Sunday, December 03, 2006

How to Love a Monster, For Peter Lorre, by Sylvia Parker

Only when I'm lost in your embrace do I forget the horrible thing you are. Though at times I think it's only in your mind that you actually formed yourself like a god out of a steamy mixture of boredom and frustration. I know you could from the way you touch me the way you inhale. I watch you taking it in each breath a consideration, each sensation its own opinion. I hang on to every particle you breathe the way you hang on to every grain of morphine in your blood. I hang on to your lugubrious smile, your passionate futility. I've lost you so many times and lose you each consecutive second then tear myself apart trying to find you again. It's my devotion which matches your futility. I'm trying to listen. Meanwhile, my ears tuned to the noises outside my window which make me think of a choir going through a meat grinder and how this whole ritual is the psycho-killer of my thoughts my best judgements. My fingers slide along the saliva on your hip they uncover a snail trail. Its lacquer shininess divides you into shapes that wish they could rest together more closely. You are still impossibly beautiful. I make noises when I look at you; your roundness the static in your eyes, the angles of your blanched details. It's your beauty that effects that perfect dissolution that causes people to tense when they see you to talk to you as though you could take possession of their tongues by grabbing their words.

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