4/15/11

Because they feed our Art*

Kick yourself for being here again. 
Making that long walk through the city to a place that's getting too familiar -  you know exactly what drawer to pull. 
So you tug up your starched collar - checking that the cologne is still lingering  - and you mutter against the cold that "this is the last time" with her.
Then that smile that men get sweeps across half your mouth at the slightest memory - with the people and the couples passing....and the city...
__And what was that? - that - it just made the towering buildings glitter so seductively. The wet pavement swelled down to rest your feet and everything felt alright. 

How does a woman do that? The memory of the woman you approach. 
Why do these women always do that to you? - every time, every goddam time.
They're enchanting - guilty pleasures, muses, girlfriends alike -  they're beautiful things to know, to take, sighhhh, - to take in so many beautiful ways.



And they never know we planned it just that way. 
"Why do we keep doing it?" she whispered in bed to her...

"Because they feed our art" 
....and the sensation of gasping in the sweat on his neck whips across the mind in splatters of paint for an instant.
Oh, there's canvases of wreckage on all the walls - taken each time from a man that she seemed so beautiful to once.
Each time she cared for them,
each time she knawed
and clawed
and rose - she was stealing all those memories. 

She takes, 
He takes. 
And we each smile at how good we fooled 'em that time. 
While quietly, something aches that it's just not right. 
It's really just not right. 



"I've heard artists are never satisfied.." silence. Caught me. 
I'll always want a masterpiece 
now centuries past attainable.

Those old tendencies of deception linger....and those games you might try to play - well, I have them burned between my legs already. 
Forgive me.
Forgive me, 
see - my religion may be questionable. 
Cause I believe in my fleeting youth - and I believe steadfast in the Night. I touch her excitedly and off we go through the waves and the art and the great, great characters I've gotten to know...
What does yours do for you? 



And somewhere days past he finally knocks on the door - just two taps - that it takes to feel the pulse already ah-ah-ahhh off the rails. 
Deadbolt clicks before there's time. 
He doesn't hear any of his reasons anymore. 
He throws off his coat and grabs hold and - we're hurriedly, frantically, - laughing and gasping - off again...


There goes another story I shouldn't have stolen. 




Daily headphones: Rihanna's S&M