Who is the mirror man?
The greatest star? Narcissus? Your idiot? Your fool?
A Holy Fool is too far beyond my reach. I couldn't aspire to that.
Your existence is the projection of an idiot, or you encase your idiot in
a glass tomb to shut him up?
Her. She's intersexual.
Who's the dummy and who's the ventriloquist? Sometimes it's hard to tell
who's thinking for whom? Why do you do it?
Because we all do it. Because in some sense I have the mind of a
runaway. A vestigial mind from a feral youth. Because you mirage before me,
dancing the dance of the seven veils in a shimmering echo of my evanescent heat
stroke. I say mirage advisedly. You don't know
who is thinking, the dummy or the idiot and I don't know who is shimmering, the
virgin of the sun haze, or the speck of starlight in the eye of the beholder.
I'm in the bath the cold cold bath diluting the heat at the heart of my
lust kicking up warmth exacting desires drowning the blossoms one cannot
extinguish; I strangle and grope their bareness and iniquity until they are
ejected and extirpated their seeds floating ragged in clumps of wet
spawn.
The coldness had no effect on quelling your heat?
Not really no. Being relaxed brings waves of coarse images into my mind.
I just try and concert them into mantras and project their images into some
kind of ectopic vortex and if that fails I burst the banks of my tidal barrier
and open the release valves.
Is that a euphemism?
Of course!!
Why can't you just say what you mean?
I don't want you to laugh at me.
I won't.
When I close my eyes I can see you in the dark and feel you in my
breath. Wish I could sculpt you, wish I could hone you, wish I could describe
you in paint and pastel, because I can't ease your ghost from the tip of my
tongue, because I can't traipse off your exorcism with the faint of my
quill.
I'll stay here by the fire.
I'll rub you with my charcoal and debauch my craven sense of integrity
with a wild and heathen screech of dirty mindedness.
Do what you like.
"I'll always love you."
"Love? Lord above! Now he's trying to trick me with love!"
Let's play... Hunt the peanut.
No.
When you send me pictures of women undressing and sculptures of ideal
beauty with their cold softness and the biblical eroticism of their fruit
pastille dew drop flavored allure and the seductiveness of the naked honeycombs
between their legs I always imagine that's you showing yourself to me.
It's not.
Well, that's a shame. It would have made me happy.
Don't be an idiot.
That's where we came in.
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