R e p t i l i a n P o e t r y (Prt 2)
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/Blue city: the things I want to say to you. Those things I want to say to you. And your cheek is pressed so hard against my side and I'm stroking your sweater. We're sleeping on a bed distorted with moonlight. I feel like a curve in your body—that's how much. I am the cry of a bumblebee because the bumblebee's tonight they cry for you./
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The edge of a wineglass rests on Angela Anaconda's whole, neon-green lips. Her lipstick stains one face of the wineglass as she sips from it. And then her wrists get weak and droop slowly with the stem of the glass tightly pressed between her two fingers.
Her dress is sleeveless and amber like the waves on Arizona fields under the brows of the sunset. She places the wineglass back on the table, carefully. The man of her life sits, at a distance, next to her. He's watching the Indian performers on stage as they throat sing and yodel almost like the echoes of the prehistoric age of humanity: when humans and animals were alike.
The performer's long, dark-skinned hands pound on drums made with tree branches and leather. Their drums mimic the gestures of feelings: trying to steal your heartbeat—trying to steal your heart.
BANG! Bang! BANG!
Bang, Bang!
Bang! Bang! BANG!
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/Sometimes the flimsiest are the best weapons. And I'm not saying that because I am. I'm still hostile like a feather on top of a duck's bill—because I'm a faggot who cries while leading the ants down his shirt. My shirt was blue like the city. And you can't see me because I'm wearing the city. Blue city./
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"Monty," Angela says in her loud-whisper-like voice. She can't even hear her voice and her lithe hands are about to strangle her neck from behind, but she just scratches. Her hand is hidden behind carefully bobbed auburn hair, a style she's kept since she was a little girl…
And Montgomery doesn't look at her—because he can't look at her.
"Monty. Monty, you're quiet," She spits out, but it feels more like vomit out of her mouth. Her heart expands as the Indian performers continue their show—and Montgomery could make her heart explode…
Those thin, iced lips of his never move.
Her piano-key fingers press against his broad shoulder lightly and rub it back and forth. The drums pound her heart all the way up to her throat and she's restless—now she's restless.
"Monty."
She grazes the tip of her ivory finger across the thin slope of his bottom lip and his lip is wet—wet with those kisses he got from Mali before attending this date. And Montgomery doesn't look at her.
He licks his lips and that reptilian taste travels like serum through his tongue and lingers. He's in love with a snake…He's in love with a snake…
BANG! Bang! BANG!
Bang, Bang!
Bang! Bang! BANG!
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/Venus's pigtails were always long and they hang like a pirate as she swings to Neptune. And she might be the only one in love. I'm rubbing the bridge of my nose, but I can't fly up because of the things I want to say to you. Those things I want to say to you are chugging down my throat like turtles and I'm frustrated like Barbara Streisand. All I need is a hammer and I become her. My surgery on myself: Blue city./
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"Who is she?" Angela says. Her hands creep along the back of her neck like spiders. Her eyes melt into fishes and swim—search—his face, his crabby skull.
And Montgomery doesn't look at her.
"Who is she, Monty?" She's strangling her neck now, but her ivory legs squirm like a rape victim: rubbing up and down against each other—up and down…
BANG! Bang! BANG!Bang, Bang!
Bang! Bang! BANG!Montgomery squeezes the stem of his wineglass as he brings the thin glass to his lips. The bitter, scarlet pours into his mouth and stains Mali's kisses like blood on a shirt.
And all this time Angela watches him. Her face tightens now. He places the empty, wineglass on the table. She just watches him. He twists her, unconsciously, like a wet rag and all of her drips before him—all of her.
"Don't be ridiculous, Angela," He simply says. He languidly smiles at and steals her Pisces gaze. He reaches for her hand, restless behind her neck. Then, he rubs it—a gentle, chaste rub on her knuckles.
A gentle terrorist attack on her knuckles.BANG! Bang! BANG!
Bang, Bang!
Bang! Bang! BANG!