IN THE DARK CURTAIN
I am playing a bleak card with a
cat named Death. He is a phallic face
smoking a quite redundant cigarette.
Like Samuel Beckett he intones :
'Throw up and go. Where. Neither.
Till sick of there. Throw up and
back. The body again. Where none.
The place again. Where none. Try again.
Fail again. Westward ho! Fail better.'
All this until I realize, like myself, this
man is crazy. The world is crazy.
The dream is insane.
-
I take the black cloth from the
tabletop and I cough to spit up
phlegm. Bile. Is there a difference?
I am surprised to notice, beneath
the black cloth, as I lifted it, he had
placed a pistol. Now it was - as I
looked up - staring me in the face.
Oh God, I hope he fails again. Not
try again. Where. Here.
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