Keif's Trousseau House

this is thy hour, O soul, thy free flight into the wordless


My dear Zápěstí, You have been talking for four hours without cease.
About your ambivalence. Your ambivalence about me. I think you have covered the subject, covered it from stem to stern and back again. Three drinks ago, I gave up any hope that this ambivalence might be resolved in my favor.  Two drinks ago, I stopped listening. As I ordered this last whiskey, I’d planned to plot my escape from you, from this bar, from the assault on my pride and senses.  But when it came, with it came an imp of the perverse.  So entrenched are you, so unable to act, even to release me, so absorbed in parsing every goddamn detail rather an acting, would you even notice I was gone?  That no one was now listening other than Ceiling Cat?  Would you notice if I used this cocktail napkin to translate your soliloquy for Him, your God?

Iz or no iz:
iz hed-skratcher
iz moar good haf hed liek
sry no can haz cheezburger?
Or do teh invisible kung-fu,
an by dis oh noes dey wuz al ded, srsly?
Iz ded; iz slepe; iz end
an fru slepe we sez no moar bummin,
iz cheezburger an kek an kookeys; we can haz?
Iz ded; iz slepe; slepe, mebbe dreem?
Dis teh hol in da bukkit, oh noes!
Cuz in ded slepe, iz kwazee dreem
iz ovah, oh noes!
Iz dis maik lawng lief bummin.

  • 26 September 2011
  • 9