i killed a poetic boy yesterday. the old ladies in the
shadows swore at him when he was walking home proud as
hell with a new pocketknife. they told him we die
next week so laugh like you got limes for balls. he
called them drippy old vultures in his native tongue.
they didn’t understand him and went on laughing and
spitting oily juice into to brass spittoons. he made
his eyes evil and stuck his tongue out at them,
so i killed him. i have a deal with the old ladies. they
get tired of little knife thieves. glaring the way
they do. this boy was eating a fat tomato in the sun.
his buddy walked up to him. pants falling down, snot running
down his nose. this boy told his buddy to fuck off and find his
own tomato. so i killed him. i pushed him into the
river. he made alot of noise drowning. now i follow
his buddy who wants tomatoes all day long. i have so
many numbers on my back i can’t even lift my shadow
off the dirt. he woke up this morning and spent alot of time
on his shoes. i waited in the dust beneath the lamp-table.
and felt sick and burnt the whole time. the boy’s dad works all
day. he bought a good lamp. i hate electricity. i have my ways though.
i love this market. the vendors are so poor, i can hide
in the edges of their skirts. i suck flies into my shadow
to get a lift when i get sun sick. nothing escapes these old ladies.
they dress in black and fan themselves in the shadows
of the cathedral. i never touch them. i stay there
for awhile and then some boy comes by and i get him
into trouble. people think they know bright. chrome
or sunlight on silver. the wife washes the old man’s
water-glass and it glistens in the nine-am light like
heaven opening up in a drop of water. this town has
fell asleep in the stairwell.
the lover was supposed to see
three pigeons in a fight. he would have thrown his
roses into the fray. the ugly one was supposed to
pick up one petal. he would have followed it with his
eyes. it would have fallen into the river. the lover was
to begin a life of misery and woe and bad poetry.
instead, the pigeons had more than enough bread. he
kept walking and ran into the love of his life five
minutes later in the square. i’ve seen this before.
when i fucked up in 1973.
now the only way i can ruin this town is to kill this
boy who likes tomatoes. his cheeks are so fat. he is
so unkempt. no threat to anyone. now he will aspire
to get his wife fuzzy slippers because he is like paul
with no mick. he will drink fizz and be amicable the
rest of his life and no-one will appreciate what a
competent douche-bag he really is. so i gotta kill
him. he is bad with traffic but he walks too slow.
with dirty ice-cream smeared on his fat lips. i hate
this kid. raul was actually fun to follow around.
i have 27 numbers on my back. you think you know what
a boss is. it is black between a raven’s feathers.
my master is blacker. and i live in fear of his
voice. i met the shadow of a wraith one time. he
tried to explain how scary wraiths are. then he tried
to eat me, but the old ladies helped me, and i got
away. i dont even know my boss. i just know when i
get lazy i hear him screaming from the bottom of the
pablo is sipping an orange soda. he is a sweet kid.
i hate him. he is dumber than bubblegum and i cant
distract him. he was staring into the gutter and
singing this stupid song…
yeah yeah pablo, singin in the sun..
i dont care dont care. dont care about anyone…
spitting orange-soda on the ants. i did the trick
where i turn into bread. the blackbirds swooped down
next to him, and made alot of noise trying to eat me
up, but he didnt care. he must have been sad. he
poured the rest of his soda into the gutter.
i spent the rest of the afternoon crossing the street
beneath cats, trying to catch cars. the water-truck
driver is so fat. there are always flies buzzing
around in his cab. i did the trick that makes me fat
and black, i buzzed… bzzt. he swatted at me and
that was the end of pablo.