medusa

Every time I crossed the street a cat would cry from the alley. Most of the tears were wept like a dog, in the desperate way of lacking self-assurance. It would be generous, too rounded, to call you a whore. It would be inappropriate to care how you feel. Certainly, it would be irresponsible to think of you nicely. You, now, are stepping upwards from the liquid that has drowned you. Dripping, your entire body is black and unctuous and I only  see your eyes through the shining tar. Shining predatory sclera illuminating themselves in this direction, the gentle light sent me towards those eyes. The mass of this odd form seems to hang from the back of my head and with each step the weight clings closer to the occiput. I shiver in sickness. The form stays there, solid, dripping still, like a rock that can be tumbled or crumbled – a solid abstraction, a dark mass that I can just forget. Yet, someone in my body doesn’t mind the toxic smell and still goes there to play with the dark thick forms. They burn. The tar sticks to me where I touch it and stays on properly like a good strong resin. Although it takes a while to wash off I go there because it is my home. I cannot understand why this darkness brings me so much comfort and I cannot avoid getting near. I cannot understand why she tells me these things. Perhaps it is her insecurity. Wanting the affirmation that everything is okay from others because it can’t come from herself. To know she still has what she wants, what feels meaningful, what feels good, what feels justified. I am afraid I must abandon this lonely isle of reverence to see some creatures of the deeper sea. I am afraid to say that this medusa sports the thinnest snakes that cannibalize each other while some remain flaccid. The power she wants and knows is latent within her has become impotent, she has poisoned herself (with categories and cosmetics and shit like that) and now, lacking vigor, this phallic vermin squirms around her head like a halo. She wants to be a woman but can only play games and tickle herself like a little girl. This black fish, steaming viscous dripping, is something that I love; and since all things are full of my soul, she emerges from these things that my soul fills. My mouth is shut and my eyes are closed and all I hear is a constant hum of cat purring in the distance. The sort of basic vibrations that establish our existence. I sing to myself, repeating  the same line over and over, almost like a Gregorian chant sung in Russian:

Nothing matters anymore, now I know for sure.