Sunday, March 18, 2007

Clabber and Free-base

I am the excrescence that fills the void, the syphilitic ulcer that skirls the skin of your lips, the gonorrheal wetness at the back of your throat, the skimpily dressed debauchee with the machicolate smirk and wee misshapen feet. Why are you like that? She said, so crudely indifferent to feelings, people’s feelings? I’d rather, I’d much rather worry about upsetting an animal, I said, a beast, than a people. People heal, beasts don’t. You’re an imbecile, she said, her lip curled around the chisel of her teeth, whiter than free-base and bed sheets. I know, I said, that I know, perhaps nothing else but that. I wrapped my arms around her waist and held my breath, her breath, hers that she held, not mine, pitted with a soft almost imperceptible wail. I murmured something, something lilting, into the conch of her ear, her ear, not mine, and closed my eyes. Life’s a waste of time and time is a waste of life, I said, nothing more. I said nothing, nothing more. That means nothing, she said, her waist clabbered in the shank of my arms, my fingers, not hers, but mine, tightening, cinching in around the manse of her hips. Fecal nonsense, she said, and not very good at that.

I loosened my fingers around the camber of her waist, not mine, but hers, and opened then closed my eyes, once, then a second time, then none. What if I were to pickaxe my eyes, these, I said, pointing at my eyes, not hers, mine, and be done with it? Like Oedipus, the bad and mealy son. Would that make you happy, change things, as they are, make things more, better than? I opened then closed my eyes, her eyes, not mine, remaining open, not shut, all the while, for the while, while I closed and reopened mine. Maybe, she said. Maybe it would, it would and wouldn’t hurt, couldn’t hurt, would it? Now you see, I said, if you were an animal, some beast, I would pay you more respect, care more, at all, for you feelings. As it stands, I could care less, less than more than less. I hate you and your, you and… I kissed her softly, with a passion broaching on madness, on the cant of her head, where the front of the head meets with the eyebrows, and whispered, softly whispered, I know, yes, I know. That I know, perhaps that, but nothing else.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

"The chisel of her teeth" is an arresting image. I don't recall ever reading this description before.

I'v been reading Roberto Bolano, Stephen. Thanks to you.


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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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