And He Wanted the Sun by Walter Ruhlmann

Sheltered inside the most ludicrous cave where dwarves and elves mated to give birth to the mightiest trolls, these unfathomable creatures, undefined and unabashed. He keeps mooning all day and night when he doesn't care for those old bags, bagpipes and crumpled, wrinkled chaps.

Yes he wanted the sun and still wants to end his life under the rays of the most imperturbable star this universe has brought to us. Yet he knows the dangers of the sun and the low tide taking lives, shamelessly, fearlessly, unable, unwilling to stop the abduction, the genocide of so many corpses to be, already frozen though sunbathed.

Apollo is a wimp, some unlettered freak twink whose torso could never erase the memory of the hairy and more wild boar-styled Freyr. All my Scandinavian brothers of joy could but agree.

The sun to him is not god-like, rather an isle lost in the midst of some ocean, south hemispheric, just like a tropical cancer, exotic erotica with electronic devices buzzing in his ears all around.

Plastic made man, my leprechaun is no cave man, he doesn't paint neither he hunts.

Sometimes he plays with instruments, tools or utensils that carve his nails, scar his forearms, bruise his soft thighs or mark his neck. He sows seeds and plants shrubs all around the garden, digging the soil with a spade, twice as high as he is. His back aches soon, he has to stop. Wrecked and knackered, he goes to bed, to nap most of the afternoon, until the moon brushes his cheeks and his buttocks, the left of which I usually cup in my palm.