Night theatre, a history of migration & sex work, of tempest & conquest. The Messiah of sleeze initiates catholic serenade, like an embryo upon the immaculate stage. Bardo Club, where souls are lost in transmigration, archetype to archetype. Make mine a scotch and soda.
Yet it sootheth not his cares because he’s a fucked up little ego, & in an evil mood, freshly agitated still by the irony of her position, that tenuous plastic charm & pitifully human defence mechanism, by indecency, by autistic thoughts, sadism, idle suffocating philosophy, double penetration gang bang illuminated holy letter hutbas & dirty talk texts, desperate substitutions & such a terrible self censorship.
Drunk beyond reason, he is resolved, and follows the trace scents of opportunity with blindfolded instinct. Sniffing ass, honing in: a gin house jazz age echo dog.
- why’s everyone so standoffish tonight?
- i see what you mean. can i buy you a drink?
- well, i think the bar’s just about closed. but I’ve an idea: we could go up to your room and continue the party from there.
And croons back that old papal standard, back there within, like nocturnal raindrops upon dreamtime taxis, like how they walk, & how he’s compelled to follow :
This can’t be love, because I feel so well,
No sobs, no sorrows, no sighs.
- you brought me up here to your room, alone. huh, such a dirty boy. you wanna cum, huh? cum all over my face?
- yeah, like that. Like that.
- you wanna push me down on the floor and fuck me up the ass, huh? fuck my black ass?
This can’t be love; I get no dizzy spells: my head is not in the skies.
Trinidad fascist rally, she plays that card here because she knows he’s latent like that.
- (gagging) oooh, I love your Asian cock. (Spit on it)
- you’re vicious, baby, vicious.
He’s sold & absolved.
For Jezebel’s a hidden goddess. A hidden goddess, holy babalon: she knows/if she only knew.
My heart does not stand still, just hear it beat.
This is too sweet to be love.
what concerns him? what messes with his head, really? communication. failure at location, the makkam, the altar of the real. Then locked in on the failure, fixating, abject, bleeding hysteric, inconsistent & timeless frenzy.
- coward, blame it upon blunt spiritual barriers, why don’t you?
- When something’s broken that I can’t fix, I’m doubly drawn in.
- Your nafs paints you as Jesus to Magdelene, when all you really want is to break the girl.
- All i want is to demonstrate to her how unbroken things are, how divine she is, I am, we are.
- But she’s a lost one, you know it, and yet you continue to torture her?
It’s a hypocritical, fool’s errand kick: you bleed shifting Satanic tafsir but she will retain her religious trainng: a gorgeously transcendent terrorist, bitter and angry, a desert cat hissing panic within the subterranean slave houses of the City. Hateful transcendence: she’s a funeral rose, & in fragmented fantasies I dream of holding it close to my chest.
- what satisfies my concern? what straightens my head? comfort, understanding. not spiritual understanding though, no, not intercourse within some spiritual “real.” Instead exchange between roles. you see, I’ve reached a stage in my life where I’m done – exhausted, spent – with a data dictionary tailored for the ears of the embodied receiver. I’m not eloquent like that. I’m comforted solely by masks of anticipation, of preparation, of understood subtext. Like this panther here, sucking my cock with such reactive intuition.
- This makes me lighter. My territory.
- So you see, my dear, I’m afraid I’m a terrible asshole, one of the very worst.
- I’ll be seeing you.
- Yet part of me remains pure.
- What do you want?
- You have failed to be analytic about your intentions: what else did you expect?
- Even in sex, analytic?
- Especially in sex. You failed before, and repeated your failure.
- I know, what can I say? I really screwed up.