Waltzing through roped sections, Fleurs de lis dancing in luxury Axminster. I'm bare foot (no black shoes). I can feel pearls warmed by my skin the ***** barrel clasp already caught my hair longer, the curtains drawn.
The heat of flood lights wafting door Upstage left blinking open and closed. An eye in this dark room regarding Apron large enough to cater in parts, or as a whole to Descartes, Luther, Walther (I trip over the Latin, even in dreams My tongue fat and regretfully English). Who else has sat before your stage? Me - up nights waiting for the lights to dim. Your understudy tenderly exploring High german, cheap shock value, the God ****** quantity of it all.
The minutes on the wall wrong as the aisle lights and fire exit signs flash on but you never come onstage.
That door swings wide eyed. I watch you bent at a table? A light biting out your silhouettes. A skull sits proscenium.
Your hands shucking oysters Pearls slip the same way the knife slips.
The clock reads different again Still we sit and watch you repeat the task but you never bleed. Too deft with that blade (You know what they say about a death in the first). The stage lights distance you from me My throat itches for liqueur. I cannot seem to look away so I close my eyes the lights go out.
I find myself alone in bed, oddly sober. Willing the dark to turn me over so I can dream some more of the Cartesian theatre.