beauty of sinister things
“I spent several nights… with Jacques Prevert, where we reveled in
the ‘beauty of sinister things’ as he used to call the pleasure those
deserted quays, desolate streets, that district of outcasts, crawling
with tarts, full of warehouses and docks, gave us.” Brassai
I was a soldier in a strange city, & I came to know the beauty of sinister
things. I became a part of that desolate society, where all a man wants
to do is drink & fuck.
Army duties are mundane; time passed slowly. I was crazy with a
hunger to break out of the olive drab days that left a pain in my gut.
being sober is a disease in itself.
whenever I secured a pass, I rode the bus to the saloons & short-time
hotels downtown. I made the rounds of seedy bars & shopped the
painted, sequined girls who were eager to take my money & the hot
seminal fluids that never rested in my loins. I chose one from the
cluster, who was called Marta, or Therese, or the name of another
saint, & we drank & talked dirty.
later, in seclusion, I watched her remove her peasant blouse & slit skirt.
I like the feel of a whore: the feel of my hands as I rubbed & squeezed
her wayward, shimmering flesh; the feel of her nipple, hard against my
tongue; the feel of her crushing, pulsing thighs, as she carried me into
the wild storm of orgasm.
sometimes, after sex, I would lie there watching the shape of her silhouette
in the dim light from the street, hearing traffic noise, wail of a police siren.
a drunken couple in the hall, laughing & voicing obscenities. just to be
there, in the moments, simple & nameless. in the void of destiny…
I’ve know genuine women, pursued them & lived with them, but the winds
of infamy blow in one direction, & I always drift back to the scarlet angels.
there are women here who will read this, & imagine that I have done to
them what I did to those whores…
(Art by Brassai)