Monday, February 23, 2009

It was all a game to him. Manipulation. It was like sleight of hand but with emotions. Playing with cards, shuffling through stacks of them, finding the right ace, the right club, the right diamond that fit around such easily convinced fingers, nails painted. The way the belt looked better worn out across his back than around his waist was just a testament to bruises and welts that he would never feel but always implement. Innoculations that are hardly harmless and the smell of wet paint on new faces hangs somewhere around the bridge of his nose, just about where his glasses tend to break the fall of misplaced aggressions, and that's his only means of weeding out acquaintances and siblings, because associations tend to be a gardening affair. Daisies and tulips and always bees, lighting onto outspread fingers, stingers at the ready, but you have to kill a few bees to make honey. Sign these papers but don't read the fine print. Liabilities and technicalities don't matter when it comes to glossy smiles that match China doll eyes because he chooses the dresses you wear.

Manipulation. It was all about hands and eyes and the way that one always had a way of covering over the other, the easy way to pass into dreams and underworlds.

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