I’ve given you dive bars and a hill and a café somewheres but I haven’t given you any local color; I haven’t grounded you in the scene. If you were a realist, you wouldn’t believe me. If you were a realist, you’d hate me, even.
If I were a realist, I’d hate me, but for different reasons; I’d be so bored with myself and my realism, I’d go to one of the corner bars in Miltown and drink and drink and drink until I couldn’t even remember my name and then everything’d become really real and it’d be real and absurd wherever I ended up – a stranger’s bed, a psych ward, the hospital, the gutter, the median, the cop shop, on a bicycle, in space, wherever.
Like what the insides of my intestines look like: bright yellow and stringy.
& what your bourgeois dreams look like: bright yellow with stainless steel stringy-ass accessories.
& what the lushes call aurora borealis is really just dawn flashing on dting eyelids.
& what bike sex looks like: ask O’Brien.
& what the normal workday looks like: newspaper print and kitty vomit.
& what life and death means to corporations: Hello, kitty!
& what married couples’ sex lives look like: bad anime karate chops; the climaxes go all pow and kerplunk and widow’s peak.
& what married couples call love: Bill Cosby sucking jello pudding pops.
& what Punkboy calls love: home.
& what Richboy calls love: cruelty.
& what Homegirl calls love:
& Homegirl will fantasize about walking these streets like a noir antihero fucking every attractive guy/girl she meets and leaving a bloody trail down these Miltown sidewalks.
But, I haven’t even described Miltown so you are in an everyplace everywhere howtown.
yours,
meta-ry
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