She lived in books. Her hair was made of ink. Yes, ink. One night she sat on the stoop, rather melancholy. What came up to her but two white cats and two black dogs. The death ran away as the blessed purred.
This is the final chapter.
Under a flourescent light, her life dissolved. No words or final hymns. It came swiftly yet not at all inside a stale cigarette.
Back and forth the girl swung on the plastic seat of persistence.
Her mind was too thin for her skin.
Laughter and acoustic guitars and some corrupted god sang.
Vodka tinted shadows as the red, blue, and white mixed among bile.
She faded.
All things must end just as they began.
Now there is smoke rising from the sake cup.
Drink up fools, drink up.
Read about it in the newspapers.
There, her hair flowed through time and space, along with a favourite volume of a favourite poet. One she married post mortem.
The shiny bits of the music player corroded static dreams and left them in the dust as a cat stalked its prey.
Was there a carnival that week? No one knew.
But it was nearly seven o clock when the mail came, no hands to pick it up with. No eyes to read with.
Back and forth the neighbors prayed.
To what god? She was jewish, or so she said.
Was it Judaism that bit the bug? I don't know. No one ever will.
All that ever happened was in dreamland. Underneath lace from her mothers wedding gown. For she was never to be married anyway. She was in love with an asshole.
Constantly she tried to become an asshole as well, a douche, a cad, a dick. Impossible, she had a vagina and a virgin ass.
But the binding never broke in that 1849 volume. Not of him, of someone else, bound in leather and tear-stained.
The bile poured forth remnants of the end. It stewed among diet soda.
Remember? Yes, you do.
It was there that the grease slipped from her lips. That orange grease like tires from the ending.
The magic was never there, so that night she tore the golden reminder from her dainty wrist.
It hurt.
But no more than wishing impossible wishes or dreaming inscribbleable dreams.
Author notes
not a poem. not a story. I don't really know what this is. But I like it.
Adding your comment: