her but I’m devouring her at the same time which means she
knows I’m a fool; she’s acting harmless but maybe it’s a lie, my
instincts say it’s a lie, there’s no harmless women left alive this
time o f night, not on these streets. Y ou risk too much if you go
with a woman who needs less than you do; if you don’t have
to, if you have a choice, you don’t take risks— you could lose
your heart or your money or your speed; fucking fool who has
a choice and doesn’t use it; it’s stupid middle-class girls you
have to find or street women past wanting, past ambition,
they live on bits o f this and pieces o f that, they’re not looking
for any heavy score, they live almost on air, it’s pat, habit, they
don’t need you, but sometimes they like a taste; survival’s an
art, there are nuances, she’s a dangerous piece o f shit, stunning
black eyes, and I’m smitten, and I walk out, look behind me,
she came out, watched me, didn’t follow, made me nervous, I
don’t often pass up what I want, I don’t like doing it, it leaves
an ache, don’t like to ache too long without distracting m yself
by activity, anything to pass the time, and it makes me restless
and careless, to want someone like that; I wanted her, she
wanted food, money, most o f what happens happens for food,
all kinds o f food, deep hungers that rock you in their
everloving arms, rocked to eternal sleep by what you need, the
song o f myself, I need; need her; remember her; need women;
need to hear m y name; wanted her; she wanted food. What’s
inside you gets narrow and mean— it’s an edge, it cuts, it’s a
slice o f sharp, a line at the blade’s end, no surface, no waste, no
tease, a thin line where your meanest edge meets the air; an
edge, no blade you can see. If you could stomp on me, this is
what yo u ’d see— a line, touch it, yo u ’re slivers. I’d be cut
glass, yo u ’d be feet. Y o u ’d dance blood. The edge o f the blade,
no surface, just what cuts, a thin line, touch it, draw blood.
Inside, nothing else is alive. Where’s the love I dream of. I hole
up, like a bug in a rug. There’s women who bore me; wasted
time; the taste o f death; junkie time; a junkie woman comes to
me, long, languid afternoons making love but I didn’t like it,
she got beat up by her boyfriend, she’s sincerely in love, black
and blue, loving you, and he’s her source; pure love; true
romance. D on ’t like m ixing women with obligation— in this
case, the obligation to redeem her from pain. I want to want; I
like wanting, ju st so it gets fulfilled and I don’t have to wait too
long; I like the ache just long enough to make what touches it
appreciated a little more, a little drama, a little pain. I don’t like
no beat-up piece o f shit; junkie stooge. Y ou don’t want the
edge o f the blade to get dull; then you got dullness inside and
this you can’t afford. The w om an’s got to be free; a beast o f
freedom; not a predator needing a bow l o f fucking soup, not a
fool needing a fucking fix; she’s got to give freedom off, exude
it, she’s got to be grand with freedom, all swelled up with it, a
