The Philosophy of Cock : notes on Pino’s death / M and Mrs Hyde

Pino the frog is dead. He went to the heaven of cock suckers. He is going to have trouble, among angels who have neither balls nor dicks. But, to think everything well, he must rather burn in hell, and he must damn damned shit … He left with his secrets, the taste of Pasolini’s dick, the smell also, the thickness of his hair, The roughness of his badly shaved beard, the weight of his body, the heat of his breath. Pino, you who never knew anything else, do you continue sucking cocks in hell?

If you meet God, Pino, will you suck his dick? I hear that the times are bad, that the man who created the torturous earth now lives in Hell. There’s no heaven anymore anywhere in the universe, not even for God. But tell me, Pino, how will you do it? How is it possible to take in your mouth another dick after Pasolini’s? Do not lie, you frog, I have seen you cry for Pier Paolo in your cell. You were in love, you little piece of shit. Is there any room in your body now for the dick of the divine?

My little Pino, you’ve spent your life sucking cocks, you’re going to go on all the time your hell lasts. It’s like you were born with a cock in your mouth. You know, like those malformed babies with three arms or four legs. You, it’s the cock that poses problem. To believe that you have no brain but a cock with two hemispheres. For a time, I was jealous of you. To stuff your dick in new ass, well split in the middle, glossed by the generations of cocks that have tapped it.

On your dick, my dead Pino, there are strange things: the moles are not random. When I connected them with a black pencil, on your corpse, it drew a skull that smiles. A skull. You imagine ? It is too intellectual, a skull. I would have imagined a lollipop, an ice-cream, something sucked, sucked, sucked and flowed. But a cranium! Fuck. Find something else. Add moles, transform me into a skull … In what?

And so, in the beginning was Pino, who sucked cocks. And the cock was in Pino’s mouth. And Pino was machining cocks. With application, like a chewing gum that sucks until it no longer has taste. There’s a philosophy of cock in Pino’s mouth, you know, reader? Pino is the mouth of truth. He turns lead into gold, he reveals the true nature of people, he magnifies the grape into an exquisite wine, he presses the olives until a delicious oil comes out, he is a magician of the fellatio, a god of the cock, a giant, a superman, a hero, an immortal. Pino, your cock can die, not your mouth. Not your mouth.

And so, dear reader, I am looking for Pino’s mouth that continues to exist here on this earth even after his death. I have searched till the end of this world. Innumerable men and women have sucked my cock but I look for the one whose tongue will transform me into my essence. The mouth that will make my soul come true. Philosophers have sacrificed their lives over it. Lovers have crushed their hearts to find it. But what they could not find at the end of the universe, I will find in a dark room of a cheap hotel in the outskirts of Roma. That, what they call God, I call Pino’s mouth.

You read a little, in your youth, Pino, fucking frog slut mounted on cock. Remember Luther who treated the Vatican like a lupanar? Well, Paradise has changed its address: it is now in a filthy hotel in Trastevere, under the roofs, room 318. We celebrate a kind of black mass on your sheets soiled with cum and blood, on your carpet stained with urine and shit, on your walls where there are crushed cockroaches and mosquitoes, and even on your genitals where the saliva of men and women has dried up.

You are the pope of vulture of cock, the immortal sucker of acorn, the best asticker of all Lazio. Your renown cannot die. Pino the frog, you are the immortal master of pasolinine. Forever. Ever.

 

M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.

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