Black Liquor

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September 20, 2014 by Wayne.

“Well, I guess I just like spending time with her. I know she’s pretty fucked up, yeah. Doesn’t change how I feel. Shit’s not rational, you know?

I don’t know. Everything, I guess? Anything. Like the other day, we were at this sort of nook in Barlai’s courtyard and we went from, like, talking about the ending of Filth (Jesus fucking Christ) to experimental pop (honestly she goes much deeper into this shit than I do, I stop at like Red Sun and the occasional Satanicpornocultshop) to a sort of pseudo-discussion of feelings in fiction, ie. whether emotions felt in response to fiction are genuine emotions if they’re fundamentally directed to fictional characters and events, or whether we’re (sub)consciously directing them to a sort of projection of real life. But that just sounds boring, doesn’t it, if I put it that way?

It’s not really what we talk about, I guess, it’s more of the fact that we can talk about all these disparate things and bathe in the unfettered flow of thoughts to words – almost like a sort of celebration of language as more than a means of transport; we talk to fill the spaces and say things that mean other things and sometimes nothing much at all, talking because it’s a pleasant thing to do, to agree and refute the things she says and watch her responses flow through her face and out into more words about things, I don’t know what things, really. Maybe I’m just projecting.

I felt close to her then. I don’t always. She’s distant at times. Most times – well, it’s hard to tell.

Sometimes she smells of Tunisian jasmine and tuberose and white lotus, the top notes wrestling jealously with one another, spiking and bursting as her wrist brushes against me or when I nuzzle briefly against her neck, and deepening through the day into the background of violet leaves and sumac and sandalwood. And sometimes she smells of nothing at all, on the days she goes without fragrance, her tongue anxiously lapping at her parched lips as I grip harder around her neck, her eyes clenching and relaxing, and sometimes I feel like squeezing a tiny bit harder and pushing in with my thumbs, but that’s just how it is, you know?

I think I’d like to end with this poem by Rexroth:”

I am a man with no ambitions
And few friends, wholly incapable
Of making a living, growing no
Younger, fugitive from some just doom.
Lonely, ill-clothed, what does it matter?
At midnight I make myself a jug
Of hot white wine and cardamon seeds
In a torn grey robe and old beret,
I sit in the cold writing poems,
Drawing nudes on the crooked margins,
Copulating with sixteen year old
Nymphomaniacs of my imagination.

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