I dream of icebergs. Impossibly white, blank-sided pyramids rising from the gorge of the brine, as hope arises from faith, as clarity comes from freezing one’s tears with a mistress’ wintry, heartless stare. With enough practice, when one looks inward at oneself, one only needs the perfected mirror of a practiced self-hatred to see the self’s damnable essence–that nothing which God and the Devil eternally thumb-wrestle to obtain; it is a pewter spittoon of nothingness voiding the nightmare of life onto one’s skeleton.
Oh, monstrous perambulation! How I long to enter the invisible catacombs of the ice and freeze there, a spiteful spit of poet-mote launched into God’s crammed eye!
I abandon all worlds, all wonders to this present numbness of ice. Locked in a landscape of frozen vodka, this is my eternal crucifixion in the tundra. Time recedes to a shriveled snow pea lost in the whiteness….
And yet…. How pleasantly I lie on the plush couch of orange velvet paisleys…. Why did I ever want to die when I could lie thus crucified at a rate of a few francs per hour? It’s an oblivion dungeon here at madame Tsu’s. Here at Madame Tsu’s, the client is always right… until his wallet runs out of frittery francs. And mine have run. Yes, Madame Tsu, this magic-carpet is reserved for another dreamer at four o’clock. Yes, I understand I have been too-long a-tarrying. But here, in your yellow arms, Madame Tsu, I have been at last abandoned, at last set adrift without the crosswinds of eager terror or tedious conversation. Only here, on this ratty couch, could I crouch in my arctic emptiness, with no auguring object for my randy eye to affix itself upon–other than my own abominable sins. This is my masterwork: a disaster divinely conceived–but not of God!
You do not see, I see. Yes, I see it is past four o’clock. Tso witty, Madame Tsu! You are a most punctual warden of my dram of dreams. You keep your corner of the creation as strictly patrolled as a death-rictus…. Tstiffly tschime the tserrible tsgongs of Madame Tsu!
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