100th Post/Preparations for Finale/Confessions from a Paintbox (Part II)

She does know how it feels like as bits and pieces of memory crumble and bleep in Her like electric currents but on the surface she is still asleep, plunging headlong into vast seas of men and women generally shattered and specifically wankers, motherfuckers, spazes, whores, pimps, jhats, choots…angels all, as they float and push, screaming and hitting to break free. The Christ wonders how long she will be here.

And there, in empty spaces that sit on mantles, shelves and peer at her through yellowing pages in the words of Victorian women crying insanity for a read from her textbooks. I go mad sometimes, hitting the wall for a lack of places to. And in between the fingers of exotic dark women and beautiful, gleaming men who laugh and make merry on alcohol and love.

She holds their hands and croons Johnny Guitar, Madonna, Madonna, Johnny Guitar and such other hymns till all the heads are spinning from intoxication and exhaustion. For the lack of poetry and artlessness of foul words that drop like rain on a July morning they all smoke and drink till there is nothing else that matters and repulse creates larger room under the blue-green ceiling over the badly-lit boulangerie. The Underdogs watch and snort, smoke announcing the presence of something divine-A Last Supper or a thing on those lines.