death by euphoria


everyday you have been by my side. not physically. i’ve sat up in bed and spoken to you. i have written words. lots of useless words. read them out loud. then typed them to you on instant message or an email. i could ask no more of you. i should ask nothing of you. i have never asked you to love me. love is something i have issues with.
i like your legs and i love your mouth. the mouth that sometimes speaks to me. i touch your lips because i want you to close your teeth down on my fingers. the injection of pain.

the support act, a duo, are setting up their gear. Andy’s at the bar getting a second round of Portabello Porter.
this is the first time i’ve been to Dimitri’s. the Nectar Bar. i’ve been shacking up in an apartment on North Pole Road for the last six weeks. the bar is only around the corner. Tom in Dover Street Market (DSM)had told me about this place and i was intrigued. i walked past several times but never went in.
Andy arrives back with the pints. he asks, how does this fit in with your Buddha mind? i reply that i’m just a Dharma bum. he laughs and begins to tell me about village life in Somerset.

and there’s you. and our conversations. and we are. and what we mean to each other. i open a second bottle of wine and i know that you would tell me that i shouldn’t drink alone. i shouldn’t drink. fucking emotions. emotions fucking with me. i slurp the cold red soup of fermented grapes. then i told you i just like you for your legs and your mouth. your lips and your voice. do you know how sensual and sexy your voice sounds to me. truly. i mean i want to rest my lips on your throat and for you to recite something. anything. but just to me. just to me.

i’m lying face down on the floor. i’m laughing. i’m not thinking about anything. i’m anticipating. i’m drunk. does that matter? haven’t you been drunk once or twice? or maybe more. i realise I’m thinking about the sea. of empty hotel rooms on the sea front. somewhere you can write poetry on the walls and sit naked on a chair. and we can share that bottle. you know the one you bought in a supermarket in Paris last year. and i’ll record your voice and heart, the noise of you dressing and undressing, the sounds of the broken shower head and the water colliding and draining off your skin. and you. you’ll film everything.


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