Resuscitated Marilyn

The other day I went to my usual cafeteria. I had to spend some time with the people. I don’t talk to them, I just move between them as a ghost and stare at their arms going up and down to fill their mouths with coffee before a few words and a smile, and a sorry, and “oh my God you didn’t!”, and all those beautiful fucking children driven around with no father and a looney for a mum. But hey! This is London, and everybody’s got a chance to live their life the magazine way.

Fuck them.

In the night all this façonnable ass kind of living turns into Doctor Hyde, especially on Fridays, when outside a pub or a spit of a disco they shout at each other as they forgot what they were that same morning before, and their voices get inside your window and sound like a lousy horror picture. Like in a big tragedy they holler at one another with just half of the passion they’d wish they had the next morning at the council-paid pantomime. Oh you can feel the big stretch  if you’re not from around here. All those self-confident looks strolling around, you could break them with a snap of a finger, or making up some new lines their magazines didn’t predict for the current week. It’s like they’ve been brainwashed by all that global shit about a charming way of life that they don’t remember what they were, and their premature instincts have to wait for the darkness to fall and for their glass to be empty. Funny thing, the only real moment for them it’s when they get miserable at night. You see women getting ugly and in a second they would take it on men that would fuck them off so soon you can’t stop laughing on your bed. Every fucking Friday night, same story. So, every Saturday morning, I taste the epilogue of their big alcoholic exploit when they try hard to show a civilized look that reminds me of an uneducated bitch with a whig, a hot ukrainian upper-class illiterate babe with a fur, a high-heeled nespresso-dream broad with her mouth open all the time, a Fifth-Element dope hipster, Brick Lane type, that would cry her ass out all of a sudden, but later at night of course, again.

I’m confused, not flattered. So I watch back inside my coffee and back to those faces. Laughing time is finished. But there’s a girl, tight Levi’s and ranchero boots on, madras shirt, Monroe haircut, big lips, French nose, tits standing high like bayonets. She’s different, the way she moves and all. I stand up and walk to her. Can I sit with you?, sure be my guest. No lines reading, she must be the same at night when she’s gonna ride my dick at the crazy rhythm of Sonny Terry’s harmonica. Yeah!

You’re American right? A silent nod of affirmation. I knew it. She’s not from the big city, she’s from Paris Texas. Oh well. I say “oil wells” instead and she’s not hurt by the joke, she bursts into laughter as a kid. Kiddo, I say. Your country produced all the shit this people read as the Bible. You played them. Oh yeah? And she goes: these poor tea-smelling losers. And we laugh together like kids, sons of a wild exaggeration we don’t need to explain anything. Cause we like each other, and people that like each other are kids, don’t read lines, they just go with the flow. So I say to myself, today is an endless highway. And eee haaa and hallelujah and kiss my ass! And we laugh and laugh till it’s night outside and I feel like the Bad Lieutenant with a resuscitated Marilyn.

We go home and talk about the promised land that it’s in the people. Then as promised people we make love and laugh at each other’s face while Sonny Terry screams as promised.

Then we sail to America, settle down, have few kids, buy a minivan, a tv set, and we still don’t know each other.

That’s the secret.