a summer last in ottawa

They led me to a bar, the devils, and to the most devilish of bars I’ve seen, certainly in this city. I know they all close at one in the morning, just as things are getting good in other cities, and that corner stores and gas stations do not sell any liquids but juices and milk and instant coffee and Red Bull. Lack of alcohol. That’s why there’s no fun, no poison, in this city. It brings you up and drops you right when you think you can fly or dance or live and that’s much worse than the side-effects themselves. In my world you can buy wine anywhere and you can stay out until you get tired and you can love who you do and wear the most outrageous costumes on a Tuesday night. Unlucky I’m over here.

There it even has horns and oh how it’s fitting that it’s not yet nine and the funblonde and her unfunbrown and their others in arms and legs and beds but never in heads are wearing them to tempt me. How long will I last, I ask? Until one, they reply, and I, too, for I meant in life and they meant in night. Why a bison? They’re all west, no? or south, I figure. Must have skipped that in American history, but it was in the time of the Old West and Cowboys and Tycoons and things that aren’t talked about but in stories and I don’t know even when they could have existed because I can’t picture them on this continent or in this history of man. How things change so suddenly and how things are forgotten. I want to be a lost historian of the alternate universes and many, many worlds of which there are and they are infinite. If only I make it through to one with whataretheirnames I’m sure they all have fun together and more fun together without me the third fourth fifth wheel of this trio quad pent? They go in Greek, yes. It’s a pity I took Latin for so long if I can’t even make up these words and I’ve not a drop to drink yet how unfortunate for them all and for the poor soul in me.

Ahead! Into the devil-horned bison bar for beers or beverages most tasty with the four and I the one!

Even the seats, Christ. Brown and hardwood and the tables the same. Leather and brown and fur and more brown and that means I know it’s not a place for me. I’m more grey if one could imagine. But the most beautiful of greys, for the colour is often connoted negatively, the kind of a strong steel or of a boy’s eyes. Oh! boys. Look around and pick them out, if there are any in this world. A glance to a bald in his forties, two women with two sweat stains, a group of university students, though the ones in for the athletic ride. I’m not so much into muscle of the body, though maybe if I were more horny I could go for it. All straight, though. The problem with the straights is that they think they have to live with us like an annoying sister, where we think of them as senile uncles. You can’t hold hands in this city, I think, if you’re two boys, but that’s the best thing, the little touches. I would cuddle for a night or a lifetime and never stick my stick in another hole in all my life because it’s the feeling of hands and mouths and skin on skin that’s the worthy part and not when things are in other things and there’s worry of damaging views and bleeding blood and coming out all shitty. None of that here, though, and none of that tonight, it seems. Maybe in the next room, once I’ve taken my gin and ice and the others their beers and fluorescence.

Oh! a command to the toastee and an exchange of glass and bill and change and change and we’re off and oh! a sip of oh! I’ve missed you pretty thing come into me and make me me more than I can be before and sober and elsewhere for isn’t that nice to feel alive at once. But ouch and a cube of the ice worsens my tooth and my self is irritable and more so when I hear the discussions around me of what are they talking of men and girls and professors I don’t know of studies I’ll never learn and I’ll be bored until they ask me things directly about how they kids are like in Montréal and more medial questions they took off of my returns so I sit on the edge, in the corner, and stare off and away with just me and my gin that’s all I’ll every need to be because we are me and a fact’s a fact if it’s indisputably the case.

Once two we are now one with every gulp you are a part of me and I am the thirsty beast of all that is good in the world and once it comes it goes again but it leaves the traces I wish I could keep for more than just an hour a lifetime of the pleasure of the hard to swallow. The more I have the more I can dream of my escape and less I have to think about what’s out of my mind and around my body the cold forearm of whatshername bouncing and prodding for more of me. No, my love, my love is ahead of me and nearly empty. My love is in this little box you cannot crack and how you never will because it’s far away from here on a beach with a fire or in a café in New York with themostbeautifulboyintheworld and the way he laughs shows his teeth as white as could be sold for as much as you’d pay it the way he’d answer and order and sit so perched across from me and we’d be noticed by a grandeur and he’d give us tips and fawn over us and we’d move up in the world and marry and live in Paris and oh! I think this drink has gone straight from the glass and into my head and I’m floating. Time for another if this is to continue in the most absurd of details.


[18 May 2010]


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