In a dark shadow mood crossing seas on a dream. The Irish woman sitting across from me wears her soul on a sleeve. She must have had a father just like mine. He'd beat you for loving him as a son might. He'd hit you for thinking 'come hug me for a while'. He'd never go easy and he never once smiled.
Plop.
Plop.
Plop.
Her back remains stiff as a scared Hen. Her rose-colored glasses steam like two pots of sweetcorn. Her expensive Manolo's unsuited to her intense rural demeanor.
She was powerless to stop whoever raped her, she blames herself, perhaps her mother as well, but nobody cares about her now, especially her family. They have much more interesting people they can lie to. She could have been the next Mother Theresa if the priest had left her alone. He took her in, gave her sin, made her feel awkward and silent within. Now, every time she touches human flesh, every time she creates any form of love, it makes her guts explode outwards towards her crackled lips, forcing horrid exchanges from many a disillusioned stranger. I like staring at her, it makes me feel at ease to make her feel uneasy.
She finally moves her neck, to face the Finnish businessman who is tapping on his G4 in order to locate the Apple of his eye. I hope he gets what is coming to him since he made capitalism his Jesus Christ.
I turn my head horizontally, almost vertically out of sync, in order to pull a post-it note from my back pocket. There are many human beings relying on me for life. There are seven names on the list, where is the list?
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
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