there’s more life in the paintings than in the women who posed for them. the freedom of the lines and the half seen colors have an honesty and breath denied to the real women. you can almost hear him say “forget to die” to his models, trying to break the wall that separates them from honesty. but they are incapable; too warm, too breathing too fleshy and so he paints them with crackled line and seeping tones. haughty in the canvas they live, naked and exposed, wanton and beautiful, untouched and impossible.
I created the bad feeling by calling her friend, “a whore”. the feeling was worsened by the fact that they were both, as it so happened, whores.
“i meant nothing. it’s what she does for a living.” they harbored insolent sidelong looks drawn cigarettes and crossed legs. “if she was a cop, i’d call her a cop.”
“So you think of her the same way you think of cops?”
“if she wasn’t charging guys to fuck her i wouldn’t call her a whore. ”
“she’s an escort.”
i wondered how much it would cost to get out of the conversation.
there’s an itchy desperation making us all edgy. we rock on the balls of feet with cold sweats breaking out. we live vicariously and we are in need. there’s a pause – he’s taunting us, drawing it out, making sure we will remember how much this pause this suspension this wait hurts. then, furry head and mane dip below silk covers, muzzling white throat. blood spurts and we relax, laughing. a white figure writhes. the wolf head rises brown and grey, thick red teeth licked by a lolling red tongue. we slip into the dark free until the next moon.
Today’s lecture on To The Lighthouse. The lecturer Doctor Lucy. Grand entrance over, she impressed us, black boots and black full length coat that smelled of drying herbs blood and piss. She diluted us, rimmed Woolf, drawled synesthesia, slavered genius. I scribbled acolyte notes: “Woolf’s predilection ran to green rose thorns pressed into the whites of one’s eyes.” Good doctor so lesbian she only played with the boys in class using a black rubber dildo, she smiled at me knowing I could be humiliated by a single word and I watched her with growing excitement waiting for it to come.
A sliver moon like a thin scar rises against the black. Dry wind sits in the tree heads, soughing. Tall grasses brush my legs as I pass from the field into the trees. A thing moves in the darkness then I am alone. After some time I reach an opening where a bare rock sits. Wind quietens, I place the bounty on the rock. Ichor seeps. I wait. Eventually the goat appears; a large barrelled billy, slitted eyes knuckled horns. He approaches the bounty and sniffs. Head rises and teeth are bared in grin. “What do you want this for?” I ask. The goat shakes his head mirthlessly. “It’s a secret,” he replies. “A wonderful secret.”
You’d be mousy if it wasn’t for the sneer. A black bob of sheer black hair, above a pale broad face with down sloped eyes. A perpetually unhappy mouth. The nose is slightly in the air, giving a sense of you looking down on me, the room, everything. Straight white shoulders of an expensive jacket and just below the top of your cleavage sits a loose black undershirt. You are unmoving, almost unblinking, the eyes staring down the nose. There is laughter somewhere underneath, just below the surface, and if you aren’t careful it will start at your mouth and rise into the corners of your eyes.
I take a book randomly from the shelves and open it. Oh look it says you are a miserable bastard who’d have thought it. You return the favor and it says I’m a shit. a fun game. i spit on the next book and look at you out the corner of my eye, smiling. you frown, piss all over the next book. i don’t understand why you’d do that it seems so unnecessary. fuck you. i grab a book and tear it in half. this disturbs you so you set fire to the next volume. i cut the lights while a centipede wriggles up my arm. see you soon.