On Navels

“The city is fine. But I don’t know what’s happening under the sea….”
~ Almost-victim, March 2011

We take it all, spit by the front door claiming what’s felt right and what’s not to oblige. Five seconds in, retaliations abound, giving off the evanescent glare. Right where the desk fits, I kneel down and cache. This Stallion is presumed Spanish but I’m no fool he’s a true Scot. “Thought ova dates?” C’mere darling, you’re a fire in a pool of animals with raunchiness out of control. Wednesday night it was surreal, the room was full of multilingual love, people talk in cultures, in diversity, I see honesty and big love, I didn’t wanna leave. A Singaporean brought up in my language, mother tongue of English, Cantonese and Mandarin to converse, French to get him through his universal youth and rest his cool feet down. I was mesmerized, the Burmese-speaking Hungarian said I was funny buzzed. Thursday was no specialty, Friday filling-up-the-fridge day, two caesars and five clementines, new jeans, blue dress, camel cardigan, they turn up a long story in the end. By night some jealous bitches stare, I couldn’t care at least I have my thighs covered.

Scandalous colour-blocking bonanza. Watermarks. Kiddies work I take pride in. Women on twin motives, I get them chicks overdosed in winged words. The business of frailty, delicacy and girl power; they make it, break it, down it, be lost within it, by the minute they’re here, but not really now, just here, just in this square, completely uninvited, by my nature they’re outboxed, by your law they’re the fucking fresh air. Totally poised, these young ones, I spot a bunch in sync, exchanging gaiety, drinking saliva, hashing out on what’s so Pavlovian about it. Our whole goddamn life is Pavlovian! You do what I do. Crediting meritocracy in the mirrors of ideals.

I’m tired.
I’m so tired of this ish.
“Barely political”
Women will never submit to infidelity. I disagree.

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