bY < vOyA >
“When the hands clap four times….
we wish to hear their names no more.” – ANON
I’m not the beautiful one here. Not like the others.
You, so dead-on target, roaming again now I’m sure. Free of me it seems.
The world’s a meat market…. that’s what you said. Distrust beauty and you should be okay. But indecision kills as much as anything you know…. and the aftermath, well…. it’s the car crash you can’t help but watch…. Frozen still.
The outer-body experience so everyday now.
I was relatively young meat for you.
I know that. And in the darkness, it’s all that matters.
All that warm softness over bone…. just for you.
But in this place…. where I am now….
I’m teaching myself the pleasures of seeking….
Gentle muffled engines and the ring of the wind all I can hear.
And I’m thinking…. you know > I never realised how much space was to be had. But in this silence, I’m understanding now…. The human condition so splintered. Cratered. But how could anybody alive know?
Life. Moving so fast that the temptation of the living
becomes death itself.
Laughter relieving terror.
The confluence of fate so absurd…. the cost of inaction higher now.
Ah, the primal fear of abandonment just kicking right in. Evil so damn plain away from you. Because there is that > you know, the sheer ordinariness of it all….
the monotony of the aftermath now….
Eee-vuL lolling about in the peat with me.
Keeping me warm.
> > >[The man sitting on a small leather chair…. watching the woman, kneeling. She shivers just a little. The color of the bars a perfect black against her pale skin.] you > I have a surprise for you….
me > You do?
you > Yes I do. I don’t think you’ll like it.
me > Why?
you > Not that it matters.
you > I know I’ll like it. Very much.
> > >
That was the beginning….
You said his name was Jonny Illusion…. but he was French so that couldn’t be right…. Ah well. It was him though. That little-boned man with his cute little skull-head. Jonny was the one.
He was so subtle don’t you think?
Inside that cafe of his that early early morning…. 2am or something like that. Creamy French coffee and the soft low murmurs of whispered conversations. Jonny all so seductive as he sang….
Vingt A Trente Mille Jours in the semi-darkness.
Francoiz Breut… and Jonny. The little crashings of the cymbals not disturbing at all…. their voices floating above everything. Even the music.
You changed when you saw what he did. Jonny, you and me in that room. Candlelight flickering and blood beading on my skin. Jonny’s wife asleep upstairs while we just played. VodKa burning in my belly still. The pain. The fucking. That knife…. just blunt enough.
And you moving closer….
from the corner where you just watched with your trousers undone.
I just didn’t want to leave. Cold. But finally satisfying.
Jonny Illusion, conceived in Liberty.
You told me the truth.
But I didn’t listen.
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