Friday, February 28, 2014

Dispatches from Agent Polsky

I catch a glimpse of a hostile website on his computer. Why would he leave that up for any passerby to see? Unless he no longer cares about appearances, which makes him all the more dangerous. Meanwhile they are whispering about 'sanity checks' in the hallways and corridors. Someone even has the balls to bring it up on a conference call. Some asshole with a phd in statistics and nothing left to lose. The security men have tiny gills hidden behind their ears and solar sails in the form of gigantic translucent skin flaps they keep hidden and folded underneath their long coats. I have begun taking notes, but have little hope. This was all published last year by another author and disguised as fiction, stolen from my dreams during the long winter nights. It became a major bestseller, so my agent tells me no publishing house will touch a memoir on the same derivative material. At night I visit my lover and she gives me some comfort, like a flask on a snow covered moor. She is a hermaphrodite, though you could never tell just by looking at her. She keeps her phallus pulled inside her body, hidden beneath a scar, and she's only shown it to me once. She works downstairs at the bar under her apartment as a topless waitress. When we met she was a stripper, and I think she still misses it. She tells me to write my poems but I don't see the point. I trace the outline of her scar-covered phallus with my fingertips, trying to remember the look of it, but my mind is empty. She gives me a hand job and we fall into a dreamless sleep. The thieves burrow deep into my subconscious, and leave a footprint, which in the morning resembles a paper cut across my forehead.

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