But The Truth is Something Altogether Different

She dreams in clips.
A music video; she’s walking beside a stranger she loves terribly, they’re in an amusement park and laughing, on a rollercoaster and gasping.
Reaching up to the swirling sludge-puppy sky.

The sharp jabbing beeps of her alarm shock her into the deep end of her room.

Left with nothing but a headache and time running out before her boss calls to swoon into her ear his concerns and constructive bullshit, she quickly and inadequately washes up, bites into a piece of last nights pie and has her instant coffee on the go, almost spilling the black liquid down the stairs.

The sun’s too bright, the streets too loud, the walk way too hard, her clothes too close, what she wouldn’t do for a nap right now.

The blur of faces at work remind her of that rollercoaster, that stranger with a red tongue, and the foreign smile on her own face.

She pokes and prods her cheeks – hollow tombs for the flies.

Maybe it all becomes a type of drug, the lies and the ridicule of the world, and you take it all in. It does its job and you piss it out, shit it out.

The Virus of life.

Be Happy.

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Quiet Kisses and a Date Night at Home

They Kiss Quiet

He kisses quiet and she kisses quiet

Nobody knows when they kiss except them

Any passion in their kiss is shared in private;
They haven’t done the French kiss;

He isn’t a prude, it’s the saliva, and besides – how do you coordinate such a thing?

She isn’t a prude either, it’s that foreign warmth, the texture of a tongue (her own tongue gives her the shivers at the best of times), what more a strangers’?

They watch porn together;
they’re fucking like maniacs, she says

He nods, adding: and so loud,

All of that sweat she concludes

They haven’t had sex, they would like to, theoretically. The idea of losing yourself in the moment, in another person, they both agree that this would be an exciting occasion. Although that’s very Hollywood, that «losing yourselves in the other», what does it actually mean, she wonders

He blunts out a theory, maybe like when a really deep song is playing you close your eyes and for those minutes you’re gone, on a another planet

She adds: In another dimension

They smile, if sex is like that then maybe it won’t be too bad, a few seconds of contemplative facial expressions, wistful even, quickly turn to frowns and furrowed brows

But the smell! And the noises! They both blurt out, laughter rings out in front of the muted TV.

Endless fucking; even in movies without sex, they manage to squeeze in something, be it a pointless relationship or love interest (or brothel, she intercepts). His words hover for a second.

The whole world is a Sex of Noise, she declares,

He smiles, nodding, but frowns immediately.
The porn flick concludes with an “Over the Moon” money shot and fades to black.

She says: I wonder what the rest of her day will be like. Wouldn’t it be funny if she went to visit the family back home and she’s kissing grandma and sister’s daughters.

They laugh and watch Classic Tom & Jerry cartoons into the mid-night and beyond.

ceci, ici, c’est le dialogue

~”I want to get out and make it work.”

Laptops exhale, cold tile floors radiate.

“That would be pleasant, but the sun is out, and there are people walking about.”

~”Not safe.”

nodding to the beat of a lax heart.

“The blood rushing around my veins, running from the caffeine, It’s getting to my nerves.”

Dry throat cough, swallow painfully, wince.

~”Devours from the inside out. The old days.”

Eyebrows swell dramatically. Everybody knows what the other is “trying” to say. Cue the old dogs crawling on to center stage and switching the ‘R’s with the ‘S’s.

“I really wanna get out… Look at the clear sky and the street signs and recently painted road!”

~Whose talking? And close the blinds or else we’ll be seen and accused of perversities.

It doesn’t really make a difference though, does it?

Inside out.

Form.