hagiography

the autogeography of a no/body

May 23

bodiesontopofbodiesontopofbodies

There’s this man – short man, tall man, thin man, fat man, it doesn’t matter – and he eats her dreams, swallows them down as if they’re pain killers.

Once up on a time, way back when, it was a little more even. He still ate and she still dreamt, but it was as if they sat up in bed, trays on their laps.

“Croissant?” she said.

He shook his head. “Coffee?” Oh yes, he always had the capacity for more coffee.

“Sex?”

Similarly.

Eventually they rose; him a bipedal mountain goat; her a shy slut. And showered. Separately. And dressed in clothes the other didn’t recognise. In their respective costumes they lived their different lives, in different places, with their different stimuli and responses.

At the end of every day: “Wine?” she asked.

No.

“Beer?” he said.

No.

He preferred his steak rare, the blood still running. She preferred her steak well done, like shoe leather. Their meat didn’t meet. Their flesh was discontinuous. She sat down before him and he stood up before her.

“We’re not in synch,” he said.

“We’re not swimming,” she said.

“I like swimming.”

“I loathe swimming.”

“The”

“Water”

“Is”

“Healing.”

“Cleansing.” He was talking about wounds. She was talking about psyche.

Bodiesontopofbodiesontopofbodies, both of them, all of them, crushed unwillingly together, corpses of forgotten dreams.

“Croissant?” she said.

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