Morsels of sleep. More than food. Charlo looking more and more appetizing by the day.
“I want to eat that skin off your face…” I say to Musette, my voice rolling like savage bow movements.
“I want to eat your ass.” she responds, her voice wicked with long repression. In these moments which you imagine to be your last it becomes easier to submit to subconscious fancy; but do not allow yourself to be too easily maneuvered or manipulated by these odd requests, because in most situations survival is the outcome, and a manifested subconscious nail, without a coffin, gets you right in the face.
“Do not drink the salt from the ocean, you were not meant to be a creature of the sea. Save those crystals for the porpoises and the mermaids, who are evolutionary offshoots of ourselves, and who depend upon those salt crystals like we depend upon carbon monoxide. If you eat my ass now, imagine how you are going to feel in the morning.”
“I suspect I will feel relieved, as I suspect will you as well. What cause have I for inclining otherwise?”
“No cause dear sister, only concern; for in that soul of yours does exist the flesh, and my ass is a destroyer of flesh and a perverter of beauty!”
“Turn over and let me spank it then!”
I spin, I bend, she pulls my pants down, and wacks a mole. A red turkey blooms from the injury.
“My goodness, we are not forsaken!” cries Musette to Heaven.
“By God’s grace, yours and mine, we eat tonight, my ass.”
