I write novels, stories, poems, magazine articles, film scripts and plays. I write what I want to read myself. If you happen to have the same taste... Welcome to our world!
I write in Swiss German, English and the Swiss form of written German. In my head I think (when I think) probably half of the time in Swiss German and half of the time in (broken) English.
©2023 Martin Frank
A short play I wrote for some Lausanne squatters who attended the première of verliebt in n arsch (in French) in Lausanne.
When Wasim's hand touched mine, my balls pumped testosterone into my brain, and my cock felt ready for action, but whom I wanted was Man:
"Till God will reckon us
Of love, the token is
The heart of the slave."
In case I would change my mind, Wasim wrote his name and address in clean, careful capitals on half a torn-out notebook page, and his e-mail address:
Opening my eyes to cool off, I heard the sound of stones moving. Was it a snake? My mouth went dry. Had one of the camels gone astray? I sensed approaching steps and turned my head. In the light of the full moon, I discerned One Ruffian's white robe and the polished barrel of his carbine.
Two weeks of fever had weakened me, but feeling safe made me bold, and when Man followed me to piss in the dark, I asked him, "Should we fuck?"
"Of a young dromedary Excellency has made the purchase…" Man changed his voice into a grinning murmur, "Do you need riding lessons? Where is your baton?"
I had come for the exotic sex the mountain boys are famous for; disbelieving what friends had told me: Extortion, robbery, kidnapping, murder, and war. – I liked Man's voice, his eyes, his hands but who was he? What did he want from me? Was he in love with me? I should have asked the doctor to call the embassy to repatriate me. Now, I had no papers, no money, and nobody, not even I knew where I was. What if Man simply left me in the middle of this desert?
Man finished his food, washed his hand pouring water with his left from the tumbler over his right hand onto the plate, chewed some anise seeds, poured more water from the jug into his wide-open mouth without touching the vessel with his lips, and asked, " Would it please Excellency to go inside?"
Getting up, my eyes fell once more on the small rosewood frame with the adage:
Smooth warm skin and the smell of it, of Tavo's hair, or my shampoo. The birds trill and staccato. For a moment, I'm full of joy. Tavo's body against mine, his slim elegance, his buttocks against my lower belly, his back against my breast, my nose touching his neck and nape, his tender beauty in my arms is all I want, all I need. I open my eyes: The rain wet Bougainvillea leaves glisten in the early morning sun.
Dass Arun ein Durchschnittsstudent war, und sie wusste, dass Jungen auch nur Menschen sind. Sie wusste, dass er Brahmane war, und dass es nichts bedeutet. Brahmane zu sein ist nur ein fauler Trick, mit dem ein paar besonders Schlaue den Rest der Welt aufs Kreuz legen. All dies wusste sie; sie wusste und hatte es in amerikanischen Romanen gelesen, dass Frauen für gleiche Rechte einstehen müssen.