Flash
In the morning my Uncle said, he had heard on the radio, that a boy's sex life was recorded by his roommates on the internet, and on his drive home from work, he had heard on the radio, that in the afternoon the boy had jumped off the George Washington Bridge.
I'd thought of suicide today, as I often do on dark days. But it would be rude, so instead I got a sandwich.
The past couple of weeks were hazy, like my dreams, in which I watched my memories embalmed in instant, old photographs, all of which were half-burned and falling above my head and before my supine body, as only dreams can do.
Still a rational creature, I thought of calling a psychiatrist, the last one did not return my call, but I thought better of it and thought maybe a movie and sex would be better.
The movies were all bad, though good movies they were, and the only sex I found was on the internet; so I emptied my frustrations on the floor and tried a PBS documentary about art, half of which was good and the other not so good.
I stopped watching and thought of taking a bubble bath, which might do me some good, along with reading a local paper where I could read about the sexual exploits of politicians and also dead prostitutes and maybe a funny cartoon to cheer myself up and relax. But the headline was depressing. And I wasn't really in the mood for reading anyway.
I smoked a cigarette and ate some junk food in the middle of the night. I went online and yammered away at the white screen and thought of you again. There you are kind of blurry kind of dead kind of beautiful and I thought about all the sex we had, all the food we ate, all the movies we watched, some of which were kind of good, kind of beautiful, kind of dead, and I longed to smell your hair, to see your pout, to look again and lose my mind on your breast, lose the yelling and broken plates in those still-life photographs, lose my sense of time and maybe help you do the same.
The rain started tapping his impatient fingers on the roof, and at the end of the night, as my Uncle wakes to go to work, I realize I have nothing but half burning photographs, and even the rain can't put the fire out. Today will be like some five-year-old Thursday I cannot recall and
I'd thought of suicide today, as I often do on dark days. But it would be rude, so instead I got a sandwich.
The past couple of weeks were hazy, like my dreams, in which I watched my memories embalmed in instant, old photographs, all of which were half-burned and falling above my head and before my supine body, as only dreams can do.
Still a rational creature, I thought of calling a psychiatrist, the last one did not return my call, but I thought better of it and thought maybe a movie and sex would be better.
The movies were all bad, though good movies they were, and the only sex I found was on the internet; so I emptied my frustrations on the floor and tried a PBS documentary about art, half of which was good and the other not so good.
I stopped watching and thought of taking a bubble bath, which might do me some good, along with reading a local paper where I could read about the sexual exploits of politicians and also dead prostitutes and maybe a funny cartoon to cheer myself up and relax. But the headline was depressing. And I wasn't really in the mood for reading anyway.
I smoked a cigarette and ate some junk food in the middle of the night. I went online and yammered away at the white screen and thought of you again. There you are kind of blurry kind of dead kind of beautiful and I thought about all the sex we had, all the food we ate, all the movies we watched, some of which were kind of good, kind of beautiful, kind of dead, and I longed to smell your hair, to see your pout, to look again and lose my mind on your breast, lose the yelling and broken plates in those still-life photographs, lose my sense of time and maybe help you do the same.
The rain started tapping his impatient fingers on the roof, and at the end of the night, as my Uncle wakes to go to work, I realize I have nothing but half burning photographs, and even the rain can't put the fire out. Today will be like some five-year-old Thursday I cannot recall and
posted by a. | 5:59 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home