waiting between lines (history of memories)

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Not knowing. What was best? He lay down on the bed. Foot aching from a cluster of mosquito bites. If you, you, you write me, write to me in the night, write in the night. I would adorn you with kisses as elegant words adorn the page. Each adornment is just another kiss. He lies in the heat. Lies on the bed. Thinks he has seen something wonderful. Delete but don’t erase from your mind what you have seen. He tries to decipher words as if they were codes. Perhaps she has a code. The truth is malleable. So often she dispenses with the truth. Why the? Residue of a hangover. Partial dehydration. The red cotton of his boxers matches the painted walls. Did you see this colour anywhere else? It’s not just about silly things. Is it? Sad headless geisha. Origin unknown. Is it so wrong that you excite him? Stimulate his sex organs. The comfort of self abuse. There’s a bottle of rosé in the fridge in the cellar. He thinks about it. Fuck it. Stairs creak underfoot. Nocturnal wandering. Moves from bed to a green velvet miniature armchair. Thoughts of the libation abandoned. He pulls off the boxers and puts them across his face. Red mask. Fellatio hooker. Dark angel. Reprise of the sad geisha. Non. She will not get what she wants. He leans his head back. Masturbating manipulator. Night breathless. He sat in the bar. Same table. Reached out to hold her hand. Fuck. Her cap fell to the floor. She bent over. The shape of her figure changing. Shred memory of image. The martyr flays his phallus and leaves the flaccid tissue for the mosquitoes to prey on. Traffic flowing on the distant highway. We are a complex history of memories. Boss to the bitch. Wankerdom. Over and out.

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