One Dreary Night

(Lydia Lunch - from her book Incriminating Evidence (published by Last Gasp))

She had reached that point. The point of no return. A place where reality was
no longer necessary.  She could no longer move from the bed. She didn’t wanna
move. There was absolutely nothing in the natural world that could get her out
of it.  She could hate the whole fucking stinking rotten world, but in truth
she did not have the energy. The desire, yes, but not the energy. She wanted
nothing. The relief of nothing. Nothing. Nothing.  And what means to live have
been left once the vacuum of lost love sucks viciously like a cyclone in a
heart of emptiness.  A vacuous and deadly whirlpool whose softest fleece is
that of well worn razors and  rusted tin cans scattered clumsily in love’s
backyard and where we dangle repeatedly by the thin and failing heartstrings;
like that of a viola so sadly out of tune. Like a broken and eternal record
repeating forever the most miserable of melodies. Two hearts which once beat
as one, now beat themselves inside and out and into thousands and thousands of
glass shards, like that of a ruby crown kicked down a flight of stairs...

Of course we must first be accursed to the vast glaciers of a loneliness whose
vapoured wastelands stretch years farther than which the eye can perceive
before we once more hunger for that death-grip. The strangulation hold. The
asphyxiation. The suffocation. the saving slobberous graces of true love.  We
may at first be cautious, foolishly, not for long placing only a small and
slow toe into this fetid melting pot. Dipping uneasily, perhaps from
experience, into this festering vat where love like liquid shit contaminates
all who slip into the great quicksand of it’s mystery, misery, magic, voodoo,
treachery, venom, death, love so enticing this delirium, so lush the lure, so
simple and sneaky this insanity, that not until we are neck-deep in this
discomfiture, do we realize are drowning in this man-made hell-hole. Wracked
from rock to rock we brave the turbulent and un-ending tides that beat with no
mercy against our breast and brow and head and heart. Down and down again we
go for the count. Gasping for just one fresh breath from the salted air we so
futilely gag at in a desperate attempt to pull ourselves up from the sludge of
our suffocation. Yet drown again and again we do. But such is the fate of
“true love”...

In spite of this wretched lesson we do not learn, even from experience. We
will starve inexhaustible in search of that special someone. The white knight,
the jack of diamonds, the grave digger now reverses the burial and uncorks the
vast casket of a horrific aloneness. He who possesses an elixir not unlike
that of a paregoric or a soothsayer....

One dreary night the boy came over. He was beautiful. He was a mess. He
stepped outa gutter and into my arms. At least that’s what he’d say. An he was
so filthy I’d almost believe it. Ah...but

He was one in a million. (okay, so you know me, I know about a hundred guys
who are one in a million).

But he was different. It was not totally unknown of him to be a possession of
fits of excitement no unlike that of a tantrum. As if the devil himself were
dancing hot coals under  his dirty boots, legs and limbs would splay
everywhere. Hairs would be split, the air would whistle, rip, and disgruntled,
get spit like broken glass in the face of those lucky enough to watch. A
dangerous sight for those weak of heart, the favorite place for his ever-
loving boot print.

The evening of our introduction, following one of his more formal conniptions,
we spent quietly bickering. For some mysterious reason, although we had much
in common, we disagreed on every word the other would speak.  When I thought
him hypocritical and suspicious, he thought me carelessly self-centered and
calculating. We were at our worst and both right. Due to this general lack of
appeasement, we parted none the too worse for wear. None the less, this would
not be the end of us. For as fate would have it we would be forced, due to
circumstances beyond our control to come again and again. Face to face. Every
time bringing with him that ‘smell’. Like the kinda boy that liked to rub his
hair in it, or something, he’d walk in and “it “ would come with him. That
sweet sexy stink of dirty jeans and pointy boots. The stink of an animal skin
slowly rotting. The smell of countless cartoons of cigarettes smoked non-stop
and washed down with endless beer. Throw in a couple of dozen hamburgers, a
hang-over for every day of the week, impersonal health and hygiene, the heart
of the homewrecker and there he was...The boy of my dreams...

Although I’m sure his visit on “that” evening had some purpose, he’d never
come over for no reason, I can’t seem to recall exactly why.  He probably
wanted to borrow something like clothes or money or anything he could lay his
hands on. Though I would give freely, his disposition never improved, no
matter how great the gift.  This believe is where the bickering would once
more begin. I expected nothing in return except perhaps a few frivolous
moments spent in a friendly conversation. But of course he didn’t have  the
time for such trivia. So, okay, I was demanding something in return for all
the scavenging and mooching, the begging, borrowing and stealing, anything, a
kind word, a single gesture, a pittance in truth of anything he’d be selfless
enough to bless me with. He was inflamed at  the thought that I should be heir
to any form of compensation (and why should I the first) other than the dis-
pleasure of what little company he did supply me with. I was willing to drop
the whole thing. Not wanting to cause emotional upsets. Not wanting to rock
anybody’s boat. Waiting nothing but gee, thanks, see ya around. He however,
began packing forward and b ack, back and forth. His irritation swelling with
each passing step. My request for empathy seemed only to frustrate, inflame,
and infuriate simultaneously. But no sooner said than done and his mouth
crashed into mine breaking skin against bone against flesh into want and
desire pressed deep to my lips and hard.  This was the moment I spent
sleepless nights dying over. I was a willing victim of his imagination. He
couldn’t crush me enough. Ripping a hole in whatever the I was wearing, he
began bashing, slapping, slamming, pawing, Jesus F. Christ finger-fisting my
most delicate body parts. Only my contortions could equal his attack. After
pleasing himself in this fashion for countless minutes, days, weeks, with
pants a-rip, he began to release an even more furious beast. Pinning me under
that weight of this newly escaped monstrosity he demanded I lay perfectly
till, as he rocked his rock hard into my soft and wet. It was all I could do
to tame the vicious squirming that was hi-jacking my hips. The instant I
executed all the composure I could muster, as the seizures of my convulsions
quelled, as quietly as death row before  the flick of a switch,...and then
screams, wails, agaony, ecstasy, teeth and nails of blood, pound, squash,
flood, rip, ruin, and removal. Holy Moses and me, we could’ve died a couple of
hundred times and gone to heaven. But he had other things in mind. He had
other things...

"Dedicated in loving memory to the
ghost of Nick Cave-past".

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Thanks Cristina for typing this in!