Ay! what might tempt this old white man when all old white men begin to stink, to frazzle and certainly to become such yawning bores that go on and on about their youthful exploits, about the same old things, about what could have been, about the same such things that consequently rule them and make them weary and stiff in all the wrong places, and their wrinkled bodies begin to take on the shapes and desires of old grandmothers such cranks, hags, crackpots, dements full of old white folk memories of their neurotic mothers, their alcoholic fathers and their shotguns, the mark of knuckles on sister’s white broken American dream face, ay! such an unpromising carnal life totally undramatic family life of mine yes it makes me wonder what if it was I dear Lord, that my own freshness and novelty is finished, that I have missed my pride of prime as a result of this bland aged living, life full of strife in between pointless non-strife, that I am as tasteless and uninteresting as the next pretentious white Facebook profile replete with forwarded feel-good quotes and YouTube video-status symbols, as vacuous as the next blog of writing retro-active transcendental semi-buddhist senselessness, as affective as the next pseudo-avant-garde poem when avant-garde tactics have the effect of a placebo pill on placebo living, and so on and so forth, oh so am I doll, oh dear or am I dull, as I don’t grow any younger I grow lacklustre weary, will I deprecate myself now Asian woman, as woman customarily should as certain as her dulling and dolling begins on the day she is conceived and most certainly if her skin is brown or black or yellow or red and her hair is black and foreboding, so her jaded beauty is as supreme as the blood in her veins, yes green blood as she is not at all like man, such blood rendering her temperament phlegmatic, assuring the fulfilment of her destiny, I am your Asian slave, white man, and yet you go about sudsing your pink Barbie knickers to go with your French maid’s uniform, what happened to Empire the era of colonisation and slavery, you preferring to just lie there and close your eyes dreaming you were some dumb blonde, feeling yourself through your nylon pantyhose, ah now I know what tempts thee, I know as can be gleamed from such disgustingly ugly sight of the bedroom like an old woman’s harem of she-male whores, I know what tempts thee when I plunge that knife into your belly, when I slice your throat with all my strength and the blood springs from your valleys, when the desire to kill is as strong as the desire to fuck then you are seduced, postcolonial white man, you are certainly seduced when gurgling your own blood and I gurgling your cum, and by that you manage to open your eyes, voilà, and who do you see, you see me, ha ha ha, me for that ritual murder be the only way to make you open your eyes and look at me, to see if I’m crying or bleeding through the nose, to see and make me pretty, young and fresh again, when you fingerfuck me through your French maid’s uniform, see my face red with your blood and white with your cum, there will be no one at your wake, no one to see your white camp taste in fashion, grandmother chic, old man in drag, erotically bankrupt frigid motherfucker, you were the housewifey type, so why didn’t you tell me before it’s too late? now that your white faggot blood is in my hands?
Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Saturday, August 23, 2014