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PAUL WESSELS
fall (in love)

Outside it is night. The streets are deserted. I'm shivering. Not from cold. I need to cover four blocksuphill, two level, five uphill. By the time I make it to the car park on the first level I'm out of breath. Deserted. I walk through the narrow alley out onto the church square. I cross the street and pass my lawyer-friend's office. I walk the five blocks uphill and knock on his door. It's dark. My stomach aches. I lean against the wall. Door opens. His wife. Smiles at me, asks me in. He gently pushes her aside. Closes the door after him. Hits the side of my head with his open hand. Swears at me to go away. I've run out of stuff. He doesn't care. You're my lawyer-friend. I'll pay you back on Monday. I always get money on Sundays. He puts his arm around my neck and pulls me to him. Hits me. The side of his face is pushed up against my head. I smell whiskey. I ask for a drink. Telling me how dare I come 'round to his house. That we have an arrangement. That he's going to fuck me up completely. That he likes me but I've disappointed him. He tightens the grip around my neck and using his knuckles rubs the top of my head and then hits me hard. Car drives down the road. He moves us swiftly across the porch against the wall where no-one can see us. Wait here fuckhead. Goes inside. Leaves the door open. I see narcs and security cops sitting on a couch inside his lounge. They're passing 'round a crack pipe. Comes back. Maybe the same day. Maybe I wait a year. Hands me a paper packet three centimetres square. One-twenty on Monday. I'm all smiles and ingratiating thanks. See him on Monday. He can trust me. One-twenty on Monday. I walk down the mown grass into the suburban night.

At home I put on nose plugs, and stick a diving snorkel in my mouth. I open the packet carefully and empty it onto a black ceramic tile. I remove the ink filament from a yellow Bic pen. I use the larger opening to carefully divide the pile of purple carbon into seven sections. I breathe deeply. Exhale. Pull the nose plug off. Place the narrow opening of the pen in my right nostril and the large opening over the seven piles. Inhale. Deeply. Fall. Backwards. Inwards. Downwards. Fall.

is that kafka in new york city
or is this the post office
cape town, 9th floor 1998
water dripping into buckets
dark corridors
plaster cracking off the walls
doors open onto empty rooms
people in flight on grassy islands
cacophony of time
fires break out spontaneously
wherever i look

Glass rains down on me. It's Autumn here. I love you to bits. All of your pieces. I swim in your golden shower. An explosion. Everything's white. I can't move. Orgasm involuntarily. Nausea. Voices. Someone shouts "The ammo re-loads. We must move!" I hear more voices. A charwoman begins to vacuum the glass strewn across the carpet. I can't see her. Another voice calls out. The walls give way to the desert, the sea, sky. An abandoned fort rises above me. Heat-waves distort my vision. Another explosion. I try to pull the snorkel out of my mouth. My jaws have clamped shut.

heat from the fire
blood from the heart
teeth from the mouth
salt from the ocean
gradient from the mountain
fire from the sun
buzz from the bees
colour from the rainbow
sand from the soil
pages from the book
mystery from wonder
certainty from pride
-
Nietzsche said that truth is served when it is in a position directly to procure salaries and advancement, or at least to win the favour of those who have smack and honours to distribute. My lawyer-friend is fucking me. He is standing behind me. Has one arm around my neck. Magda, his wife, is on her knees in front of me sucking my cock. His arm is too tight around my neck. He keeps asking where his money is. I can't speak. I am so in love. He keeps answering that I did not bring it. This repetition is somehow directly tied to the level of his arousal.

In manhood, where despair
turns to vengeance
destruction
sets in
place obscenity
w/a vengeance
of vengeance
coursing through
not only veins
and
headaches, but this
boyhood still
so low over
your dim
pummelling
eyes
behind me

His grip on my neck does not relent. He alternately pinches my nipples and pulls my hair. He fucks me. He can't come. Magda's a natural cock-sucker, but his monosyllabic fuck cunt shit fuck gets me shoved to the floor, slapped hard. Keep apologising. I move towards his cock, get slapped again. Takes the condom off, pulls Magda down on him. I get slapped a third time. Comes. Walks out. Magda follows. I stare at the rows of leather-bound law reports. Comes back. Says, so fuck off.