Fugue

Give me lust, baby. Give me malice. Give me grand Nescafe
latte as ennui-dissolver of my lousy fucking moment. Hit me with a slapstick
and stalk off to some steep precipice with your desperate laughter trailing
behind you, like vestigial light.

Yeah, this is cool. Ultra-cool.

And you shall take the identity
and memory of whoever rapes you first. Should I now say, Come one, come all?

And I’m talking to a gray,
female cat.

She likes it. She has come back to tell me that, yellow
sharp eyes and all. She sees me swagger down the stairs and she begins a
coquettish, horny ballad. But I am stone; like Mahler, I want to die with only
Mozart on my lips. And I am not even kidding.

She gets it, I think. She stops
and stands there and stares. She likes it, her eyes tell me. That’s why she’s
here. Again. That’s why, in the overcast light, she waits.

I guess that’s how love begins.

Uncategorized |