Unsent Letter

T.

At the base of my feet sits a fat cat who I am convinced had chosen to be quite fat but from what and why and when I ask, ‘Cat why are you so fat?’ she tells me she is a cat and not to bother about that, yet I say, ‘I have a gumbie cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots,’ but she just scoffs and asks for another cigarette, and she is my little bitch as you again have arrived with suitcase while in my heart of hearts I admit that I am thankful and hope that always, after breaks and rests, that you come back to me again, for I know of no other way in which that can be said; in eloquence can much be said but also lost.  Your hyacinth hair when we spoke the day before was like Pickford’s and I wanted to say that you might be more beautiful then she as you laid your head atop the pillow upon which I restlessly rest at night in the arms of an unfair dream, awake only to compose this lambent letter of thoughts and questions of an absurd man who has not yet grown fat and after you had left did I lay my head upon the very same pillow to smother myself in the scent of your skin, I might have, I did, yet sadly my hair is coarse and foul and was all that I could smell, for all that is stinky floats and all that is beautiful is heavy as you have left me again undressed with a woman cat who does not talk.  In the wonderful summer weather of your beauty with a strut like a bounce and a voice like a peach, in your breezy dress and marble knees, while you may not shave the axilla of your arm I would rather have them hairy than not have them at all as I try to caress all which courses through me I never have spent a day better than upon your white cotton sheets sharing cigarettes and lazy eyelids untouched of the dust of sleep. And upon my shelf of many, I can hear H. Miller say, ‘I felt thoroughly refreshed, pure at heart, and obsessed with one idea- to have her at any cost,’ and is it not the most wonderful thing to not be alone as I pine and obsess over the fickle little teapot you are, as I, your P. Myshkin and you, my N. Filippovna, and all the great novelists and storytellers are dead, as I drink my coffee black while all around me order cream as dreams are adjusted, adjusted! Could a word fit any better for our time of times? My dear how lugubrious I am yet in a good mood, for I read Dickens and fancied of days spent with men like Mr. Pegotty and Ham on a boat which is not a boat but a home! But of your beauty! Yet it is not your beauty which tickles me most, though I could never grow tired of your nose, eyes, fingers and toes, but the way in which you carry yourself upon those lovely little feet that I just want to eat, ‘But why the feet?’ you say, so you would be unable to leave of course! And how I wish my diction would be the detrition upon your coarse coat of furless fur as with eloquence I pirouette in my head of heads with you and Freddy Freeloader, we are ribald, we are rident, upon the busy dizzy streets of a freckled town, is love not dead? My little love kettle how I read the most tragic of tragedies the other night quite alone in regards to the death of E.A. Poe, whose gravestone was dropped on the way to his grave and broke and was not replaced, only years later did a group of woman save up the sum for a proper headstone, and in attendance of his funeral was but one man, W. Whitman, and I felt in my pruned tear ducts a few tears well up while I understood why he drank himself to death as everyone else was busy ordering cream.  If on my knees my lovely Therese, I had asked for your arm and not your hand, would you have responded with a laugh or a cough? And on the day when I have said what I have not said at all, and the hymnal of my song is heard, as I depart by way of ship- yes! shippy ship ship! For planes are terribly frightening, as is the sea, but I have always wanted to be a sailor but never a pilot- as you receive word from me, far removed from this dead and dying country, of the nook I have purchased for myself and my books and a chest full of cigarettes for us to smoke, one upon one, to find a closet closeted full with more, save for a little space for your clothes, I ask, will it be a yes or a no with which I will be met of the offer to endlessly end to sit and drink red wine and tickle each other’s curled toes until our toes curl no more, a breath breathless breathlessly abreast again, as we give back together to the pale earth. But for now shall we not sing! ‘One day it will be pleasant to remember these things!’ For in my life there are but few joys, few moments which, from time to time, sit atop a seemingly empty draft as it brushes my bearded cheeks and a smile is formed on my little old face, ‘an old man in a dry mouth,’ for I said just the other night that I wanted to be your little old man, whose paltry kisses litter your sanative cheeks, wondering wonderfully of a life atop the piles of your dirty laundry and musty sheets, musty from sex unburdened of boredom; at home only between the myriad pores of your thighs, to say, ‘Your breasts are the only bombs I love,’ a couple of mavishes you and I, and if ever on the frost of a winter eve do I lay eyes upon you, this I would read:

'I turned silences and nights into words.

What was unutterable, I wrote down.

I made the whirling world stand still.'

Yours,

G.