flurries of funk fill feeding the fanatic

Another name scratched off the list last night. A short list that is quick becoming a very tiny list. The names of people I may feel free to spend the night with. I feel made of a rather catastrophic sickness. Black sores welting on the throat and mind and so few immune. There should be preachers, “The death will be upon you lest you lie with a woman! Yes it can! It can! It can! Beware!” I am saved by an infusion of chocolate. I don’t know what’ll save them. I refuse to be lonely because I speak the truth.

There’s a large bakery in the neighborhood flooding the air with the thick smell of sugary doughnuts. Instead of wandering futily in the dark trying to find the building to beg, I am gong to flood my box with candlelight to banish the siren cry with a thought entirely unrelated.

later: There. Room is now on fire. There’s an interesting juxtaposition of shadows. The rosy flame glow intermingling with the cold blue of the computer screen. One in front of me and the other behind. The heat of so many candles creates a sticky sweetness. The ivory ferret’s glowing asleep in my cast off clothing. Now to replace the bed with a claw foot tub drifting high with milk white bubbles… I suppose I’m missing rose petals as well, and the essential loverbeing. I’ve been told that the body can be successfully replaced with a romance novel, but as I haven’t any I must make do with science fiction. How well will nasty and gritty satisfy this train of thought? Possibly adult fairy tales would do better? Socio-political treatise on Snow White and her pale pale skin. Words of death and golden apples. The theme, as it were, of hot feminine summer nights, exactly as I’ve ever done. Simplicity, surely. I’m going to pin this girl thing down. If they can do it, then I can do it. If Mishka were in town, I could drag her over here for a rub down with spicy feeling oils. Cast our eyes up to the moon through the open curtains together and let her talk about boys. Nice to see how well I could do it.

willing participant

At 2 pm, it’s the morning finally. The sort of morning I keep under my bed. Keep them pressed between mattresses like a prince from a ridiculous story might keep sadistic instruments of vegetable torture. Pushed awake too soon. Executive decision said Now You Who Sleep Awake. Don’t be like this, I pled, but no. The correctional facility wasn’t answering. this call has been disconnected To sleep at eight and up at two. Set in pliable stone.

Difficult night, I could say. Insistent guests on-line, on the phone, at my door. Everyone leaving finally at four. I might have had a chance to sleep, but I threw off the groggy shawl to don a silver mantle of piqued interest. Talk to me of drugs, this drug, she’s your cocaine. To everyone else, this door is shut and locked. Meltingly asking for admittance will not suffice. The key’s been swallowed. Break it down and die boys. To lay your hands upon me once upon a time is to expect regret sooner than I can scratch you. The people watching from the street would never get pictures.

Someone’s moving a little lower than angels allow. They’re whispering to me, but my hands are empty. I feel there’s a skin to this, a grace.

It’s Jason’s birthday today. The fellow who’s reading through this sorry mess from entry one. I’m going to bring him something tasty and finally meet him.

Today’s list: anti-kid pills, ferret food, one ticket to TV on the Radio.