Saturday, February 9, 2013

memoirs of a nude statue

Again. I was reviewing pages of my memoir("abaddon: 1996-2010"). I
noticed that the piece had the tone of a peeved drunk; in place of the
everyman's "quiet desperation", i filled the tome with pessimistic
anger. Otherwise, it was a unique piece of work. I recounted hours
of surfing porn with a certain poetic lyricism. Imagine me dozing
after, with fog-laden scenes of copulation floating through my mind,
and on the desk before me, a mama turtle piles my dreams in a bunch
with her flippers, positions her hind end over the top, and deposits
her eggs in the works-not that i would pay money to watch something
like that. There is a stunning realization in the last chapter:
"they"(this group is undefined the memoir), like a pack of jackals,
are just waiting for me to show any sign of weakness-a limp, a
sniffle, anything-so they can sling dirt over me. Sheesh.

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