YER HAINT
Jingle jangle. I come following you, my chains all aclanking. It's a lie that the links ring like bells; they clink and shuffle, dragged sounding. The tinkle is the dissatisfaction of a destitute country, its nicked aluminum coinage tossed to the floor.
"You refer to falseness," you infer.
I tell you, what I'm telling you is: auditory perception! damnit!! I have said not yet said one word about groundless abstractions and the quick pursuit of bullshit intellectualization.
+ + +
You are with your lover, that's your phrase, the both of you seated, in chairs opposite one another, thigh-crossed lovers, sighing and glowing over a table so tiny as to beg of intimacy. The location is most likely one of the half dozen choicest restaurants in this great big city.
I gain entrance with an affected accent. I say, "Chainz are all ze rage in gay Purée mon cheri." I pay off the bouncer with a bargeful of gold bars. The sound they make is magic.
I whoop between the tables whirling above my head the loose end of the chain, swirling it like a halo, the swift roar of the rotors of a helicopter. Watch out or lop goes your head! I fantasize I'm a cowboy riding my lariat, lassoing my lifestyle.
I smack you lover full-force on the head, the chain wrapping around and sinking into his soft skull. A sharp slap through baby butter. I do this not out of jealousy--emotions are such little sacks of displeasures--I do it because it feels so good inside.
+ + +
The metal tastes of your saliva, pennies sucked in your childhood mouth; the metallic tinge of nastiness taints your tongue, slips past your palate to give your entire body a hint of delirious poisoning. What really weighs more, the corporeal or its baggage? What? you didn't think I was going to haunt you! That was certainly foolish, giggly. I will live to eat your brains.