Everything looks better when lying on the floor. Dozens of empty bottles line the counter tops
and window sills of my posh flat. Many
of these bottles are green while others are brown and some are simply clear (my
favorite color) once all the beautiful red or pink (the colors of amor and
passion) liquid has been siphoned out.
It has always been in my nature to swallow and the first swallow slides
so wonderfully down my throat and into my stomach. Oddly, I always feel the first one – the
first deep one that is – more in my
head, at the bridge of my nose right between my glassy fish-eyes. It seems strange but the feeling starts as a
heaviness before giving way to a wonderful lightness (it is here I always
remember Portia De Rossi’s fantastic memoir).
It is reborn inside of me and cries like an infant, wanting more and
more. Its cries tug at my bloody
heartstrings and the music they play is oddly beautiful atonal free-form jazz. I cradle and comfort it and give it
everything it desires. How can I
not? When it looks at me with pleading
eyes and grabs my pinky and giggles between joyous and greedy suckles. I rarely notice the forked tongue which
sometimes slips out.
The floor always yields the greatest and most furiously
explosive forms of intimacy. Doble
Sentido. These perfect words echo down
the dark and dank inner corridors of my mind, ringing in the air like a
haunting refrain. For a brief instant I remember
a televised interview I watched with Lisa Marie Presley promoting the release
of her debut album but I quickly push this out and away. Doble Sentido, I repeat it. And then glorious and shiny visions of
technocumbia burst into my brain, showcasing the brightest colors of the
spectral rainbow and all accented by beautiful blacks, tans and creams and
glitter. Voices harmonize in the
background and I am unable to recognize the mysterious words they sing. But their voices are honey and as the sugary
sweet melodies encircle us all I know I am blissfully helpless to escape any of
this. One by one they take their turn
and I take mine. With a smile they point
toward the floor and it is immediately apparent where my lips belong, where
they have been dying to venture for the entirety of their existence, before
that even. I have never been more
anxious or nervous in my entire life. The
leather separates and the sound is a gate opening to paradise. And it is here the combinations of flesh,
fabrics and of course – the top secret addition – that wondrous by-product of
hours upon hours spent dancing in the bright lights, all come together to
create the intoxicating and entrancing perfume which has never existed anywhere
else in the universe. Their eyes are all
knowing and tell me how unworthy, how pathetic and degenerate I am. Thoughts and sensations race through me in
equal accordance with my surging blood and they all threaten to overtake me. The denier.
Oh the denier, such a wondrous measurement, such texture and such scents
and such sheen. This is what first
penetrated itself into every corner of my psyche and birthed the monster of
desire. The ticking of a clock pounding inside
my skull. I saw the imagery so rich in
thick delights, back and forth, underneath one another and somehow being
unnaturally heightened becomes the most natural thing in the world, so many
vueltas, being confronted by full and tempestuous heart and sole. As they continue to sing and mock I am lost
in the world they have created: the reinforced and glorious tips, the smell of
color and sharpness and the crushing of so many sacred and perfumed arches. Somewhere, two ripe plums explode.
I like to lie on my floor and stare at the headlights
flashing across my bedroom walls. My
mouth is frequently dry and the sensation of rusty blades somehow cutting
through my thoughts is quite prevalent. Often
in these moments the futility and uselessness in almost everything strikes and
I feel its weight against my chest. Why
is everything (especially myself) so repulsive?
The walls start to bleed and I start to cry and I cannot figure out how
this disease has spread to everyone. As
though we vomit our sickness on the face of anyone we meet. Is there anyone truly deserving of
salvation? Fear always grabs me around
the throat in these moments and sometimes I pull a blanket over my head and
sometimes I grab a knife and cling it to my chest the way a child would a teddy
bear. It is here where I can most easily
believe my own lies. I tell an average
of five hundred and fifty seven lies every hour. I try to tell as many of them on the hour as
possible but even for a man of my considerable skill that is not always
possible. Sometimes I like to buy seven
loafs of Albertson’s brand white bread and use one for my pillow while letting
a few of the unwrapped loafs rest tenderly on my pale hirsute body. I like to then toss one gingerly up into the
air and catch it, sometimes adding another loaf into the mix which creates an
awesome and grainy juggling effect. The
last loaf I use to decorate my room with delicious slices of bread, sometimes
nailing them to the wall – after using my handy Craftsman stud finder – so they
will not blow away when the next powerful Nor’easter comes tearing through my
humble burg. “Loaf” and “loaves” are
probably two of my favorite words of all time while bread is something which
always has and always will occupy a place so special in my heart that the mere
thought of it sends me into a catatonic state of sweaty bliss wherein I
promptly defecate in my rent trousers and tear my shirt open in a manly and
reverent tribute to bodybuilding great and Hollywood favorite Lou “The Glue” Ferrigno.
I am lying on the floor right now because I am too afraid to
stand up and look outside the window. He
(or was it they?) was/were correct in the assertion there are no more lines to
cross or barriers to break. Everything I
know and feel is held together by the thinnest of threads. I frequently find myself at something of a
moral crossroads and though I have heretofore never faltered in taking the perceived
path of the righteous I cannot deny that each and every time I find myself at
this choice it is the path of the wicked which looks increasingly more
attractive. It beckons me with a siren
song. Everything holding us together can
be broken down in a single instant. I see
it happening just over the horizon and it is the most horrifying sight. The streets will turn to rivers of our
blood. Lately I’ve been seeing strange
things out of the corner of mine eye.
They are fast and dark and frightening but when I turn my head to look
they are already gone.
I love the taste of makeup.
