the capture of a relic

This picture is something pretty that Nico made today. You should go look and praise her muchly. Her work is excellent, some of it’s rather haunting. She did a painting of me once, but my favourite is The Lies You Tell Yourself. I want a poster-sized print for my home. I adore what it says about people in general and I adore the harsh use of three colours.

The sun today can’t burn too brightly, I feel like wandering outside to the Seawall. I have my devil horns on that Alastair gifted me with and I want to use them. Flutter down by the water in a long skirt and splash in the ocean a little. Shade my eyes and kick as high as I can on the swing-set. I know the night-time likes me, it’s time to ty out the day. Take a look around me when there’s light to colour in the lines. I want to question my city more than I have recently. I want to find something new in something familiar. I would like to try and fall in love with where I am. I want to beg the streets to hold me, for the trees to whisper my name in my ear like they want my head bent back to bare my throat for a kiss.

Not going to happen, of course, but it’s a sweet fantasy.

Tonight The Secret Machines are playing at Richards on Richards. We haven’t tickets yet, but if music falls though, there’s always films to watch. Ray is talking of coming and I mean to drop by Golden Age and drop a word to Mike as a reminder. Dinner and a time out. I feel like dancing. I hit the floor hard on Saturday night, I feel it still. I’m a different shape now, muscles worked out and stretched. It’s negligible but noticeable. I wasn’t expecting to have made such a difference with only a few hours.

He turns to look at the city, shading his eyes with his hand at the scraping glare of light flashing off windows. This is where he buried the body, this is where he took her necklace off. He was younger then, in the middle of being a teenager. Pearls. His friends had been contemplating suicide, but he somehow decided that was too de rigueur. They had sex first, of course. She was a socialite slumming with the bell hop and he was more than willing to take advantage of the situation. She asked him to leave the red jacket on and a brass button tore a little at her dress. A tiny detail which makes him hard, he always comes back to it lovingly. He pulled out when he came, leaving pulses of pale semen to drip down her legs. He wasn’t old enough to know to catch it in his hand. That button is always in his pocket. He considered putting it on a chain but somehow never got around to it. He takes it out occasionally and licks it, holds it on his tongue. Now he’d ask for a striptease. Pearls, it always comes back to pearls, shining on the inside of her thigh. He’s since developed a fetish for nylons. The image curls him into himself, a clench of teeth and eyes closing against the glare.

Alright, don’t know where that came from. I was going to write out a happy picnic but somehow it was usurped. Sorry.