Ambrosia

The legs are worn away, rickety on a cobblestoned patio that rolls with begging undulation. This tiny coffee-table, a funeral bed at raging sea; crucified beans on their way to places quite far from Valhalla, crucified beans conceived in Brazil, mixed in scalding torture and fabricating euphoria for you and the wage-slave while casting our innards to eventual decay.

In ceramic Trojan horses they ride.

Pen touches paper / wall / receipt or arm, emptying the bowels of the soul / heart / head; lay barren your torsal lexicon, soliloquist samurai, deliciously tattooing white napkins with untidy words, scribbles, sentences, seven or ten at a time.

You know she thinks of you, Vandal.

You know she thinks of waking up and counting out friends on every finger, each ring held firmly in place by hope.

You know she thinks about that fire breathing down her neck, ready to swallow her planet in one hot flash and make all her tantrums and courage and love and hope whimper, dwindle and simmer not even with steam.

You know she thinks of those words coming out the nib of that Pilot. And will it be truth or will it be a bit to the left of, because she writes the same things in a book with blank pages and fake leather covers, saddle-stitched and dog-eared at corners for remembrance.

You know she thinks of worldly things

and spiritual things

and you

and in-between

and being at the pinnacle of this loud, moment.

You know she thinks.

You know she thinks of this taxi ride, reeking stale liquor from past confessions. Ambrosia travels along, watch sunbeams flicker like violet abstractions from a much maligned cinema projector; casting warm distraction to this audience of one. She takes a slow decisive drag on her cigarette, let the smoke sink into her lungs for more than a moment, the thousandth buzz that finally (but with wounded conviction) settles the unsoothable nerve, watch nonchalantly the ash float amongst the dust and waltz giddily to the floor.

She flicks a bit off her knee.

Flecks of dusk behind her eyes as the city skyline scrapes along tired cornea. It dawns on her: she can’t remember the last time she had jasmine, her favorite flavour, smooth and forgiving, quite unlike the girlfriends Jalouse loses to even smoother addictions.

Put it out | car door ashtray | light another. Turkish Mint. Not bad, but at great expense. Time for a-thousand-and-one. A puff and a shine, smoke curling blue-white and violent; every strand an aged thought that comes out fighting till spent: the way smoke dangles in a ray of sunlight. Cool, calculated calm, yet all the while wishing for the delicious blade, to come steal a yard and a mile. Or maybe death will slide by and instead go haunting for shipwrecked souls.

Vandal, why must you make me think such things?

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