THE COUNT CONTESSA
MARLOWE
(watching)
It's no fun with a storybook ending. I watch through
the glass three barbers cutting hair : one of those
quite stylized places, where the guys are all gay.
It's Chelsea so what anyway. They sit in a stupefied
luster, these beautiful guys, and stare back at me
as if to say 'wild man, crazy one, please go away.'
-
To them, I am a magazine maggot, an incidental
refutation of all their fine array. Back when I lived
on Broadway, a long, long time ago, when they were
still gay starlings only dreamed about by mother
and dad in a sexual lust - that fiery frieze of
fury and cum that made them - no one imagined
how they breach that trust. A father mollycoddling
vengeance, a new kind of son brought into this world.
-
Now everyone is looking at me, and they all
know each other. Gropers and figments in
another category - my arms are filled
with brute strength; they'll have
none of it at all.
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