sour breath and the life of Léolo

the sour of the bread
having been wrapt in plastic for
how many days now
of travelling?
the sour of yogurt i made last week
no
there’s something before that
…
tell me:
where was that?
where was i when i payd 20 pence?
or 2 rand?
what was it?
was it 2 yen?
i drank the yogurt through a straw
and was made to return it to whom i bought it from
carrying around the little glass container: i wanted to keep it
but the return is built into the price
that is: you’re not allowed to walk off with it
drink it right Here.
how old was i?
i feel like i must have been 7
or 15
but not the 15 i lived through
the 15 of 50 years ago
or was i 12?
could i have been 17 in england?
it must have been
when else
in this life
have i debased and confused myself so thoroughly to be innocent to that degree?
such wonders opening themselves
through the punctured purple paper lid of a glass yogurt container
plastic straw sticking through
empty
and such a grin on my face…
i left the house Days ago
and though i’d wrapt the bread in plastic to keep it safe in the freezer
i forgot to transfer it to a paper bag for travelling…
i forget so many things…
i forgot things needed to breathe
or they ferment in themselves
turn so sour
so rancid
yet they are still a comfort to eat
at those times
when all else also feels that way
what is there to compare?
the fan has been blowing wind on my face while i watch this film:
Léolo
whatever i have in my moustache…
i’d sucked that cock
so locked up in pants
it’d gone sour as well
the cheesy-yeast smell of thighs forever pressed into balls and foreskin
musking my face
i washed it with some soap he had
and what is this now in my beard?
this smell
like the miracle compound my mother gave me to de-tox years ago
that made me have reched diarreah and vomiting every day while i took it
a sour/sweet/pungent odor
now i can’t get rid of it;
the wind keeps blowing it my face…
so many things i’d forgotten:
the family of what we deem insane
the fear of following that
the obsession of blame
in isolation
writing in the journal every day
and the little boy in this story
rips them out and throws them away every day
and is that akin to these emails?
to these journal entries?
in the film
a man went through the trash
developing a relationship with the boy
by reading his poetry
in this great trashpit of cyberspace
some wade through these scraps and find treasures
gorgeous
as life is
i culled a few things from the movie to share:
{ female voices in latin christian chorus
give way to the Rolling Stones singing
“you can’t always get what you want”
when a 12 year old boy bets the other boys
5 bucks (canadian)
that he’ll fuck a cat.
the text is: }
Tonight Buddy Godin will be late for home.
His mom will check his fingers.
She’s worried her son might be smoking on the sly.
No, Mme. Godin
your son fucks anything that moves,
his dick is eaten by disease
he swallows any pill he can
just to forget you.
That bath you force him to take
before church on sunday,
just serves him
to prostitute himself with his hockey coach.
White meat sells better.
But no, don’t worry, he doesn’t smoke.
It makes him choke.
.
Sex I discovered between ignorance and horror.
Deep down, we all knew money was just a pretext…
and that he’d do it anyway.
(the music fades into buddhist monks chanting deeply)
For betting just defanged the fear.
The poor cat didn’t defend herself.
she’d been declawed.
Mme. Ouimet took good care of her curtainls.
How lucky you are, Miliou
Tintin didn’t have Buddy Godin for a neighbour.
(the scene ends by focusing on a cross on the wall while the sound of the cat screaming is heard)
———–
Because i dream, i am not.
because i dream
i dream.
because at night, i abandon myself to my dreams…
before i’m left the day.
because i don’t love…
because i was afraid to love
i no longer dream.
i no longer dream.
—–
You my lady
bold melancholy
solitary cry piercing my flesh,
offering it to ennui,
Haunting my nights
when i don’t know
which way my life should go
i have paid you back a hundredfold
the embers of the dream
left behind the ashes of a shadow of a lie
you told me to hear.
the white serenity
minute of eternity
was a dark-haired wicked waif
who pierced my sorrow with a sharp
and sacred breast
leaving only the remorse of seeing the sun
rise on my solitude
—
“and i shall rest my head between two words
in the valley of the vanquished”
Léolo