a little poetry
the liar.
"I'm terribly sorry," says the man in the well-cut sharply styled charcoal black suit with the dark eyes and red lips and glass fingers. "I'm terribly sorry," he says, holding up a plastic rose. "I'm terribly sorry... I have forgotten how to love you." He may have told you his name before, but you know now that he would have been lying. "I have a confession to make," he says, and you know it will be a lie too, but you have to listen because his suit is just that well-cut and his eyes are just that dark. "I have a confession to make," he says, holding the plastic rose between his glass fingers, wearing a silk shirt under the cotton suit, nothing real, no flesh no bones, not even the sex, the sex would be some horrible synthesized silicone fetish, and the eyes, so intent, so dark, so intense, they must have been done by a master. "I have a confession to make," he says. "I had two friends in college. Imaginary friends. His name was Kokopelli. He was big and had a huge afro and a huge dick and a great sense of rhythm. And her name was Tank Girl, and she was witty and militant and fucking beautiful, always smoking a cigarette, always ready to cry but never crying. But one day I couldn't take it any more, all that wit and rhythm. So I ate them both. And I've been eating people ever since. It's quite a rush, like exstasy mixed with turkey dinner and Times Square, and that's my confession, do you like it?" Maybe you think it's all lies, and maybe you explode anyway. "No, please," he says, "You embarass me. I prefer the phrase 'personal imperialist.' Now, can you tell me something about yourself? I'm writing a novel and I'd like to put you in it."
