Hostage.

 

“My bed is holding me hostage. Send more icy poles and hardcore pornography.”

– ransom note unsent due to overwhelming laziness and strident lack of interest.

I dreamt that I was hanging out at The 4o Watt club during yet some other heyday that I missed ( quel sigh ) with a sarcastic and far from sober pirate boy clad in a grotty vintage Vivianne Westwood tee shirt and disdain. A louche lad of the musical persuasion who had my loins and hormones engaged in a hedonistic hoedown.

(“Oh-ho-ho” laughed Nico in her cruel storm-trooper baritone as I tried and valiantly failed to engage a heroically stoned Edie Sedgwick ( “The stars wrapped in your hair, Edie….”) in a conversation about false eyelashes.  Andy sat ,a  silent cypher black leather-clad, the ever present tape recorder at his side whirring on into oblivion,capturing the creatures and watched us all dance on the head of a pin. )

He was majestic and I could taste the rot flavored whiskey and scarlet indifference on his cruel mouth that only a scantily clad and heavily sweating  hour before was alternately wooing and devouring me.  The Rolling Stones slunk snake hipped from the jukebox even more raunchy than usual if that is possible.  My unwisely chosen suitor digs the Beatles of fucking course….. ( I like the bad boys doncha know? Oh Mick Taylor! Come back son, all is forgiven. ) So tired, exhausted by lust , I do my dope drenched Lilli Marlene impersonation, head in hand on the scarred bar top praying that he would want me forever.( ” Forever-ever-ever-ever ?” Oh Outcast….sigh…..) My long legs scissor and pretzel themselves around the bar stool. My liquid limbs forever ready to betray me ,  clumsily exposing the inner turmoil that will one day murder me.  My face crumpled like a candy wrapper.

You know what? I never imagined that it would snow this far south…..

*wake up honey…wake up…..*

Is daydreaming a vice? Vice smice. If so I embrace it for it seems to be one of mine. I get locked up in my memory, in projections, fantasy. Dreams and such have always resonated more with my Slavic witchy-poo-Gold-Dust-Woman self much more than anything I have ever come across in retarded reality.(“Reality???  Like, Ewww!”)

I live up there in my mind, romping around twenty pounds thinner and forever footloose and fancy free.  I write just to keep my hand in because I know from bitter and exacting experience that for me? Nothing else lasts. I want Plato to be right, that those who tell stories rule society. Not that I could be bothered mind ,too much work by far, but its always cute to have options don’t you think?

But really ? A lot of it depends on  if I got a scepter and an ermine trimmed cape. Oh,and slaves. Lots of slaves. And the power to ( slowly and barbarically ) execute my enemies, of whom there are many…I will leave my resume at the front shall I ?

I think that I would rather eat a tortilla made out of used toilet-paper and rancid pork with a side of cigarette butts than deal with the world.  I like my planet .Like Steven Crane liked his heart. Because it is bitter and because it is mine. Welcome to Brat-ville ,population moi. Enchanted, I’m sure. Now fuck off.

Listen up fuckers…..

In a perfect world I would be Mrs Henry Rollins by now  and have my own talk show where people would have to come and hang in my bedroom to get interviewed because I could not be arsed to leave the house. People would send me free stuff just because. I would star in a MAC advertising campaign and be BFF’s with Ru Paul.. Ampeg would have me on speed dile and cover my custom cab’s in soft white leather. Quentin Tarantino would site me as a muse and lust over my stunning size 11’s and I ,ever accommodating ,would allow him to massage all of my ten and a half perfectly pedicured little piggies to his geeky hearts illicit content. I would have a holiday named after me and the festivities would involve loud lashings of Iggy Pop and the Stooges, Shoes and wicked wet sex. ( “So what are you doing on “Fucking excellent day!”  this year?” ” Oh ,you know, the usual. Getting laid, buying shoes,wearing a tee-shirt with Lady Michele of Rollins face on it…”)  I would eat nothing but organic food and do yoga till I could kiss my own ass and cut out the middle man. I would be so zen that I would shit sandalwood.

With an internal life this rich I ask of you, now why in the name of Cassie Gaines and all that is holy would I ever lower myself to truck with reality?

Exactly my petulant little pomegranates.

Exactly.

I think that “Superstition” by Stevie Wonder can solve anything.

Go on now, get up off your fat ass and go and put it on right this minute and tell me that you can keep from moving and smiling…See!  I told you. Like you won’t have that opening riff running the grand national in your head for the rest of the week. Majestic music such as this fine specimen offers me the only hope for the future that I can bring myself to believe in. It did for me yesterday when I played it at earsplitting volume and danced through the house in one of my many voluminous chrysanthemum cluttered kimonos while brushing my teeth. Multitasker that I am, me. It just resonates through me. (“Boingggggg!” ) Plucks the E string that connects my cluttered cranium to my cunt by way of my cold anthracite heart. Motown is the heavy artillery honey .James Jamerson ( R.I.P ) is the Hiroshima of bass.

Doctors should get onto this asap…..

” We can clear that up Mr So-and so!  (Scratches out a prescription in handwriting  that looks like an ink soaked ant high on ether tap-danced across the page ) Now! I want you to take 2 Smokey Robinson’s and a Marvin Gaye with meals and a Martha Reeves before bed. Ahem ,now, if this is still bothering you in a week of so we can try a course of Stevie Wonder and a tincture of  Jackson five but let’s just see how we go with this first shall we, hmmm?”

My bed decided to give me a day pass…..

It is raining so hard that my nerves are sizzling. It did not stop me and Thraxxy, my sweet soul sister in all things amazonian and rad from going out tonight though.Hell no! We are like the Pony Express! She is the much adored  cafe au lait queen that anchored my last dispatch, so now y’all know. We decided to brave the liquid elements and I had a new pair of  motorcycle boots to break in so it was a doddle.

Onward!

As we sat in the dank dark of the movie theater inhaling popcorn until out mouths puckered up like cat butts she lent across and whispered in my ear as the gusset moistening fable of undying love unfolded on the silver screen before us

” Pft! He will do anything to get to the women he loves and our  caliber of dude won’t even leave the house due to the weather.”

I snorted and almost choked on a chocolate malteser.

We like them “Marinated in tattoos” as she so beautifully puts it. “We are fucking hopeless!” I lamented with a sardonic smile plastered on my kisser over sushi. But fuck we look good doing it.

We laugh like drains. We will tap dance on your graves. I accidentally purchased two pairs of boots and we pinky swore on the train ride home to let them chase us. Like, a stellar night for sure.

Now, onto to the aforementioned chase. Ring-a-fuckin’-ding-ding-y’all.

…..How’s this for a sweet-ass deal?  We will pretend to twist our ankle’s. We will run clad in sumo suits ? Tethered to the rotting carcass of a wild buffalo? We are giving  you the keys to the fucking kingdom here you pussies!  Man up for Christ’s sake !

*or at least call*

Yeah! Or at least fucking call!

Now back in the decadent Egyptian cotton embrace of my posturepedic captor. You know what? I am gonna make like my fingers can’t tap out a text,that’s what I am gonna do. I’m gonna get all Clint Eastwood with a cunt ,hold steady and see what unfolds like orgasmic origami.

You want me baby? I will be waiting and you know where to find me.

Meanwhile back under the covers, you know what? Stockholm syndrome is not all that bad at all…..