Thursday, January 20, 2011

balls & the wall: an allegory

this morning mama went to the woods to look for her woodsman with the bambi heart, the heart of gold, the fake heart, the heart in a box. she was looking looking and slogging through kudzu and leaves and vines and strange men pissing and strange women squatting & then she was in a nightclub bathroom circa 2009 and she could hear L'il John and he was skeeting to the windows and to the walls til the sweat dropped down his balls and then she was looking at herself  in the mirror and mama was wearing shortshorts and dropping it low. She dropped and jiggled her way out onto the dance floor and then it was thrillville's some cut playing and she was thinking about juggling balls while someone tore down her walls... maybe mama'd never left the nightclub, maybe mama'd never been to the woods, maybe there'd never been a woodsman or a trucker...

pssst - the wall's the cervix, whispered someone close to mama. she felt a hand on her tit and it wasn't her own unlike this morning before she went to the woods when she was in the shower & doing her own memorial service for the trucker - slow and sad her fingers spread cross white breast and pinkypink nips.

& mama sd, duh. don't be so unsexy.

i've always...i like...you... my cock... a lot, whoever whispered.

& mama knew it was the trucker & that this was a flashback or at least this part was a flashback cos the trucker'd gotten lost in that last Northeastern blizzard. the last Nor'easter. & no one'd heard from him; no one'd heard his handle since or found his cb. that roll of film that dude'd found in Brooklyn wasn't the trucker's even tho she wanted to pretend so bad it was the love letter he never sent. that he'd kept it under his cap. until he went down.


(say reduce me, seduce me, dress me up in Stussy.)

& mama said, you ain't real. & then mama was alone at a truck stop and she was watching some trucker snort ritalin off the lottery machine & it was 3:30 in the morning somewheres & mama wanted to get back to the woods.

but there was no good witch to tell her she'd never left them.

so mama got those nachos with the runny fake cheeses (like cheez whiz almost but mama ain't nostalgic, just fucked up) and coffee and then she sniffed the residue of ritalin after that trucker'd left. she tried on cowboy hats and snuck gatorade and red bulls and took a whore bath and a trucker shower and drank more coffee and ignored the new clerk who had a black eye, and coke dribbles coming out her nose.

mama couldn't find the way out; she couldn't find the door.

there was only the wall that was the cervix and the window that had the skeet and the trucker that was lost & the woodsman waiting somewheres in the brush with a freshly cut heart.

yours, all plato cave-like & shit,
ryder

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