“Would you fill the very blue skies with lies just to appease your vanity?
Is it because you think the stars are tiny pinpricks to nowhere?
Norris, you can be retarded or great. However, the two will never meet. To be special is never to be vast. Any real artist should hate it.
It’s not a lack of words you lack ears to hear. I may as well pour them upon the sand. You’d pretend to drink them out of a screen. You pretend your hunger is mine. Try to fill yours with words.
Because it is a story you want instead of your life. Every day, you would extinguish a person for a fiction. As you’ve done yourself.
Do you crave meaning? Or do you have no idea what that feels like?
Demand to be special. Prioritize mindless attention. Stop intending to make meaning.
Snape doesn’t love the boy.
Snape loves Lily.
I’m not in the story.” (Wagner, 3.1.7-22)
I think the spark between Mr. Black and I has faded. He’s been distant. He doesn’t look for me anymore. He used to like it when I would be aggressive. Now, I’m just a pouting bore.
We sit at a round table. I can see all their faces at all times. They’re different shades of colorful browns except for the white man on his phone who looks like one of his ancestors could have once been addressed as Massa.
We’re in different time zones, Mr Black and I. He’s an insomniac manic. I sleep deep at night. I’m only awoken by the seizure my brother is having. It happens infrequently. Mr Black is frustratingly unresponsive during the day.
Different fragrant vials of melanin. They laugh so loosely and the words are mumbled and chewed and sung with their black heads knocked back. Belly laughs that tickle an intrusive admirer. A warm brotherhood. Massa is still on his phone. I don’t think he’s ever noticed the beauty of their talk. It feels like something traditional brought with them to freedom that should be kept secret but is so beautifully exposed yet ignored by ignorants like Massa.
I’ve grown kind of desperate. I telephone Mr Black but he never picks up. I’ve thought of replacing him. But, they leave me wanting more. I’ve considered sleeping with Mr Black in real life. I’d have to meet him first. Maybe, someday, squirrel boy could love him with more than just a keyboard.
He makes daiquiris for us to drink while we sit in his garden underneath the weakening sun. I came over high. I wonder if his water-colored eyes have noticed.
I say dumb things while we sit and talk because I’m young. He replies with beautiful blue depths of wisdom that make my arms feel fuzzy. He does it very carefully in that deep voice of his so I won’t pout and start drowning. Us young boys don’t like to be reminded by our daddies of how young and silly we are. He’s taught me to cringe at the word “daddy”. I don’t think I’ll ever say it again.
The UPS man moves to the back of his truck where he knows he can’t be seen from outside after he’s parked it in a spot hidden from the sun and from people that still use their legs to walk.
He’s a man in his late fifties with a droopy face and a liking for boys san poils. You can make him handsome in your mind if you want. You can only find that when they’re really young.
The UPS man rests on an improvised stool made of packages. The air is tight and he’s sweating with excitement. A red-lipped boy of about thirteen lies tied and peacefully asleep on the floor of the truck. The UPS man has been moving back there and caressing the boy’s alabaster-like skin and watching the nameless boy sleep every few deliveries. He’s an angel. The UPS man’s brown shorts are tight but he doesn’t dare unbutton.
It’s but a dream in the daylight…
Ele não é un violador, mais simplesmente um amante.
Mademoiselle uttered the words, “my lord!” as her last breath after bringing light into this world. Her eyes rolled back; “Mademoiselle était morte!”. It was final; the bastardly babe would be named Milord.
I sincerely apologize for this fraudulent yet well-intended attempt to know French.
Peux tu me pardonner?
The woman smokes at the window. He stands on the guillotine with all the eyes of France upon him. He’s decided to meet his fate bravely.
She put on a plain white dress in front of the guards. She was now a widow in France. Her hair was shorn, her hands were tied. A priest sat beside her; she ignored him for the one hour ride. She had nothing to confess, nothing left to say.
The wine keeper’s wife knits no longer. La môme is yet to come. She had nothing left to say.
Non, rien de rien.
They say that she is a whore from the eastern seas because she knows every man underneath her lash. It’s been said that she has had them all finish onto her left hand.
Only Catholic Queens and the Princess of Monaco can wear white in the presence of the Pope. Le privilège du blanc. The Pope is hardly ever left-handed.
Lefty is a lover. Lefty feels foreign. Lefty is a virgin. It feels like a tarantula that crawls its way into a hairy lap and makes love to the engorged loins. The brain knows it’s attached but it still feels like it’s discovering new land.