A Small Death

A Small Death

It is that time of morning, when flowers catch the water that hasn’t been used and Charles stares at the shadows of trees, half-naked and confused. A screaming comes across the sky.

All I remember is getting shot in the head at the very end. It was a horse’s head, from which small light-green eels were darting furiously. It broke and fell on the ground that pulverized the dust into tiny clouds of silica. The sand slept, the sea slept, the shells had been crushed and did not listen to my pleas. So I impersonated an hour-glass and at the same time tried to think myself into the role of Death by playing with the bones of small rodents. But there was no discernible reason that they should be set up that way! Strange patterns! But if I were to design this instrument I would not put its heart so close to its swords. I suppose decisions like that are for some angel stationed very high, watching us at our many perversities, all of it being carried out under a sentence of death whose deep beauty the angel has never been close to….

Instead I preferred to ponder the tricks I might play if given your beautiful pussy, some carrots, and a small live starfish. (They told me, “She’s no Kasabian goose, she’s a German National bird and tastes just like before the war.”) But it was a sensory ship that brought me here, something like scent yet infinitely more secluded and gripping. None of this was ever thought out. No, you wore it as one would an earring or perfume. Flowery, permeating, surprising, more than the color of winter sunlight—it is not often Death is told so clearly to fuck off. Only when the vanilla brought tears to my eyes, only when I began to taste mushrooms or some acrid spice, this earthy smell that contaminated me for all time with the taste of perishability—only then did I let go.

Ist klar. It was spring.

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