Literature In Los Angeles


In LITERARY FICTION on December 19, 2010 at 11:10 pm

Once I thought I saw you
in a crowded hazy bar
dancing in the light
from star to star.
*Neil Young, Like a Hurricane

Almost Famous

Slowly your hands slide down on the wet garden of her cheery perversion and, one by one, each scarlet letter in our bouquet of secrets recline its head.

Today I did nothing but die on your screen, dream in your pics, live for your stage.

The show burns on and I tail your glory from under your knees, through the loud lights of your million star guitar, beyond the poisoned curtains of this starlet illusion.

Under the eyes of everybody is your hunger for her cheap tattoos and her underage half-naked heels.
Under the eyes of everybody, splashed on that filthy smile of yours, is your appetite for her rotten liveliness.
On that filthy smile of yours all my needly needs dangle from, under the eyes of everybody.

You are
like an hurricane
there’s calm
in your eye.*

The show burns off through the dust left over in the air and I gather my last flaked diamonds to follow you in the wings.

I follow you as I followed you then – from moon to moon, inside the net of your first words, around the flatter of your funny offenses, between the thrill of your dark jokes.
I follow you as I followed you then – an unfertile, ruffled wig, beaten dream Alice in the blue wonderland of wrong notes your hands have fun to play for.

I am just a dreamer
but you are just a dream
You could have been
anyone to me.*

I walk into the backstage alone but, you’re not.
She’s in. Same tattoos, same cranky heels, same black tale smile.

As I get closer, you softly offer a glass of pink velvet to me and my hand to her.
You gently sit my nervousness next to her thighs and whisper a warm laugh into my ears.
Then, you start telling the story of our lust, to push my hesitation toward the double suite for three you already booked our red night ink in.

But, before we get into the taxi, you look at her for one second, and she is not the second anymore.
She looks at me, and I remember that spring when, my second, was your wife.
I look at you and, for the first time, I can see neither of them has ever been your second but one: me.

Story by Liliana Isella.

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