SWEET TERRORIST GIRLS (THE PRELUDE TO A THOUGHT)

The detritus of a night’s drinking and eating, talk, bad jokes and good laughs, are spilt across the black tablecloth. The various musics in the background and the guests have long since vanished, taking with them all their good philosophies, and all their better explanations.  The curtains, blood red velvet, are drawn. Three wine glasses stand together in a little family group, dregs in two, for we, Peter, Alba and Jone Johnson, were the last to let them rest. Each one is clouded with fingerprints just to prove to me that it all really turned out so marvellously well. This is the prelude to a thought.

Both of you retired to your bed I do not know how many eons ago, but I am too overtired to sleep so instead I am gazing into nowhere and toying with all those clever retorts that occurred to me too late to be used. I am toying with memories of when there was more future than past to be lived in my life, and I know there are thoughts I can escape from, that I can re-educate, and thoughts that will return with exquisite stubbornness. Those of this particular moment, I realise, are simply the same as ever they were, but pondered, of course, with more pompous vocabulary, a reflection, evidently, of the company we keep.

A beam of light from some other universe I do not wish to investigate shines at a slight angle through one of the claret stained glasses and throws a dash of sepia tinted infinity across the dark tablecloth, a galaxy for a thought. I am mesmerised, sweet terrorist girls, mesmerised, but a little sad and at a loss for words.

SWEET TERRORIST GIRLS

….at some stage becomes like living in a film or some obscure novel….

I raise a glass to you, oh yes, to sublime fragrant exquisiteness! And a toast to those who will never quite understand the reasons why! Beauty, I wish not to know your real face! Oh, terrible corrupted carrion! Carrion! The stork, Marabou, will not settle to feast and neither will it cover itself with some lewd glory.

….game, pattern of moves, reality has no substance, no restraints….

A toast! Oh a most glorious toast to the most exquisitely spiteful one! Gore! Spite cloaks herself in beauty. My eyes, such sad eyes, hold court again and again forever amen. My so sad eyes, oh, but eternally sad, for decay bursts forth forever and a day, and there is not a thing I can do to stave it off, to bind the rent, neither in this time nor in fastidious memory, which knows no time.

....sweet terrorist girls, I drink to you! You’ll never know the reasons why. Carrion! Marabou won’t alight, or play some lewd cover….all play some lewd cover….

If there were film, if there were a film, I would, at some stage, be living as a character in my film, or in my very own obscure novel perchance, fading, fading away, at each passing moment ever more brittle ‘till dunes of dust imperceptibly engulf this, my crumbling corpse.

….sad eyes, anyway, it’ll all happen again….

A toast! I raise a glass to the conclusion of the game, for life is merely a contest, a confusion, a pattern of moves. There is never any winning, there is never any winner and so, I would venture to suggest, reality has no substance, and thus, no restraints.

….in the hall of mannequins what looks like wax slowly slides away from the armatures with the faces of the infamous now unrecognisable. The temperature is rising….glass eyes like marbles crack in untidy collision across the floor….there was nothing behind them all along….