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| fig.035) loathing, lamentation and some basic flesh |
Flesh by flesh is, what it is and always has been,
Flesh, again and again and again and again and again...A forest of blind dreams, in a valley of monuments where no one,
can sleep
Some soft fruit from the man man tree,
a dry pull from mad youth
Some broken weather for the quiet birds,
like songs in the grass with dry turds
Over the waves that are crashing, over the walls where the river rolls
Forbidden are the tastes that we're tasting
Wet in the days that we've ended, we've ended old
Over and done go the dead things, the dead things that nobody knows, in bed all over and over and over again...
From Milch, This Thimbleful...
The swath of angry paper I've rolled myself into is disintegrating. Moving through the crowd has made it damp. Now I'm frustrated, being left by the front door this whole time. I start making my way to the kitchen, stopping to pick up a warm beer or sticky glass of something sweet or sweaty tasting as I pass hopelessly young kids and greasy mathematicians.About halfway through a tall can of murky turd tonic, I look up and see Montana talking to someone about buying a new suit. Montana, is in a brown stripped sweater. His short cropped hair bristles with spiny energy. He's becoming more and more excited talking about the land rush and why a good suit is so important.
Looking around some more and I spot Dallas. Mint is nearby, he's already asleep on a broken couch. It's clear someone pissed on him. These parties are so violent. The last one I was at, it ended with the entire house burning down. "No one knows anything," I think to myself.
Now I'm here, close to done with quietude today. The myth of me has too much anthill, its calamitous with falling away swarm and busted up thorax. A cigarette would taste excellent instead. It'd be like the ocean, slipping itself around a preacher's ears. Clasping whitely their mad book of indignation, full of its spooky shit queefing mysteries of faith and other elucidations. A cigarette sounds bold.
Gin fouls the corners where hats mask why the lamps stand like trees. Drinking, parishioners heave themselves from ashtray to ashtray, tipping their glasses along the way. We're talking about party tricks in rolled up pant legs. We're talking mean and studying mean. Our skirts are wild but our legs don't care. We're in the backseat kitchenette listening to a wide array of echoes. "This is what we're in for," Montana is laughing again. "that, and another suit."
"But, the zombies won't come. They're all in uptown, the crème brulé is perfect in uptown," someone in his orbit exclaims.
"That's ok, our yard's full. The monkey's been trained to piss higher than that elephant and before we left, we turned on the light in our fridge," Montana shares with a laugh.
"You're so full of shit," I throw away the glass I've been nursing. It hits a sloppily dressed army fellow who has Post It notes stapled to his bandoleer. Yelling at Montana, "Fuck your monkey. The basement and backrooms are what I know, so if I have to, I must."
Without a word, Montana leaves. Dallas looks to me, he's disappointed. Even his camera seems a little sad. Then he turns and follows Montana through the parting crowd. Dallas stops once and picks up some trash. Soon it's like neither of them were ever there.
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