Cut and Dry

Nice little puppies don't come out to play right now when the snow is dark. When it's cold and silent and the frost is busy making little ferns on the windows then nothing comes out of here. Listening to the voices it like hearing him sing over and over through the silence. Under the sky, there is only empty wasteland. My eyes have turned dark and seeped in all the colours and soundlessly I creep across the sky like I am alive. I have heard his voice and now I know why she loves him. She could never love anyone else because no one else is she. She is too egoistic to understand that other people don't want to lick her all over and count her freckles, don't want to hear her screaming death at the top of her lungs when the thunderclouds have rolled in and the moon has died. I will listen over and over and bleed into the silence, cut and dry, cut and dry, cut and dry, but I do not understand, and in his voice under the empty nothingness I hear him singing about the end, I think it is not likely that he does not understand.

I die my hair colours and cut my arms like the egocentric misunderstood philistine I like to pretend I am. I am misunderstood, oh yes, like everyone else and obsessed over one event that everyone would happily understand if I let ruin my life. I am easily ruined and everyone understands my lies. Lies are easy to understand because when the hard black rain clouds blow away there are clear-cut reasons and it is almost impossible to be understood. He wants to be chalky pure and white and whole, like the great round me, like his little abused balls. Cut and dry, we are, him and me, she is the complicated, over-stimulated, idiotic, wonderful, original, kohl-rimmed Egyptian goddess that we are glad to worship. Cut and dry, this love thing is so simple and there are only easy answers, like chasing the dragon, it is a fairy tale.

In the dead hours of midday the colours all turn purple and she tucks the moon under her pillow for safekeeping. On her bed there sleeps the young animal that might or might not be him, cuddled up to the purity he so desperately craves and so hopelessly puts all his ideals into. She sobs her suicidal tears into my shoulders, and refuses the phallic white seedless grapes I offer her, despite their similarity to his purity and his sexy hairy moons. I do not want her to be sick anymore. If she is feeling fine, then I do not have to worry about her, and worrying about her is making my head hurt and my thoughts spin round and round in the purple moonless mist. I am tired. I am tired of worrying about her, while he and she share their terrible secrets and do that base act with their basest parts all over the clean white sheets, squashing my peeled beautiful grapes. I will lick the green mush off my fingers and cry. Cry, because I have been so thoroughly fucked with I am secure in the knowledge that I won't be able to bring myself to do that. I am quite happy to pretend it is for a different reason.

So the thunderclouds roll in around our heads, and I curl up between him and her, and listen to his voice crooning his words from the night while she presses kisses into the air and I lie still and happily embrace my angst ridden feeling and watch the glorious golden colour patterns her blood makes on the sheets as she dies. We are quite happy here, she and I.