transylvanian bladder

I’m stuck behind more grandmothers grandmothers with canes, suitcases, children, horseshoes, baggage, a bale of hay, an entire bale of hay pressurized down to the size of a handbag — then chickens….”


by david moscovich



About that bus ride I took in transylvania with a full to bursting bladder, where standing behind the curtain at the back of the bus I tried, dick in bottle, to let it flow, but the bus kept bumping along the road at about 5 km per hour — agonizing — more bumps in the road than road in the road — chickens and roosters kept boarding the bus at every stop and it stopped once a minute for all eternity, old ladies looking back at the curtain, seeing the tennis shoes below, wondering when i’m going to let it rip — another farmer with more chickens and his three grandmothers (who has three grandmothers?) boarding a bus with him — 40 kilometers we had to stay on this bus — it took two hours, the whole time bursting like there were 500 pounds of anvils sitting on my bladder and on top of the anvils were thousands of tiny men each with a jackhammer — some with a sledgehammer and a jackhammer — and they would take turns jacking and sledging — a hundred of them from this angle then a hundred from that angle then from below they were dancing with those jacks and sledges — where did they learn the fine art of wee-wee torture? They must have taken a class — thousands of tiny men going at my bladder for hours — finally the bus stops in front of a dilapidated wooden outhouse like god’s own private joke there’s an outhouse right outside the window — this god must be one of the guys with a jackhammer laughing his ass off while I’m drooling from my prostate at the back of the bus, the very back — the three grandmothers step down as the bus exhales some decrepit smog and releases itself, it takes them three eternities each step (how many eternities can one bladder produce?) then the sheep, where did the sheep come from? Now there are sheep in here? They must have come from above, I swear someone brought them in their luggage and now there’s sheep fur floating in the perfect afternoon sunlight, like dandelion seeds floating in slow motion yet moving faster than me I’m stuck behind more grandmothers grandmothers with canes, suitcases, children, horseshoes, baggage, a bale of hay, an entire bale of hay pressurized down to the size of a handbag — then chickens, then more chickens, then the rooster in his cage flapping exhaustively — the rooster seems to know where my cock is — the cock that saw my cock — it seems to see it pulsing with the latitudes, blue, swollen with urine — I’m still staring at one point on the carpet — faded paisley circa 1939 breaded with cracker crumbs — the crumbs seem to have smiley faces on them and under the smiley faces, more jackhammers with stick figure men holding them satisfactorily — I feel like i’m in Nepal — I’ve never been to Nepal but I imagine the busses look like this — I imagine in Nepal people can hold their pee for days without blinking — then someone else’s three grandmothers — how many people can have three grandmothers on this bus? I thought it was bad enough the first time — grandmothers — all helping each other climb down the steps slower than ox poop, slower than molasses in a frozen new jersey parkinglot — some kid runs from behind me brushing my leg — the leg presses my right testicle against my left testicle and I keel over with pain — it was just enough to stir my bladder — by now the discomfort has actually become a painful prick — a prick at the end of my prick — imagine that — the young mother in head covering follows the aggressive child, that bastard — whoever said that children are innocent never had to work with them — lying bastards is what they are, being cute doesn’t change that — we are the last to get out — the very last — so last — holding testicles in hand I run for the wooden shack, what a mute idiot I am — bobbing left foot to right foot like a retarded sparrow to the broken wooden shack, painted in delicate umlauts, I pull out the pisser and the stopwatch — it’s so backed up it takes some time to get past the sledgehammers then the stream breaks loose — glorious heavenly glorious — a blessed damnation, a livery waterfall crushing the walls of a blasphemous dam — crosses and hailmarys shimmer in my eyelids an ecstatic rush of wind runs right under my balls — the pressure keeps the stream going full force — and going and going — the stopwatch still ticking — thirty seconds, forty-five seconds, one minute — one minute fifteen seconds and still no sign of slack — one minute and a half, nearly two minutes and I’m still bending over so the whiz doesn’t over shoot the hole — this must be what it’s like to be a porn star only — nevermind — there’s no toilet just a hole in the floorboards — two minutes and the stream shooting out strong as a flock of donkeys headed downhill — I know donkeys don’t run in flocks but these donkeys were flying donkeys — oracle donkeys — donkeys with crystal balls — my crystal balls — all in all two minutes and forty-eight seconds of continuous stream, continuous my friend, one continuous stream of piss — two minutes and forty-eight seconds of piss — two minutes and forty-eight seconds of waste — bow down to me oh lord, I have pissed the piss of god’s reprise.

Originally published:
Issue Fifty-Eight
June 2010


David Moscovich not only scribes but also performs on amplified bicycles, and improvises vocally in his own invented tongue on his 2008 spoken word release, Ass Lunch (eh? records). His stories and interviews have appeared in Word Riot, Rain Taxi, Fringe and others. More from David Moscovich can be found in the Vault of Smoke.

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