My mother had a tailored weddingdress and no figure at all, she says.
How embarrassing, someone spoiled mayonaise on my tsunami suit.
And she had no figure at all, the actress says. Mayonaise! goddammit, he says.
Baked Catalan potatoes and mayonaise easily could have made one of his favourite dishes.
Pollock à la Florentine
and a bucket of coke to go with it.
As the animal he had to be, she would smear his spasm all over her crispy bones.
Then she would think of her mother and the weddingdress that didn't fit.
He looks up from the porc beef, grasps for the salt and pepper set, his gaze focused
on a page with greasy fingerprints, adding the 2017 refugees arrived to their ungoing silence.
As the actor he was, or even more so, wasn't, he forgot most of his lines.
He would enter into a debate on misunderstood Latin quotes, with his fat tongue,
as any politician would have done selling corrupt quotes for a pleasant smile.
She loved the wild boar part, the hairy parts leaking from her belly,
backing up as he thought innocent tales from natural science tabloïds.
Innocent words infected with the glossy shit of theories delightful on the deed it had.
Nothing more intimate he could remember - or even imagine - than the blossom
that came from her arse, as she timidly farted and secretly expected
he never before had experienced a syllable pronounced with sweeter sound.
What you ate, honey, she asks. Porc beef, he says. Fatty, how unbearable an appetite.
Couldn't you get it veggie.
Actually he wasn't thinking, handsome as he was, handsome a shadow flushing through the toilet.
Huh huh, hum hum, brrr, brrr, veggie eh, veggie.
Then she said, hi, honey, what's that whistle clearing down your bearded boat.