[Double] Genuflection
“Adoration is the basis of her vices, his vices, our vices. You start walking down that path, the one your parents told you not to. The priest told you not to. Society is looking at you. You are still walking the same path and it’s getting darker. Flex. Flex. Flex. Bend your way into it. You have arouse something and now it seems unstoppable.”
The dark room feels like a catacomb, but short after, the clapping invades our senses and the poet is smiling. The slam is over.
Gloria Lynne starts singing Stormy Monday, and we are in silence contemplating the surroundings. Sitting in those tall benches around a small table with vodka sodas. Etta James, Bobby Darin, oh Dee Dee Bridgewater! There is one guy at the table. I don’t know his name or where he comes from, but he looks mysterious. There is something behind his matinee hero looks. He is quiet and smiles appropriately. He is indulging, like a hunter watching easy prey. He stands up and walk.
There is a thin girl on a couch. Her makeup is too dark, but she is pretty. Her hair is short and we can see her neck line and nape. It’s a Japanese fantasy. She is wearing small headphones and admires her phone. She doesn’t see him coming. The matinee hero seats next to her and stares. She doesn’t notice or maybe she is ignoring him. He pulls the old trick and slips his arm behind her. She turns to him. “What are you listening?” he asks. The girl takes off her headphones and says: “Est-ce que tu aimes le sexe? Le sexe, je veux dire: l'activité physique, le coït. Tu aimes ça? Tu ne t'intéresses pas au sexe? Les hommes pensent que les féministes détestent le sexe mais c'est une activité très stimulante et naturelle que les femmes adorent.” She walks out and matinee sits there like a hound.
“Lean on me, like they did when you combed their hair. Your turban is full of sweat as you watch them fly away. Alone on the shore; blue colors glimmering. Genie, your manhood’s unattended.”
The hero turns and sees the poet on a futon, lotus style. Long hair covers his shoulders and his face shows a frisky smile. Hairless, barefaced. The hero walks to him, convinced that everything is possible tonight. He stands in front of him, like a statue. The poet looks up and the hero helps him stand up. “I like your poems” the hero says. “I’ll show you my performance” the poet replies.
There is a door in the corner. It opens to a short hall with three doors. The bathroom is straight ahead; is for both women and men. They try to open the left door but it’s closed. They knock and a moan shows it’s occupied. The right door must be free. It is. They enter the small room with a sofa. There is no prologue. Tongue, hands, feet, mouth. The poet kneels and looks up. The hero grabs his hair and says: Mauvaise fille.
“Explore your freedom. What does it mean? Was it worth it?”
Those are the last words of the poet, who can’t stop.
Image by Alexis Beuclair
Text by Alberto Lizárraga