z. maus

Once smitten by a man who went by the name of Francois and the title of Archaeologist. We moved to Vietnam because he felt he left his soul there. Often at night we would lay in the hammock and eat raw ears of corn. Mosquitos would bite but we didn't care. Francois, his skin often smelled of baby powder, and reminded me of the countless hours spent in the basement of my mother's home sitting cross-legged with my knees touching those of the beautious, tragic Menora. We would kiss for hours, I once dragged my hangnail across her cheek and it drew a smooth, clean line of blood. She didn't care.

Terrible what happened to Francois. Had his face blown off. I would kiss the bandages, the swabs red and stained. I cried on them. They pulled the plug shortly after.



Yes, terrible what happend to Francois, but even worse is what happened to Menora.

Aye, so it was ye I dreamed of, "with your hair a flaming bloom", by an open window that did not provide one with an iron balcony for sitting and watching the city burn. You wore a silken slip of a dress and we toasted to the New Year, not that it was New Years yet. After I delivered in the bathtub you saw me there, white marble tiles dotted and splattered with blood and placenta, and screamed. After taking a dangerous mix of deadly nightshade, champagne, and a mixed package of pills, you winked before falling backwards out that window.

This photograph is all you left behind, and I take it to my own grave.



And how beautiful you looked, with your arms crossed over your chest, as your gown flew over your head. Right before you became a bug on the windshield of life.

Splat!

Warning: Standing within ten feet of a faggot causes my water to break. Placenta is slippery. As a force of habit I swing my tie over my left shoulder before peeing.

Miscarriages: 18
Deliveries: 36

We are three. And when we come together, we're a cult. We have rituals. We drink. We dance. We laugh. We comfort each other if one of us vomits. We listen to music, fawn over a man, a singer, the god we worship, who has put music to every emotion we could dream of feeling. We aren't completely jaded just yet, we discover. We invent alternate realities. We dream. We sometimes weep. We love. We sacrifice. Others come in and feel left out, because they can feel the energy, the love, the partnership in the air. We talk philosophy by candlelight. Not philosophers but classical music, films, our pasts, ideas. Things we understand. Things we can relate to. Because at times like these, we are all that matters, the three of us and the records that provide the score.

It's a special thing. There's static in the air. Naysayers think none of us really know each other, but they themselves don't know US at all, only think they do. Each breath we take is a love letter to one another. I've had few friendships as honest and pure and direct as these.

We're young, attractive, have potential, and above all know how to love. And by the time we're thirty, we'll have much better things to do than start trouble with people who are younger than us, more attractive than us, have more potential than us. By the time we're thirty we'll be in Cairo smoking a hookah, talking about the first time we smoked the hookah together. By the time we're thirty we'll have conquered the universe. By the time we're thirty we'll still love one another and only one another, because nothing else matters.

Hey fatty, we never felt this way about you. Get over youself. Get some sleep. Stay off drugs. Get out of the house and away from the computer. Do something with your time aside from whining, feeling superior, pretending to be German.

If your woman is giving you trouble, just put a pillow over her face...

Two or five years from now you will approach me, battered and bloody and torn, and say: I know you, you are my mother. and I will say: You don't know me, I am your father.

I was sixteen years old when I birthed my first statue, ankles in stirrups all bloody and pale. The saint shot out of me like a wet cannon, white and Holy and stained with fluid. The Doctor placed her in my arms and I cried. Later she would be worshipped at a shrine and left trinkets for sacrifice, on the front lawn outside our home, where the bird fountain sat, occupied with rubber duckies.

I still think of you when she bleeds.



Now going by the proper and more adult
-z. maus.

While I admit that I must “do the reading” first, I am at this moment in time thoroughly obsessed with the theory that Lewis Carroll, master of word games, committed the Jack the Ripper murders as a way of dealing with his Pedophile urges that he did not act upon.

i'm comin down fast but i'm miles above you

If my Valetine you won't be
I'll hang myself from your Christmas Tree.