Eat lunch in the garden of that museum. She didn't care about art. She had persuaded the museum's custodian to let her in thro a private entrance located in the back of that building. As if she was royalty. There she would walk past the Henry Moore statues to the table at which she always had lunch. If someone was sitting there, she would stand over them about an inch away from them, this tiny old woman who could stand only by shaking with her coiffure piled-up silver-&-blue hair.
I wake up and I'm in my bedroom, as usual all dark even though it's well into the morning, but the window in front of me huge in sections isn't curtained. Out of it I see the house from the outside, oh that's why they've been scraping, they're about to paint. As if I'm seeing the future, a newly painted white surface on the stucco. To my left, it must be outside, the next room, which is the kitchen, a boy and girl are doing the painting. I can't go into the kitchen cause they'll see me through that huge window. I hear them talking about me. "Bloody hell she's 50 years old." ! Probably drinks all the time, whiskey bottles everywhere." " Actually as far as I know she doesn't touch the stuff." "She's mad you know. Never goes out." Their voices are so loud, they must be in the house. Should I be scared? No, they can't be. When I wake up, I realize I've been dreaming.
Tales of the City
chronicles of blood
chronicles of shit
everything must come out thro the body
Here me, o lord, in the desert this battlefield, where there are grapes. I can no longer do it alone. I have lost my way. I have lost you and without you, I'm just material, quivering from one pain to the other, there is no energy and only suffering. Without you there is neither joy nor sun. I cannot bear it. My body has gone crazy. Shit lies over everything, the counterspace, the windowsill. Dripping down. Dreams have been gone now for a long time. Dreams that are my eyes. My body bereft of your streams your tears the pools that lie at its base in the back burns with small but unbearable fires all over. I am eating up myself looking for you: I can no longer eat, I no longer want sustenance: nothing is anything without your cooling sweetness. I am far from good, from sleep; I have so lost you. How much longer can I plead? Will I die before you come? That cannot be. You are all sweetness and gentleness. I remember. In your arms like those of a father I safely sleep and dream. Dante called for help and then he went thro pain and reached joy. I am burning up without waters. Please calm me. I am asking you for help.
Dear Lord, you are my lord and my salvation. Whatever has brought me to your feet is good. Tho it has felt like pain that I did not think I could bear, sharp burning needles all over me, a stomach turned away and gone hunting for some food it no longer recognized, muscles that once loved bending and flexing and exercising covering trembling in whatever corner they could find. The whole body trying to hide. Burn itself up as slowly as possible. The whole body no longer believing them was any joy in the world. Not believing that love and kindness and gentleness could exist. Believing that all there could be was betrayal. Come and make love to me. One kiss from your lips and all the animals will again appear.
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