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Whatnots by Benjamin Buchholz
Recital by Donia Carey

Art by Alice EgoyanCosmopolitan Undress

Scent of pages, Gucci purse, life full-color astride the asphodel dream of an armor she wears woman unable to stop bullets but man.

Man stoppeth.

The long, the mole mid-thigh, the curtain skein within inches of skin, raveled, a gloss of pop-cherry finger polish, an armament studied and exposed to the Milan runway in gauze and stiletto, sobriquet, woman, sure that smile lit the lightning to which man must assign a serial number like all things in war he thinks impulsively to order and class, knowing it, his enemy, understanding it anatomically, except that it is magic, that look, well-rehearsed hormonal changeling magic, one moment hers to bestow and then fleeting, frightful, gone, angry, set back and brooding, a devil in the same dress the maitre d’ whistled at under his breath and unsuave now throwing crepe and kiwi across the room, storming out.

Woman stoppeth.

So he might say, pathetic, making it worse, but she has stripped away the catskin metaphorically already though she wears it in its physical numinous black because she won’t get naked in the foyer of the hotel, won’t come upstairs to his afterbar, his whatever this is an interview goddamn it, I look good, I knew I’d get the job but I want freedom more.

He won’t understand.

It was an innocent remark directed at the shifting skirt, how the knee could be sexy, a knob really, but revealed and hidden and crossed one over the other into the unguent imagination of it, are you comfortable?, wasn’t that all he said, in that lull between the vita brevis and the life?

She won’t understand.

What freedom scares from the black pelt petted between the pacific lap of herself, where she can touch, liberated living alone like, well, like she can, that’s all, and made on edge by his blue eyes, well, damn, the bucket echoes as it is dropped into the dug earth, the asphodel, king’s spear astride it in the urgent alone, she, being one and the same, might have gone up with him for that nightcap if only the words were different, only the terms, the implied, because she knew she had gone looking for a corset, choosing restricted freedom, like bad shoes, like tweezing, all Cosmopolitan in order to gain a precious advantage in the endgame, the long, that mole, meaning she’d have to fuck him first with her mind.

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last update: November 19, 2008