The Whim

Some whim of him whispers:

First, spread your legs out up on the desk, and do not worry who's coming through the door next. Then lay back, as if luxuriating in a bath, as warm and homely as a hearth. Shut those eyes of yours and conjure a line of stars, spread out along the backs of the lids. And let those fingers and your ears collude, to silence the hum of here and the distant cars.

Now, sing your self a story, tell your soul a tale, of a golden path thread through a green land; it begins with birth, ends back in the trusted old earth, and in the middle you take women by the hand, as down the straight line you sail, making love on the land, and never once hearing the word fail. O sparkle, perfect creature, O shine with this soulful hymn, and mouth out the melody of this whim!

Of course - regular readers - I, Fist, boom back:

Sing your self as a story, and sell your soul a tale to tell? Blind and deaf and docile you may well be for a moment - but there the throbbing city still is, swirling just beneath the window, staring from the screen with the eyes of a ghoul, and black growls stain the grey air. A golden path through that? With its maze of choices to make every second, around each corner? A maze without centre, sodden with a million threads, threads of falsehoods or facts beamed through the air, bundles of violence burning down cul-de-sacs, balls of sex sweating out swarms of contagions - and you with fat, stumbling thighs, groping fingers, a slow, slow bumbling brain? And you chasing around in circles, if in any shape at all, if chasing at all?

(Legs down. Eyes open. And on, fornever forward, upward and nonward, he works.)