“Who do you like?” Carlos asks me with his coke with some alcohol and I get a Bacardi with coke.
I look at him and he looks at me and he smiles and I don’t.
The contact is broken and we both get blue straws to drink from as the lights are off and I feel hands all over my face and I see a dim light with faces, tongues and teeth over Carlos.
The lights are on and there is no one and everything is a stage and for an explicit second there are images of seagulls and feathers and their legs falling down with guitar strings broken down into confetti and one cuts my eyes and I blink it off.
“Daniel Kessler.” I say fast, it’s more of a time of your life when you have no one in it and you settle with a person you speak.
Then I see Daniel in a bodysuit with a boa pace around everywhere, everywhere being the stage as I say Daniel just to say and Carlos just looks at me and ignores the lipstick traces Daniel leaves him.
I want to leave but I don’t, feather boas clasping my back and clawing me back in, so Carlos just sits there as I am leaned back, Daniel laughing with no sound, mouth open wide and a face mark drawn as if he were Marilyn Monroe and he throws the feather boa over us to imitate a kiss and I imagine his black heels as the feathers go over my eyes as go away as tears and Carlos chews his straw.
The show is over, ladies.
Over.
With the traces and the man, the man to go onboard, yet he stays.
A microphone is nowhere, just Daniel and his heels and my broken Bacardi on the floor.
Carlos has whisky.
He doesn’t ask me to dance, Kessler does, taking me in a waltz in my chair and I want to vomit as a mirror is in front of me to imitate a man’s room with poker cards sliding from all directions.
I am the stage and I am given a hat to laugh at.
A nightmare to be, as I hold the cards and spill them, exposing all the aces and sevens and nines and thirteens drawn with ball pens.
All the influences of the night.
My broken Bacardi with Carlos’ whisky.
Make it stop.
Make me the stage.
Daniel pours the Bacardi from the floor onto the ceiling, as the glass runs through my hair and the club opens for the rest.
Deviant's 3
I look at him and he looks at me and he smiles and I don’t.
The contact is broken and we both get blue straws to drink from as the lights are off and I feel hands all over my face and I see a dim light with faces, tongues and teeth over Carlos.
The lights are on and there is no one and everything is a stage and for an explicit second there are images of seagulls and feathers and their legs falling down with guitar strings broken down into confetti and one cuts my eyes and I blink it off.
“Daniel Kessler.” I say fast, it’s more of a time of your life when you have no one in it and you settle with a person you speak.
Then I see Daniel in a bodysuit with a boa pace around everywhere, everywhere being the stage as I say Daniel just to say and Carlos just looks at me and ignores the lipstick traces Daniel leaves him.
I want to leave but I don’t, feather boas clasping my back and clawing me back in, so Carlos just sits there as I am leaned back, Daniel laughing with no sound, mouth open wide and a face mark drawn as if he were Marilyn Monroe and he throws the feather boa over us to imitate a kiss and I imagine his black heels as the feathers go over my eyes as go away as tears and Carlos chews his straw.
The show is over, ladies.
Over.
With the traces and the man, the man to go onboard, yet he stays.
A microphone is nowhere, just Daniel and his heels and my broken Bacardi on the floor.
Carlos has whisky.
He doesn’t ask me to dance, Kessler does, taking me in a waltz in my chair and I want to vomit as a mirror is in front of me to imitate a man’s room with poker cards sliding from all directions.
I am the stage and I am given a hat to laugh at.
A nightmare to be, as I hold the cards and spill them, exposing all the aces and sevens and nines and thirteens drawn with ball pens.
All the influences of the night.
My broken Bacardi with Carlos’ whisky.
Make it stop.
Make me the stage.
Daniel pours the Bacardi from the floor onto the ceiling, as the glass runs through my hair and the club opens for the rest.
Deviant's 3
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