Saturday, March 24, 2007

The glimmering creatures are full of lies.

Last night S.D. and I went on a whirlwind tour of bars and nightclubs, as I am known to do from time to time, and with my perfect new haircut, freshly exfoliated and moisturized skin, new shoes, and a smile on my face, my proverbial milkshake did in fact bring all the boys to the metaphorical yard. It was good for my self esteem to get out and get in people's faces a little bit. Crowds though, honey. I guess the good places are the good places because everybody goes there. There was a VoV (Violence on Vodka) moment when a bathroom dispute arose in deceptively named bar Posh, but I will not be cut off in a line. I don't care how many times you're counting off the order of who's next.

I know who's next. His friend decided not to challenge me, but when I emerged from my righteous use of the toilet, there was a challenge issued via eyeballs for me to get in the counting-off culprits face. In answer to Mark Goodman's question, "Did you do it?" -- you know I did it. Stand down, bitch.

As usual, the beautiful boys dangle from strings, and as I drowned myself in vodka I become increasingly fond of this young man whose name I can't remember (and probably forgot within seconds of him telling me) who was PERFECT and kind of feeling his moment with me. Then he says to me that he only likes European guys, so I was thinking "Well then go to EUROPE", but the gears shifted and I was then in the hands of a beautiful man who took my number but will probably never call because that's just how it works. Also a friendly visitor to our nice City from DC stole my heart like they all do. It is so painful sometimes to be this thin and gorgeous. It hurts setting such a standard. ;)

Anyway, my existential crisis and psycho-social developmental disorder that has been plaguing me has waned a little bit, but I got nothin'. So here is a poem that always inspires.

The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator
by Anne Sexton


The end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Finger to finger, now she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

No comments: