huge, filthy bluebottle, a big, furry
currant ay a bastard.
Ah smear it against the wall opposite; tracing out an 'H' then
an 'I' then a 'B' wi ma index finger, using its guts, tissue and
blood as ink. Ah start oan the 'S' but ma supply grows thin. Nae
problem. Ah borrow fae the 'H' which has a thick surplus, and
complete the 'S'. Ah sit as far back as ah can, without sliding in tae
the shit-pit below ays, and admire ma handiwork. The vile
bluebottle, which caused me a great deal of distress, has been
transformed in tae a work of art which gives me much pleasure
tae look at. Ah am speculatively thinking about this as a positive
metaphor for other things in my life, when the realisation ay
what ah've done sends a paralysing jolt ay raw fear through ma
body. Ah sit frozen for a moment. But only a moment.
BY SALMAN RUSHDIE
Midnight, or thereabouts. A man carrying a folded (and intact) black
umbrella walks towards my window from the direction of the railway
tracks, stops, squats, shits. Then sees me silhouetted against light and,
instead of taking offence at my voyeurism, calls: 'Watch this!' and
proceeds to extrude the longest turd I have ever seen. 'Fifteen inches!'
he calls, 'How long can you make yours?' Once, when I was more
energetic, I would have wanted to tell his life-story; the hour, and his
possession of an umbrella, would have been all the connections I
needed to begin the process of weaving him into my life, and I have no
doubt that I'd have finished by proving his indispensability to anyone
who wishes to understand my life and benighted times; but now I'm
disconnected, unplugged, with only epitaphs left to write. So, waving
at the champion defecator, I call back: 'Seven on a good day,' and
A.45 TO PAY THE RENT
(TALES OF ORDINARY MADNESS)
BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI
"you're the one who fucked up. now you're crying."
"fuck YOU! I made a mistake, a technical error! I was young,
I didn't understand their chickenshit rules..."
NUT WARD JUST EAST OF HOLLYWOOD
BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI
They all come to see me. Even my doctor phones me. "Christ
was the greatest head-shrinker and ego of them all-claiming he was
the Son of God. Throwing those money-changers out of the temple.
Naturally, that was His mistake. They got His ass. Even asked Him to
fold his feet so they could save one nail. What shit."
And speaking of shit, constipation has always been a greater
fear to me than cancer. (We'll get back to Mad Jimmy. Listen, I told
you I write this way.) If I miss one day without shitting, I can't go
anywhere, do anything-I got so desperate when that happens that
often times I try to suck my own cock to unclog my system, to get
things going again. And if you've ever tried to suck your own cock
then you only know the terrible strain on the backbone, neckbone,
every muscle, everything. You stroke the thing up as long as it will
get then you really double up like some creature on a torture rack,
legs way over your head and locked around the bedrungs, your
asshole twitching like a dying sparrow in the frost, everything bent
together around your great beer belly, all your muscle sheathes
ripped to shit, and what hurts in that you don't miss by a foot or
two-you miss by an eighth of an inch-the end of your tongue
and the tip of your cock that close, but it might as well be an
eternity or forty miles. God, or whoever the hell, knew just what He
was doing when He put us together.
BEER AND POETS AND TALK
BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI
"I'm gonna get up an anthology, "said Dutch," an anthology
of the best living poets, I mean the real best."
"sure," said Willie, "why not?" then he saw me:" enjoy your
"not too much."
"you need more roughage. you ought to eat more green
"you think so?"
I reached over and got 2 of them, jammed them down. maybe
next time would be better.
BY WILL SELF
And how could we forget pissing and shitting? We
mustn't forget those. Sometimes I feel that my body is
nothing but one enormous, snaking bowel, stuffed full of
ordure and but thinly covered with skin. Nietzsche, you
know, suffered agonies on the toilet. In Ecce homo he
damns the Germans for their beer and sausage, bum-
concretizing suisine. Like Gogol, another nuero-neuter, he
roamed the cities of Nothern Italy, seeking digestive relief
in huge antacid bowls of pasta.
THE GENERAL IN HIS LABYRINTH
BY GABRIEL GARCIA MARQOUEZ
TRANSLATED BY JONATHAN CAPE
"The fucking water!" he shouted. "If we could just
stop it for a minute!"
But no: he could no longer stop the flow of rivers.
Jose Palacios tried to calm him with one of the many
palliatives they carried in the chest of medicines, but he
refused it. That was the first time he was heard to say
his recurrent phrase: "I've just renounced power because
of an emetic that should not have been prescribed, and
I'm not prepared to renounce life as well." Years before,
he had said the same thing, when another physician cured
him of tertian fever with an arsenical mixture that almost
killed him with dysentery. From that time on, the only
medicines he accepted were the purgativepills he took
without hesitation several times a week for his persistent
constipation, and a senna enema for the most critical
bouts of sluggishness.
The Holly Bible
Then he said to me, "See, I
will let you have cow's dung instead of
human dung, on which you may pre-
pare your bread."