river panning children

The crookedly hinged man likes your perfume, whatever it is. It does not scape his debauched nostrils like a soapy washcloth, but its buttery base notes endure throughout the scene. He likes how your perfume is without rose petals. In fact, not one flower can be detected in the slightest. Again you do not smell soapy tonight, which is good, because they like their baths to be taken afterwards.

Go ahead and continue sobbing on the floor. This theatrical display looks to him like the cover of a great novella. His chums will be making an appearance soon. They are also handsome. Having business empires promised to them by fathers, they have commodity-reinforced confidence and big smiles.

The way they beam, the big boys, turns you on, but not one of them as invasively as Him. The others are fish chasing their own scents. He already knows his own scent. This is not to say that it does not turn him on, only that he does not swim in circles. Only that he does not swim in circles anymore.

They all enjoy this fairyland world of yours and how it is exceedingly fragile and forefront in your movements. They blow bubbles and scoop up the froth, tucking it away in their pockets like infantile kleptomaniacs set loose in a riverbed where gold has collected from a mountain vein. Mystified, they trade the scraps of joy, the precious nuggets.

He is inclined toward tracing back this music to the first wind.

You do not know, however strong the front from your angle, the delicacy in the way his muscles interact down his back and abdomen, underneath that dress shirt. His architecture buckles and twitches--not at all like a beast of virile maturity, but of a little child listening to the radio broadcasts at night that penetrate the living rooms of every home, addressing, maybe affirming all the whispers about a supposed dismantling of the empire. A child with his broken plaything.

His muscle face, it has been overworked. He was once an underwater infant caught up in a gold bed of his own. He had to be found out by his parents. It turns you on, the industry of it all. All of you now, shifting your pans from side to side in the stream, sifting out the unwanted. Back into the stream the pebbles plop.

In the room a train pulls out. With it goes the light.

drip-drop drip-drop.