Monday, May 31, 2010

To Baby

Dear Baby,

Are you still mad at me because I called your pregnant clay god a whore? I told you, never worship a woman--a lesson that hit me like a tonne the summer I spent in Cyprus, masturbating compulsively in my monk's cell, never having any visions because I was drunk all the time (or at least 85% of the time). Alcohol for me is a surrogate spirit, but I must admit, it really gets things done on earth. Baby, it's how we met. We were drunk and wild and I’ve almost forgotten the sickness.

The monks and I would put on cosmic soap operas. I was always the hunky asshole/Neptune. After a row that ended with me tearing Myoki's fat Budha belly with a dessert fork, I fled to Canada, citing artistic differences. I knew that Neptune should be into bestiality--mostly cockatoos and parrots because of the tongues--but for some reason the thought disgusted Myoki. Touchy prick.

Canadians found me creepy because I stand too close. Well, yes, the English are a creepy breed. We are, after all, the ones who were afraid to leave.

But Baby, your smooth white English rose of an ass suits me fine. It's OK that you have no character--I just want to feel, taste, smell your fleshy Jupiters and oils. I think they can satisfy me, but, lest we forget, I’ve suckled the milk of paradise—come to think of it, I’ve suckled quite a bit. I'm sorry I told you we are not cats. We are. And I'm sort of into that these days. Let's be English cats and never leave the house. Let’s lie constantly.

We must destroy the pregnant figurine. Let's go into space. It will work out fine.


- Tewksbury

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