a short story of nearly nothing: hitler in my heart

Monday, March 16, 2009

hitler in my heart

For two days like a quiet ghost on the windshield, he analyzed my every motion as I destroyed my lungs, as I laughed, sung and cried.

When I asked him for some sympathy, he could only waltz to Voyevoda; moving his tiny feet rhythmically and when the music died he knew it was time to go "when we drink beer, dragonflies appear...lazy butterfly dreaming of the sky, wake up the clouds are coming…I won’t forget her" is all my little dreary spider whispered before leaving me to dwell in my loneliness

I curse you dear cherub for blowing him away with your weather, for ruining my vision and now I can no longer tell red from green anymore, and because of you I offered my heart to the cruel and heartless; where the truthful words came out of my mouth "use it more wisely than I ever did" but my offer was unwanted.

ET stopped by the parking lot wall to say hello and asked me if the weather was safe to find home again to which I answered "It is never safe".

1 comment:

K*March 16, 2009 at 9:18 PM
i love it.

xx
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Who Killed Tilou Pouline?

Like you, I know exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard Tilou Pouline had been killed.
Like you, I know no more than that. Killed, yes. But by whom and how none of us ever knew.
Rumours multiplied. I met a Hell's Angel in a bar in Encino who swore blind that he knew a man who claimed to have crushed in Tilou's skull with a lead piping, on behalf of a crazed ex-boyfriend.
It became a national obsession. "Who killed Tilou Pouline?" bubblegum cards were traded and traded again in schoolyards across Lebanon. I still own two of them: one shows Tilou's bullet-riddled corpse dangling from a wall; the other shows her body washed up on the shore of an unidentified lake, her face blue and puffy from the water, the claws of some crustacean pushing out from between her purple lips.
I remember the candlelight vigils, and the shrines, dozens of them, in cities all over the world, spontaneous demonstrations from people who no longer had a Tilou Pouline.
They lit candles and left behind telephones, scalpels, exotic items of underwear, plastic figurines, children's picture books, antlers, love.
"She went as she would have wanted to go." That was what a Tilou Pouline impersonator told me in a pub off Carnaby Street. Much later that night, voice slurred by alcohol, the man confided in me that he was certain that the real Tilou Pouline had been "abducted by beings from a higher vibrational plane", and that the pictures of Tilou's death were not fakes, pasted-up and air-brushed in some back-alley photographic studio, but actual photographs of the deaths of "sister-selves", creatures grown from Tilou Pouline's own protoplasm.
Very young children made up songs about the different ways Tilou died, killing her happily at the end of every verse, too young to understand the horror. Maybe it really was how she would have wanted to go.
"If you see Tilou Pouline on the street, kill her" said the graffiti under the bridge in Beirut. And beneath that somebody else wrote "that way she'll live forever".

a short story of nearly nothing

Monday, March 16, 2009

hitler in my heart

1 comment:

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Who Killed Tilou Pouline?