Paperweight
The infernal imagination is not so pure as a kitten's tongue, not so neat as a submarine. Every starting point is a prick of starlight and the story can be traced out of the night like the delicate scribble on an Ark Angel's etch a sketch pad, or a broken love heart in the warm wet sand.
Imagination sends me Fluidity, she wants to imbue me wryly with wetness and longing. The horn of cherries transmutes into a soft and velvety glove which I am invited to put my hand in, finger after finger. This is the source of life this warm and oily opening, this dark and tender wound, this forfended lair of paradise. This is the dripping honeycomb of sweet surrender, this is the living image of the slash I'm fucking for virginity, this is the holy concourse of arbitration between liminality and forfension, this is the sentient orchid whose scent rigs my carrot, whose front cocks my game, whose bent is the Lady who lives in shallot, who's rent with which the hazy debacle is shaved.
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
You're in need of a splash.
Himself:
Paint or frigidity?
Interlocutor:
You have to stand at least five clouds away if you want to speak to him.
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
This is yesterday remember, I'm a shag and a half begone and got on with it by now.
Himself:
Yesterday the fields were only grey with snow.
Interlocutor:
This is gonna end in loathing and denial.
Himself:
No it isn't you knee high to a grasshopper sclerotic fuckwit.
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
You asked for that.
Interlocutor:
Q.E.D.
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
What's got his goat?
Interlocutor:
He don't like he don't like ...
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
Eric Clapton?
Himself:
Himself.
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
Being dislocated in time?
Interlocutor:
... being interrupted.
Pause:
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
I wrote you a note.
Himself:
Is this gonna be a sting thing?
Interlocutor: (Holding up note.)
Exhibit A.
Himself:
Do we have to proceed with this charade?
Interlocutor:
Your honour, madam, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'm trying to establish the motif of the accused. His soul is deeply buried in an inaccessible place and the commensurate jack shit of tangible empathy is the result you see before you; a cold hearted beast with no speck of consideration or decency in his twisted being.
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
Good point well made. Harsh but fair. (She applauds with mittens)
Interlocutor:
The note I have in my be-gloved hoof is an echo from the accused’s school days, I submit that the evidence towards establishing his corrupted nature is both compelling and salient.
Himself:
You can stop speaking now, the judge has nodded off.
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
Don't penetrate me please.
Himself:
I would sink into you like a cold bath. Silent fronds of the virginity you saved for me, would waft between my legs like seaweed in a warm lagoon on a windy day.
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
You never loved me.
Himself;
Love never fails.
Deborah:
I never loved you.
Interlocutor:
Ouch.
Himself:
I beg your pardon?
Interlocutor:
I said "Ou..."
Himself:
Not you.
Interlocutor:
O....
Himself:
We've discussed all this.
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
And left it ringing on an empty bedpost.
Himself:
Splash.
Interlocutor:
Paint?
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
Frigidity. An understandable confluence of frustrations in view of the circumstances. Not withstanding the fact that these mitigations are a matter of record, I remain steadfast in my determination not to repeat them my L’ud.
Himself.
Just an ejaculation.
The ghost of three Deborah’s:
Running away with me...
Disembodied voice:
Are we back in today yet?
Silence.
Torn pieces of paper scattered in space fall softly through endless night like pieces of fake snow in a giant glass bauble.
Sculpture - Rodin, The Lovers.
