daymare 15

Atop the irreverent winged duckling, with pastries and bloodlines bubbling---that man in the corner with his hat tipped down---big brimmed & all that. He sits anxiously with one hand twitching, holding a cigarette that remains to be lit. It drips from his two fingers as if it has been laid out in the rain. With not much effort one can catch the grasp of his look beneath the brim of his hat. It penetrates the onlooker deep without any decline in the relentless nature of his lack in describing his own reflection to the actual face looking back at him from his own favorite mirror (his grand-mimi gave it to him before she sang her swan song). And the top has been blown off---the carburetor, it just won’t work the way that it is supposed to---She sits right across from him. He knows what she is there for. She’s got it tattooed on her head. She’s got it swirling round her being. She’s crossing her legs, she’s sending vibes, she’s smiling sweet, she’s telling lies---chalking it all up to experience and nothing, being nothing of the sort. The cold truth is that they’ve both been here before. You see, there is someone knocking on the door, doing their best to interfere with the both of them. And their eyes are stinging---the two of them have been out working the whole day. The management has had her on micro-management- mindfuck all day long & he only knows the troubles she’s seen.

& they both dream with open eyes that if they just cut off their hands, their bad habits would go away. and their bad habits dreamed together that if they just cut off their stems of reality---this same harsh reality would wash away. The harsh reality sat as one in a yellow chipped paint rocking chair on the porch with a pistol in its mouth---rocking back and forth, sucking on the barrel like it was their thumb---reverting back to when it was age 5. The formative years have past, certainly---so the two split back into their prospective selves and the sheer scrutiny of that very lack of lucidness which came with their dream is beat upon their brow once more.

Beyond one paragraph the two of them have things to say that won’t be said. They have status quos to live up to. Yes, they have etiquette of human kind. They have to swear quietly to each other that they can’t just get together in mid-run at each other and with much sweat-n-sloppy juices just fuck like rabbits on the floor in front of everyone. Hmmm. Na, they can’t do that. No Last Tango in Paris for these two. Instead what we have is daymare 15. This is the fifteenth time that these two cowards have come to this place in time and done the same exact thing---the same exact lame mating ritual. Following all of their friends n’ family with the “healthy” relationships that they all dwell in---locked in institutions of this n’ that which used to allow them some fanatical pleasure back in the day---but now, there is nothing. Most guys walk out back, saw off their dicks and throw them in the garbage behind the restaurant. Most ladies go out in their cars on break and saw off their female-only extremities, tossing it all into the gas station garbage across the street. They get back to work on time, of course---never exceeding the 15 minutes allotted.