Rawness ness

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Love me, love me, say you do. Let me fly away with you. ‘Cause we’re creatures of the wind, and wild is the wind. Ne me quitte pas, Nina. J’ai du rhum et des cigarettes.

Pour écrire de toi, j’ai mis du rouge sur mes ongles. Le rouge tapant le noir.

J’ai fait de la farce hier. De la farce à dumpling. Avec de la viande hachée, beaucoup de viande. Une grosse boulette rose dans un gros cul de poule. C’était beau. Mes ongles rouges malaxant la chair molle. Triturant la chair morte et odorante. Mes mains dans tout ce mou, dans toute cette couleur. Mes poings punchant ta cervelle d’alcoolo qui m’appelle pour refaire l’histoire. Ça c’est pour la nuit où j’ai marché dans ton vomi. Endless story. Embracing the endlessness of it all. I don’t know how nor where, but we’ll meet again… if we haven’t already. Fucker. You really fucked me good this time, didn’t you? Mon cœur haché, enroulé dans des sachets de pâte. Frais, épicés, prêts à cuire. Let’s put them in the freezer and deal with ‘em later. Quand j’aurai nettoyé mes griffes de chat et que Nina se sera envolée avec la bouteille.

Je t’ai dit que j’irais peut-être voir Joe à Boston, finalement. Il n’est pas si loin d’ici. I am really worried about him. Not about you. I am not worried about you. But him, I am worried about. He is not doing well, you said. Il m’a dit qu’il avait marié une française. Es-tu allé à son mariage? There never was a wedding. He came home one morning saying he got married, and that was about it. It didn’t last very long. How did he get your number, anyway? Sur un site web. Il a payé une piasse pour l’avoir. Même les boites de Pandore sont cheap aujourd’hui.

Love me, love me, say you do. Let me fly away with you. ‘Cause we’re creatures of the wind, and wild is the wind. Don’t leave me, Nina. I have rum and cigarettes.

To write of you, I painted my nails red. Red over black.

I made some fillings yesterday – dumpling feelings, with ground meat, lots of it. A big pink meatball in a big fat bowl – it was pretty. My red nails kneading the soft flesh, tweaking the dead flesh; my hands in all of this softness, and in all of this color – my fists punching your alcoholic brain, which called me to rewrite the history. Here is one for the night I walked on your vomit. Endless story. Embracing the endlessness of it all. I don’t know how nor where, but we’ll meet again… if we haven’t already. Fucker. You really fucked me good this time, didn’t you? My heart chopped, wrapped into little pockets, ready-to-cook. Let’s put them in the freezer and deal with ‘em later. When I have cleaned my cat’s claws and Nina will have flown off with the bottle.

I told you that I would maybe see Joe in Boston, finally. It is not so far after all. “I am really worried about him. Not about you. I am not worried about you. But him, I am worried about. He is not doing well, you said.” He told me he had married a French woman. Did you go to their wedding? “There never was a wedding. He came home one morning saying he got married, and that was about it. It didn’t last very long. How did he get your number, anyway?” On a website. He paid a buck for it. Even Pandora’s boxes are cheap today.

THE VOID MAGAZINE | article d’Eli Wood

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