Cheap Little Odalisque

odalisque

Whores have feelings too, or so they say. But you just can’t get close enough, though, I mean, the thought of all those lovers. All those insects that have been there before staining themselves upon her. She does it cause she’s lonely. It doesn’t mean a thing. That’s what she says. But it’s hard to be near her, to even touch her. When she’s been with so many, everything feels cheap. So insignificant. Paper thin, like old newspapers. Beauty reduced. She’s just another body. No magic to be found. No sexuality. No lust. Only function, and dreary-eyed urges. My fingers flick a cigarette. The back of my throat tastes metallic. Others would kill for someone like her. To get beneath the sheets with a girl so fine, they’d go to jail. On the surface, she ‘s so alluring. Those big pretty eyes, and that childish smile. So innocent and pure. Those hips, that dance so hypnotically. The scent and the taste of what she is. She’s a dream. Some kind of sweetness that you can’t get enough of. But to me she’s hollow. From her bones to her breath. From her clothes to the flesh of her neck. It’s so sickly; it makes me wince. The dismal nature of being human. The horrors of living. Everyone you meet, no better. Everyone a victim, everyone a sinner. Put me down a well and never let me meet another living soul. Let me live in perfect harmony. No reflections. No contact. Just me and the soil.

There’s little joy to be had in being human. It’s a strain. The body goes against you, and so does the mind. They fight an invisible war, and you’re stuck in the middle suffering and chewing your own tail. The flashing lights of nowhere, flickering behind glass eyes. The sadness that flows through your blood. Melancholy, as natural as sleep. Sleep is the only satisfaction, but only because it’s just like death. And death is the one true answer, not love. Death is the key and the door. Dying in the hearts of stars. Dying in the arms of someone who cares. Sucking on the cigarette, ash falls upon her crumpled dress. Only it doesn’t, not really. It stays suspended in space, like emotion and desire. Going nowhere. Time ticks along. Withdrawn from life. There’s no way out, and no hope. Life is grey, a circular landscape. Repetition repeated always. Breathing, eating. Working. Reproducing. Deadening. Don’t talk to me of dreams. Don’t drown me in your comatose ideology. Go sing it to the mountains, to the lonely roads where the ghosts play at night. Just go, and leave me alone. Do it, and do it now. Extinction. Religion. The God that saves her- that brings her the new day. The wind beneath her wings. The angels that give her strength. Unstoppable salvation. Undeniable belief. Blinded by the light, of the room without darkness. Odalisque. Her bones for sale. No soul to speak of, only dollars and desire. Only the inevitable fate, of succumbing to human nature. Oh the tiresome bullshit, so lackluster and defunct. Poor Odalisque. Pity her, but don’t.

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