Sunday, 1 August 2010

Small Chat

I am a reptile moored on gelid, slopeless waters. (If you want to use gelid when you write, first look it up on "adj. Very cold; icy: gelid ocean waters". You can lift the example if it makes you happier)

I am a reptile moored on gelid waters. Today I travelled to a beautiful house, not a hundred yards from Richmond Park. I took my plate and my barbecue meat and at a table there were other guests. We are young adults. We trapped three busy wasps in upside down plastic cups. We small chatted. I watched each unknowing death (maybe the whole thing lasted an hour) as if I were feet-up on a private balcony, surveying three open-air rooms showing three different slide shows to three different audiences. It was samey. A lesson going in one ear and out the other. Everything on offer was tender and dressed and sauced and seasoned and fucking replenishing.

Today I've been out watching wasps dying in plastic cups. In the back of my mouth you'll find sick and tar and kisslessness.

Oxygenate me. Throw pink twats at my face. Feed me the wasps and their little coats of harp gold. I want to eat dispassion from dispassion. Peck at nausea. Gobble on ugliness. I am a reptile, I am cold-blooded, I want to dine with a woman.

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