CASSANDRA
A simple daily drive to the thwarted comforts of all
those weeds and bushes; licking the inside of her
ears so that she can understand the animals' talk.
Well, maybe not, but perhaps. This jangled vein,
this thing that runs in my neck, these fingers with
nails like knives, all these may make me a temple
snake myself. I abscond and I lust. I pillage and
then I rape - all in the name of Prophecy, or this
odd God's trust, something I never had nor ever
really earned. Now, it's all gone and, yes, that
was me you saw standing there. I believe nothing.
What's the use of knowing the future if you're
living in the past? Excuse the drivel, but need I ask?
How came it to be that this red-haired whore became
my consort? Living at night with animals and walking
the day with men and varied beings : the half-men,
the griffins, the multi-headed strange figures that
never died. This, my fashionable ladies, is the
Turnpike of my open mind - a consciousness
you'd never understand. But let me try: here it
is dark out, the heat pipes are sending a sound,
the dim purple light from a few weak lamps
makes everything look better, desirable, sexy,
fetching. Me and all my millions couldn't buy
a hair of that head. I bite the nipple that feeds
me. I suck the dribble that drops. Slum-lord
now reckoning the foils of all this damage:
I'd lift her up, strip her bare, and take
her with me everywhere.
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