Sentences spill out, somewhere punctuated with the word ‘fuck’. A gasp, a sigh, a constant delicious emotional ache. A psychological DOT DOT DOT, pause for thought. A questioning a wondering…a mosquito…a libido. And I’m the biggest fucking idiot that ever lived. I swear I am. Desperate to find a philosophy decent enought to hang this deviational ‘fuck it’ feeling onto. The closest I come is to think that the universe is indifferent…somewhere across the sea there is a culture of love and emotion without boundaries and rules.
And it’s all too much, precisely how I wanted and needed it to be. Because I AM a filthy tart: those that know the best and worst of me, know how true that is. Slutting all over this madly intense feeling because turbulence feeds the fucking life back into me and sticks a stubborn middle finger up at the shit-storm of bad news and dissapointments i’ve endured. Like i’m finishing off something I started in puberty. A crush on curves and the undulating rhythms of this womanly world. Those ghosts coming back to haunt, taunt and tempt me. Reminding me there are still battles to be fought, urging me up from the sulky slumber and into the crisp morning’s light. Test my courage and my resolve and splatter it like spunk against the unwilling canvas of this modern world trap. And if only I could get my hands on a cock big enough to do the job properly.
If I could split like a fraction and live this life twice, like a time split, a parrallel universe of who I am and what I have: what else would I do? The answer comes thumping like a heartbeat clear, I’d do it ALL. Fucking absorb it all, experience everything. Have my children young and keep living and laughing till I dropped from the dance completely spent. A wild gypsy at heart, and for the life of me I cant think why that term chanted at me from a young age, offended me so much back then. I embrace her now, with all her stupidness and windsept hair. I fucking love her in all her freakish formidable glory, even if no other fucker does. And I’ll be her friend, tight and close and brain-spaced in all out cut-lucidness, like the hanging out of old friends. Like legs dangling from between banisters: teens finding odd new comfortable places to plonk. I’ll deliver a punch like a swinging steam-train into the faces of haters, i’ll defend her life like I never dared before. She needs no other but me and i’ll commit like a cunt, chasing chickens and chumps from her door: my snarling kiwi no longer the cute cockrest it once was. I’ll take my seat on top: perched comfortably like a proud pecking parrot casting my feathers a-wobble as I bounce to my hearts content. Bounce out a rhythm like the typing of a bestseller novel. Dig those ankle bells back out from the well and step out in a daring dance, barefoot and free as a tree. For this life is transient and you must take it up on all it’s offers while you still can.