Wednesday, 30 October 2013


The boy with the anarchist tattoo says “You do decadence well” and I agree, the other boy agrees; we draw up a deed poll for our senate proclaiming “Jane wins at life.”

We three are lying on my penthouse floor in a fugue of red light, smoke, champagne spills and drying sweat, and I can barely remember how to breathe.

There is so much skin covering the corners of my body and these patchwork bruises are waved surrender flags giving up on ownership, saying hey goddamit take whatever it is you please.

We toast everything: this evening, this view, this birthday. We mainly toast ourselves.

I try to recline like Botticelli but my face is plastered with the renaissance of this grin and instead I start giggling.

It is way too late for cool. I am way too fun for dignity. Everything is way too much or exactly the right amount. I have no idea which way to turn.

No comments:

Post a Comment