Desire or something like it

You want something. But you don’t know what it is. So you wait. In the meantime you watch and listen and try to feel something and sense that somehow you are not dreaming all this up: It is a completely beautiful thing to sit in a place and have people bring you drinks while being polite about it, especially if you happen to be lucky enough to be sat opposite someone of the other sex who does not happen to think you are bad enough not to at least flash some kind of beautiful smile to at least once throughout whatever passes for dinner and drinks these days at the places that no one can actually afford to pay for unless there was sex behind all of it. Trust me, if we were all eunuchs, most of the culinary industry would quickly fall. Happily, cock not in hand but mindful of said cock, we are not and thusly we travail through beautiful appetizer after appetizer and lovely drink after drink, until the inevitable check after which our fates go through the same doors in we entered, outside of which we are no more than a fuller, possibly cockier due to several tequila sours, walking bag of bones, than before, but not definitely, due to the simple fact that perhaps we are missing something more than after we leave.

This is a purely selfish thing- Bring me another beer wench-! Your promises matter little to me as it seems you are out for foreskin rather than truth. Your bored Mariachi rendition is more than tiresome, it’s turning the bland guacamole brown quicker than usual, but then you knew that and I love you for it wannabe Blondie. All of mine and yours diehard dreams of being more than we were born to be are just like the smoke from the fags we bum from disappointed others to puff ourselves to slow death upon, but that’s just a bad B movie screenplay that hopefully will never be made and we, we, us, you and I and them and us, and all of us, we are all real and not them, we are us and flesh and blood and we are real and those things don’t matter and you think you love me but you don’t actually know what love is other than loving something that always leaves you and I know I don’t love you but I would probably fuck you if we were drunk enough because that’s what I learned from watching J.R. on Dallas for all those years. We are almost the greater sum of stupid philosophy and ramshackle bedfellows. Put a flannel over us on the coffee stained couch and we will Labrador love you forever.

God is weary of reproofs and I am looking forward to the new Suntory White Label coming out soon, but in the meantime I think of masturbation only slightly as I feebly aim my greater starship toward the heretofore unknown constellation of you.