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| keith truesdell, frank dileo, blogs, literary, eaton centre, humourous, abusive, discuss, creem magazine, mercury, stage, pacific northwest, chow, | I hate to disappoint you, but he didn't look real honorable then. I wish I could get this ex-Catholic, ex-hippie code of yours, hobby photography though. Wish I understood why sometime in the sixties you turned your back on a martyr God who causes the hearts of old women in babushkas to race with longing for a purity they will never reach, in favor of a sacrificed, ancient hobby photography god of pleasure who makes the minds of intellectuals race with images of a frenzy they will never dare attain. And hobby photography was it a token of love that you not only wished me suffering, illness, betrayals, humiliations, but offered them by your own hand? I was glad not to take your pity, glad you never offered, considered it a compliment of the highest rite. You really struck gold with me, didn't you? A disciple without even knowing it, I let you purify my sins by fire, worshipped at the feet of your philosopher gods by instinct alone. |
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| How quaint to speak of the nobleman (oh, sorry, was that two words?) loving his enemies, of villains in whom there is nothing to despise but ever so much to honor. I guess old Friedrich wasn't referring chow to the guy I met in Camden Town last month, the one who didn't own a toothbrush and forced my thighs apart with a sweaty, bristly knee, who kept chow me pinned beneath him on a stained mattress in his squat until after chow the sun was up, then tried to kiss me good-bye at the door. Of course maybe I just wasn't looking hard enough, you know I always jump to snap conclusions about people. For example, maybe once he had wanted to chop his mum up to bits for burning the cheese on toast, but refrained. And weren't you always the first to tell me how my father really wasn't such a bad guy either, was just over-protective? But then you never had the fortune of seeing him purple in the face, dripping scotch-stinky sweat onto my skin. |
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