“GASTROINTESTINAL PRAYER” – a fragment from my next play.


Diogenes was BLOODBATH !

Diogenes was BLOODBATH !


A FUCKING BLOODBATH!  Yes,  I must hold on to this image for some time, some time, it has to last some time, as long as the prose lasted. How long did prose last?


YOU DONT know ! you

The ship shipwrecked, it didnt earthwreck nor did it sandwreck. The sunken. The Titanic lasted. Did it? It is a tragedy that did not become an opera, did not become a play. But a beautiful opera, no doubt. A tragedy in two acts: the journey and the disaster in the first and the rape in the second,  in the second act. Imagine that!!! The soprano, arms outstretched, with her back to the audience, a linear murmur at the highest point of her voice, small moist gestures, choir and actors floating their presence in small concentric circles, and the ship / lying / giant / monster / animal, violated by the nautical curiosity of the master and his orchestra. I held that image. It lasted for some time. Then he lost all lyrical meaning and became a metaphor.

DIOGENES WAS A BLOODBATH ! but I wasnt affected.

I’m still young. I know it and at the beginning of a beautiful twilight. That, for example, they tell me. I have had several steps behind me. This, for example, they speculate on.  Attracting to the present, present from other times, true catalogs even, immense entries until..In this, for example, few people will believe in.  Its NOT that I do not understand those who do not believe. NO. Not that I do not understand what they want to tell me, even though I know it will pass, it has to pass, first they, then me. This is the logical sequence. This is the logic: some say to, others say to few, still others, define what some say to others.

It’s NOT that I do not understand. You see? I dont understand some of the words Ive just spoken because. Well, they seem as if regurgitated by them, these poor stuffed souls. And I must have heard them from Jules Verne.

I dont know. I get lost. Hours and hours at the morgue cutting and slicing and weighing and bleeding out. No, its not that I dont understand death.

I do. I stare it in the eye every day, hour, minute. Just like Verne, just like Diogenes.

But Im a copywriter. I mean, a ghost writer. A gheist wroughter. A Carbon copy of what I used to be !

Now that bloodbath: a little bit of a shipwreck, but only that, just that, no more.  Although this time around,  quite different, something more  crumpled. Not that the bloodbath is not crumpled. Not that all the other inconsequential images are not crumpled. They are. Theyre crumpled. But the latter is still not an image in itself, only a texture, and quite valid at that. A few days ago, just before sleep. No, not getting into the sleep thing. Not here. Dinner served, excellent wine. Rude ! This seems to have texture and nothing else, not another image.

She . (I said she, didnt I? ) Im SO IN LOVE WITH HER !!!! OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD I AM SO IN LOVE WITH HER And yet..she went out of the door, never looked back and it was over.  SHE did not tell me to be a clarity ideas any ideas or to  clarity  nighttime. One can, in principle clarify the meaning of nighttime without having an effect or an incidence of light on the night.    But what does it matter? I loved her. Shes gone.  Not that I did not pay attention to this clarity. Not that I did not pay any attention to that damned clarity that makes me see with even more clarity that I still can not sleep peacefully, and that no one still knows anything, and has not even come close to anything and that the rest is all but pettiness, are just pass times,  hobbies, mere embroidery. From the simplest tapestries to the most complicated thesis. Embroidery. Some interesting patterns, some motifs not totally uncreative, but embroidery all the same. And where’s the laugh? The laugh, huh? Where is the laughter of a Shakespeare, for example, or of an Aristotle, for example, or of a Joyce? 

I’ve had my loud laughs. I did. They heard them.

Not that I do not laugh for real. It was real. Not that I do not die of laughing at times when I could not sleep without the meds and without stuffing myself.


BUT WOULD IT HELP ? the poison….to poison, I mean….

The old, the poor, the drunk, the drugged, the crazy, the political fans, the extremists, the goddamn radicals…. WOULD IT HELP ?


Would it help them, the old, the poor, the drunk, the drugged, the crazy, the political fans, the extremists, the goddamn radicals…. WOULD IT HELP them overcome their ailments if I died?

Gerald Thomas @ New York – Copenhagen 2018 /2019

Scene from my play “GARGOLIOS” 2011 / 2012 with my London Dry Opera Company




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