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Jason Argonaut Oct 2011
The friend request. There it was.
The gods must have sent it.
Here I am, two weeks in the past,
Staring dreamily into a picture of you.
Those eyes, garnished with thick dark eyelashes,
Staring deeply into someone you’ve never met.
That jet black hair. Shadowy curtains,
Keeping your heart-shaped face safe.
But those lips. Painted with pure blood daily.
The most inviting fruit before my own eyes.
Yours is a beauty I have only seen in French cinema.
Like Audrey Tatou, ordering in a restaurant,
With a smile of pure inviting mischief.
And I imagine…oh I imagine…
Am I ready to break this wasteland?
The scorching desert that is alone?
I can almost smell her foreign perfume.
But she is merely pixels upon a screen.
You snap out of it, son.

And lo, the friend request.
My stomach leaps as I click ‘accept’.
She types. She compliments.
I compliment. We chat.
We exchange clips of Led Zeppelin.
She sends me gothic rock.
Moody and dark. The blackest of music.
I am never wearing colours again.
And I take the leap. I type some x’s and some o’s.
And she types them back.

Let us meet.
Where do we meet in this god-forsaken town?
Coffee. Easy. Neither formal nor gritty.
Just enough class, just enough mediocrity.
And she sways across the floor and greets me.
Her dress is of vintage design and flowing beauty.
Her glasses project her gaze into mine.
Ordering coffee, sitting with her chin resting on her hand.
Her smile is as warm as the sun.
Is she Mia Wallace? Is this Pulp Fiction?
My witty remark is quite crude and depicts violence.
A normal girl would shudder and frown.
She loves it. She loves that sort of thing.
This was lovely. Let us do it again sometime.

Next minute, we’re kissing passionately in amongst the bamboo.
She cares not for my bristles. In fact she likes it.
Her lipstick gets destroyed. She cares not.
So much drive for a ******.
We’re a secret. No one shall know.
She messages me. Tells me she is still drunk on me.
What we have is otherworldly.
Are we two aliens, a race from a far-off land?
Destined to be together? The last of our kind?

We touch, we caress. We burn CDs.
Trip hop, soul orchestras and shoegaze.
Hand-written burnt CD track listings.
The fact that she has written each word
Brings warmth. It creeps up from my stomach
And my arms can’t help but engulf her little frame.
She calls me a genius.
She loves every single note I play, every word I write.
I am a god to her. She adores me. And I her.
She watches me lovingly on the stage.
And before she boards the train home
I tell her. Three words.
I love you.
It’s the truth. And she loves me back.
Was it too early to tell her this? No, surely not.

Our love creeps and crawls up the stone wall.
An overgrown vine of pleasure and euphoria.
Kiss me hard, push your face so hard into mine.
It’s time. Relax. Just go with it.
Olive skin, so soft. Cover me with you.
Nothing can stop our intergalactic empire.
I stand atop an interstellar battlefield of victory,
With you at my side, my Queen.
If I could just float around space in a bubble
With you my dear, I would be happy
For an eternity.

And you say you’re leaving.
You don’t want it to change us.
It won’t, I promise.
You must further yourself by any means.
Broaden your horizons.
I will still love you to death.
I promise.
And away you fly, off into the sunset.

The phone calls start. You’re in a bad way.
An alien in a strange city, on your own.
What’s going on? The choice has been made.
Think of the money. Can you back out now?
Not just for me, surely. Stick it out.
That’s it, you’re coming back.

And through the drizzle, the plane lands.
You’re back.
In a leather jacket and black dress. My love.
I kiss you like I used to.
But it isn’t like it used to be.
Wait, no. No no no.
What has happened?
My stomach hurts. This pain is excruciating.
Piranhas are attacking my insides.
Make them stop.
The tears burn. I stifle them for days and days.
And finally they fall. What the ****?
It’s gone. It’s just gone.
We sit together. I glance over at your frightened eyes.
I am a murderer, waiting around the corner,
Sharpening my knife for the ****** in the alleyway.
We must end. I don’t know why.
The feeling’s gone. I can’t explain it.
This was like an epic jouney.
I thought it would never end.
You were perfect.
You were badass. You were kickass.
You were beautiful.
You were amazing.
You adored me. You loved me.
You were perfect.
We were perfect.
I loved you.

Now I don’t.

What?

J.A.W. 19/10/11 1:20 AM
"Les femmes jouissent d'abord par l'oreille"
Dit Marguerite Duras
Toi, mon HYDRE-MUSE, tu jouis
Par l'oreille absolue et frivole
Magnifiée
Par la danse à contre-temps
De la poésie pénétrante
Du saxo et de la tumba
Du coupé décalé et de l'azonto
Entre violons et accordéons
Qui fait voltiger sur tes hanches
Toute la copelia complicada de ta libido.
Je rentre sans hâte dans la mue de la couleuvre
Et je te ceins la taille.
Réinventons les croisés en cinquième position
Du ballet classique de Noureev, Petipa et Balanchine
Et à quatre pattes virevoltons dans le Bolchoi.
Setenta y ocho :
Je te tatoue le bas des reins
D'un tatou boule qui exécute
Des renversés arrière multicolores
Dans les plus intimes sillons de ta peau.
Cero :
Verbum Sapientiae Principium Est !
De mon pinceau chatoyant je dessine Des pas de bourrée étourdissants
Aux confins de tes cambrures
Setenta y siete :
Tu miaules des entrechats charnels
Et tu tournoies comme un ventilateur
Et tu me dis : viens, mon prince,
Montre-moi tes ronds de jambes doubles
Ochenta y quatro :
je te prends par les orteils tout en te caressant l'oreille
Et je te dis vas-y
Cuarenta y cinco :
Dombolo baroque dès que tu bouges tes fesses pour m'inviter à tes
Messes de sabbat
Très y media :
Demi-pointe sur les tétons qui frémissent et qui clignent des yeux
La peau de ton aréole gauche  danse la biguine
Ton sein droit fait voltiger du jus de grenade
Sesenta :
Un deux trois cinq six sept
Un seul fouetté
Tu enchaînes les figures libres et académiques
Passe après passe
Tu plantes dans le taureau farceur tes aromates
Et je crie Banco et tu me mordilles la paume de la main.
Setenta complicada :
J'aime notre gourmandise choreographee clitoridienne, anale, phallique et vaginale
Cet appétit colossal de ballet épicé à la Merce Cunningham, Alvin Ailey et Martha Graham
Qui nous prend entre deux morts de tous nos lacs des cygnes primaux
Nous en sommes les danseurs étoiles les solistes les premiers danseurs les petits rats les chorégraphes et les maîtres de ballet
À nous deux nous formons une troupe
Réincarnée
Et nous signons de nos plumes de chair notre martingale lubrique :
Un deux trois... Cinq six sept
Un deux trois... Cinq six sept
Un deux trois... Cinq six sept

— The End —