Dear Huge-Bosomed Female Reptile From Hell’s Smelly Belly

That gauzy veil you tra-la-la behind; it makes you look ugly. It brings out the enormity of your nose. It accentuates the pockmarks on your face. Makes the grey in your hair look like it was sewn from all the ageing maggots of the world. Most of all, it makes your insecurity stand out in high relief- even a starved Somalian kid’s ribs seem inconspicuous in comparison.

For the very fabric of that gauzy veil was steeped in a deep vat of pretense.

And then brushed with grimy dots of cheap glitter before you wore it upon your being, so excitedly.

You smile so widely for me- but all I can see is your big nose. You tilt your head in impossible angles and act coy- but all I can see is the disgusting disproportion of your nostrils. You wear all those tight clothes- yet, I can only see your face fading in the horizon, so pathetically behind your nose.

You say black is back. But you still drape that smelly shroud of deceit upon your adipose-infected self, to cover up your darkness. Do you not think black is a desirous colour? Why do you have a wardrobe full of miniscule black dresses? If such is the shade of your heart and mind, why won’t you showcase it? Barbie and Ken look happy in pink- but don’t you see? Ken is gay and there have been no summer rains in Barbie’s dry, cold world. Pink is not the colour of the season. No one cucking fares.

The human soul is black. Every single soul. But even black has different shades. Who is to say black can’t be pure? Why do you assume it isn’t the exact shade of innocence? Have you proof that it doesn’t incite passion?

There is the black of the night. The black of being consumed. The black of pleasure in pain. The black of current, and that of currant. Of Sabbaths and Bettys. Birds and Velvet.

Your black is just as unique perhaps. Just perhaps. But you choose to camouflage it and bite from behind, catching people unawares. But don’t give yourself credit. You aren’t rabid, not that powerful, no. You don’t kill. You just bite, and people exclude you from the radius of their existence after that.

Dear, Cellulite Bottomed Girl. Instead, why don’t you occupy yourself with thoughts of velvety cakes and Jim Morrison in tight blue velvet? Of days in Oktober Munich and flowers drifting in the nippy October air? Of Mary Hopkins’ voice and the voice of your heart’s reason? And if you absolutely insist on being just like me, why don’t you just shuck the fut up and observe from a corner?

Why won’t you be real?

Or if ‘real’ is an alien concept in your ammonium-sulphate filled world, here’s a better idea. Get out of my face.

No love and looking forward to the cessation of your existence,

Me

28 years

To be able to live knowing that life was a short, sweet melody, and not a long-winded song. A snappy vignette of the best parts. No flim flam. Boo hooey.

Being able to indulge in shameless debauchery, knowing you didn’t have to preserve your body, for use beyond those splendid 28 years. 28 years spent in some sort of quarter-coma and bursts of prodigious lucidity, wafting about much like the fragrance of a lily-of-the-valley. Riding along on substance and liquid alone. Wearing otherworldly psychedelic sunglasses that tint the present day, a colourful shade of the past. Bearing only netherworldly intentions.

A rebel without a cause. Without disguise. Without guile. Just all the bile. After a heavy night with the effervescent golden gods. Waking up the next morning, to the sound of the gods hammering away at your medulla. You acquiesce them with hair of the dog. A peace offering. All you care about is going higher, hitting the zenith of madness. Hit the road Jack. Remember all tomorrow’s parties. Remember little else.

But what would I do if I could count my days to the last breath? Would I play pretend? Would I theorise and philosophise, the possibilities of life in a different era, while I dedicate the present to impious indulgence? Would I make my life an ode to megalomania? Or perhaps a tribute to wasting? And wasting away? Would I sell my soul to the Devil for a lifetime of evil pleasures at my beckoning?

In a life that would end before responsibilities began, in a life that would end before true love’s honeymoon came to an end… I’d surrender to life.

To risks. I’d live recklessly, fearing not the dreaded tomorrow. I’d take the plunge. I’d taste things the way they’re meant to be…without trepidation coating my taste buds. I’d love like there was no tomorrow, because there would be no tomorrow. Glad to meet you; it was my pleasure and all pleasure. Free-falling. Free of the thought of failing. Songs to be written, poetry to be experienced, verse to immerse in. With a peg to nurse and a pug to pet. All the sleep to catch up on. So much of it. Without the ink of bad memory drawing out a detailed pattern of insomnia. No more skeins of stress staining my sleep. The forty winks that only a man with no time deserves.

Days dedicated to getting intoxicated on the sublimation of self. Notebook by side. And warm candlelight. Thoughts that wax eloquent on sufficient lubrication pour forth onto papyrus. A legacy in a thousand letters, with nary a fetter. 

There’d be too little time. And yet, not a minute in surplus.

The End would come at the 28^th hour of the 28^th year. I would wait with my suitcase, stuffed with words and worth. Life would be snuffed out in an instant. I'd play my part dutifully with a few snuffs and puffs. A few hours of messy heaving. And then dry heaving, when little remains but the spirit…readying itself for flight. In the arms of an angel I'd go. 

Far away from here.