VAYA CON DEFECT
[as always, written forever ago, by someone borrowing my skin for the Big Day, discarded when the wearer was found floating belly up in the east river]
comfortably settled in/mummified in my new lower (b)east side nest, the neighborhood no less full of chatty little haircuts with iphones permanently protruding from their bodies like fifth limbs, stage-whispering to invisible friends "yeah i'm in 'the lower'" as if stating the full name will set off victim alarms, as if this neighborhood has been anything approaching dangerous since before some sad womb spat them out into a silver spoon then cooked them up & shot them through a cushy upbringing, but that's the price to pay for encouraging a Rich Fantasy Life i suppose! go forth & be paranoid, fools, let your wallets flop open like the panting mouths of the dogs you stuff in your purses, & let me pick up the proceeds. the money tree must be watered with the drool of the naive [& here you thought i would latch on to some geriatric blood/revolution metaphor, shame shame shame], & an overactive imagination [& avenue b] are all that stands between me & the saturday nite neanderthals
but i ripped a chunk out of the old neighborhood & brought it with me. meet Imelda, the Agent Orange, chases her own reTAIL all the way to the bank - furry little bundle of quality. promise not to post nothing but cat pictures. really. but just look at this magnificent creature.
after much ejection of babies with accompanying bathwater & a battle of wills with a malingering void i have come back into possession of my facebook account only to be even more disturbed by the whole concept. instead of thoughts, links, clever fodder we are supposed to post "life events" now, ensuring an even deeper lack of conversational topics to dissect during increasingly rare real-life meetings between "friends." can't help but notice even capital-d Devoted couples candlelit at the bar staring into each others' phones not faces, forever vivisecting inner minutiae with up to the minute coverage of not only minor but Major Life Events, As They Happen, LIVE. with all the LIFE of a dead fish, shot point-blank in a barrel with cupid's arrows of LOVE. don't dare meet each others' gaze in case the online running commentary implodes when they sacreligiously avert their eyes. i mean hell who wants to end up with an eyeball in their martini. just wear a big cardboard thumbs-up "like" button instead of going through all that i-love-you nonsense, it's much more convincing. you could even spark a trend, & then post about it guess where*
[so you know i must be speaking from personal experience, "or something"] & my own 'suitor'* just RECKLESSLY dull, pelting me with throwaway lines like rusty little razors the better to chop up & snort your reality with, sir, & arms clumsily snaked around shoulders like lustful eels, kindly remove your residue i suddenly feel the urge for a lifelong bath. 'what a coincidence! someone i once knew felt an urge for a lifelong bath too blah blah blah they died' i'm only guessing at the end because to sit through this would be an experiment in verbal trepanning for which i am not prepared, all spit & vehemence no content. like being beaten to death with a marshmallow.
* not that i don't frolic among the fodder? but use your rusting vocal cords for something aside from wrapping around & strangling the last pieces of rational thought still rattling around in your skull. you owe it to them
comfortably settled in/mummified in my new lower (b)east side nest, the neighborhood no less full of chatty little haircuts with iphones permanently protruding from their bodies like fifth limbs, stage-whispering to invisible friends "yeah i'm in 'the lower'" as if stating the full name will set off victim alarms, as if this neighborhood has been anything approaching dangerous since before some sad womb spat them out into a silver spoon then cooked them up & shot them through a cushy upbringing, but that's the price to pay for encouraging a Rich Fantasy Life i suppose! go forth & be paranoid, fools, let your wallets flop open like the panting mouths of the dogs you stuff in your purses, & let me pick up the proceeds. the money tree must be watered with the drool of the naive [& here you thought i would latch on to some geriatric blood/revolution metaphor, shame shame shame], & an overactive imagination [& avenue b] are all that stands between me & the saturday nite neanderthals
but i ripped a chunk out of the old neighborhood & brought it with me. meet Imelda, the Agent Orange, chases her own reTAIL all the way to the bank - furry little bundle of quality. promise not to post nothing but cat pictures. really. but just look at this magnificent creature.
after much ejection of babies with accompanying bathwater & a battle of wills with a malingering void i have come back into possession of my facebook account only to be even more disturbed by the whole concept. instead of thoughts, links, clever fodder we are supposed to post "life events" now, ensuring an even deeper lack of conversational topics to dissect during increasingly rare real-life meetings between "friends." can't help but notice even capital-d Devoted couples candlelit at the bar staring into each others' phones not faces, forever vivisecting inner minutiae with up to the minute coverage of not only minor but Major Life Events, As They Happen, LIVE. with all the LIFE of a dead fish, shot point-blank in a barrel with cupid's arrows of LOVE. don't dare meet each others' gaze in case the online running commentary implodes when they sacreligiously avert their eyes. i mean hell who wants to end up with an eyeball in their martini. just wear a big cardboard thumbs-up "like" button instead of going through all that i-love-you nonsense, it's much more convincing. you could even spark a trend, & then post about it guess where*
[so you know i must be speaking from personal experience, "or something"] & my own 'suitor'* just RECKLESSLY dull, pelting me with throwaway lines like rusty little razors the better to chop up & snort your reality with, sir, & arms clumsily snaked around shoulders like lustful eels, kindly remove your residue i suddenly feel the urge for a lifelong bath. 'what a coincidence! someone i once knew felt an urge for a lifelong bath too blah blah blah they died' i'm only guessing at the end because to sit through this would be an experiment in verbal trepanning for which i am not prepared, all spit & vehemence no content. like being beaten to death with a marshmallow.
* not that i don't frolic among the fodder? but use your rusting vocal cords for something aside from wrapping around & strangling the last pieces of rational thought still rattling around in your skull. you owe it to them