Thursday, 13 January 2011

PhD in Grand Theft Auto

To be performed later...
A boxed advert plays before a song.
A cream for aching muscles.
How fetching... a pair of tights on the floor
onto torso. Hair wet. Slit? No. Don't touch.
He'll be here soon. Towel off. Clothes on...
to the door. Troubador
Blimey- the lift must be working. Didn't take him long. Usually, I've got three minutes between the gate and the door; get dressed, brush the teeth or tidy the dishes.
No door bell--just a few loose wires. Handy man that he is...he has the immediate remedy. hot wires it ....his Phd in Grand Theft Auto. It buzzes like a 1940's radio just before you tune into the station.. a tinny ring. the boiled red eyes of sheep caught on barbed wire....electronically enhanced barb.

"Why don't you put your sandwich down and come for lunch?" Well that was to the point. He detached himself from his phone and checked his he wouldn't check his watch would he? Everything is on his phone including his clock. He had not yet had the operation that implants the phone into your forearm...habit forming...more than heroin. His whole life was on his phone--even his cock. It's hard to detach from the phone and plug in to reality. Reality....where has it gone? It disappeared while you were watching u-tube. Oh really? Can we replay it?

(The screen is almost as real...may be even more real than what actually happens in life. People are absorbing and connecting through keyboards...touching keypads more often than actual skin. Yes. Somewhere on the web there is a study on it.)

Whatever she wrote, he knew eventually, he would just come over and fuck her. A long time had passed...she had read all the magazines in the waiting room. What was the point? But as she opened the door, she remembered what it was. A few Coronas, a little breathy from the stairs.
Hello. He comes in....this part to be continued later....cup of tea, scrabble, a chat about China...or perhaps no chatting at all. Perhaps she just bends down to tidy up a leaflet and injures her back while doing so. Stays in that ever so injured position for a while until he wipes the custard off her chin and pulls her up by her hair to kiss her on the forehead and click closed the door. He moves her from the hallway to the bedroom for more. She licked him like a panting puppy. --how did your date go? actually, we had nothing to say. Oh. That's a pity. Uncomfortable then? very cold.

Ever wish you weren't joking around about your love life huddled over an i-phone with your friends in a bar? No one has a back like him. That's all she thought as she looked around the bar. The topic had gone from men, French men, American Men, the pasties of Britain with their...ah...?? What do they have? So drained of blood from being polite or reserved...too polite to fuck. All these people in lingering relationships years on and not meeting the parents for Christmas? Lateness. What to do about it. No need for anyone to grow up anymore. Just plug yourself into a computer and blindfold yourself to the time going by. the death of chivalry. A performance piece where you go through the motions of your own funeral...which music you would play, who would come, what they would say, which flowers they would lay on your grave....favourite tomb stone?.. granite or ash slate. It stays with me. Intimately. All I thought was, if I die now, I die alone and my son has no one to look after him. I have to stay alive for him...otherwise, he will be shipped off to the cornfields of Kansas to be stuffed with Nebraskan Black Angus t-bone til he's wide.

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