Thursday, April 14, 2011

the oldest son of an immigrant whore

What a turning point for the two of them, she was happy again. The two of them had been riding the roads along the west coast of Canada. They would get lost in the backwoods of the their nations national parks, never really knowing where they were. The two of them enjoyed the dream that year, it was a turning point. That year they realized how lucky they were to have one another. The two of them had worked together in the cafe for months before they could even speak to one another. He was a fun, blond young man, a run away. She was a vision, a movie star, an industry caught on by the unique transcendence of pure irresistibly. Her heart stole his souls. He was back on on the ground in that cafe, and in those first months of working he was in heaven. "I iconalizied you?" he laughed, "you were my world" he'd say to her. She was out of his league. Her father, was king in trends. A man who's authority drove the demand for more, for more of him exclusively. She was a victim. He knew that. She worked at the cafe to get away. "I want out" she would hint at him. Turning to him, away from him, serving the customers, He would stare, she would gossip with the other co workers. They would laugh together, single him out. She was becoming accessible. She was giving herself to him. The two did run together, in his old car, the two of them left the first night they made love. They were the young ones, and they wanted to run in their leather Jackets and Jeans. Beautiful the two of them packaged, in sync with their existence. She was hungry, he had been threading him self thin, the prescription was emaciating them. But the drugs were the designer, in their journey of pearls, young and full of body. She was hungry the morning the drugs wore off. And he wanted the little black dress, having had the shift in mind make it's mark.
"can we pull over?" she asked "I need to pee."
he pulled over under a bridge, they could hear the river running, fresh water running. It had been raining since the two had been kicked out of the hotel. They had not slept in a while.  "You've smoked two packs of cigarettes, baby!" she mentioned, "Baby it's time form bed!" she told him. She couldn't settle him down, he was anxious and high strung. Looking over at him from the bed in the hotel in the mountains along their countries west coast. She wanted him to stop, she wanted it to beginning again, she wanted to redefine herself in culture. She wanted to go back to dad, and she knew she had mainstreamed herself to him. Becoming his sex devouring his soul like a capitalist in the city.
"You fucking dirty bitch" he yelled angry, not at her specifically, he was frantic, he needed rest, and he was in the car, they were alone together. She knew he loved her. It was a glamor that she marketed and stole, then sold and got high with. He scared her, and they were alone. She was outside peeing, the sun was coming up over the horizon, it was cold and over, she was sober, he was psychotic.
"I saw my God mother last night in your dream" he would say, she would laugh it off, like he was making sense. She had motivated the whole trip, gathered the extra pills from her friends to manipulate him with. He came alone like a recycled, fascinated little robot, sick with pills. She used him, she had a style that could devour his presences and self, they were alone out there.

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