When I'm too cool for the telephone, I call you up and say something like "Hey, I eat more chicken than a man even seen". You don't know what to say and in the silence I let out a slow moan that culminates in the word "baby".
I'll say "Me and your granny on bongos: that's amore. A new thing from the Rising Sun". I hear you snigger. This only encourages me, so I launch into a vocal solo that's too cool for the telephone. Lucky it don't melt the plastic right off the outside and send sparks flying up round our hands and ears and mouths. I could start an electrical fire with this voice of mine.
"Sit back and enjoy, baby. Where'd you come from", I say. You know not to answer, since this is a reflective question, not part of some interrogation.
This is where I launch into a monologue with you hooked on the other end of the line: "Acid burst over the dreary domain of the constipated bourgeoisie like the angelic herald of a new psychedelic millennium," I begin. "We discovered a new way to think. It has to do with piecing together new thoughts."
Overcome by the heat, you start, drop by drop, to drip down, whereupon a puddle forms by your feet. Your clothes contain you like ice-cream's contained by its carton when sitting outside in the sun. Your kitchen becomes a balloon and you are taken into the stratosphere, melting all the while. Eventually all that remains is your slopping puddle on the floor of this empty, spinning room. Cutlery flies about, suspended somehow, while pots and pans slide over the surfaces.
"When things get too heavy, just call me helium, the lightest gas." You nod silently. "It's like frying a small fish," I say, returning to a topic we've covered many times in previous conversations. In your held breath, I can hear that you know what I'm saying. This could, of course, be overconfidence and is probably foolishness but it informs my decisions all the same.
I say: "We've got time. There's no rush."
As a single tear rolls down your cheek, I go on. My voice sounds silky. When you explode wordlessly, I put the phone down, adjust my collar and go on my way.
I'll say "Me and your granny on bongos: that's amore. A new thing from the Rising Sun". I hear you snigger. This only encourages me, so I launch into a vocal solo that's too cool for the telephone. Lucky it don't melt the plastic right off the outside and send sparks flying up round our hands and ears and mouths. I could start an electrical fire with this voice of mine.
"Sit back and enjoy, baby. Where'd you come from", I say. You know not to answer, since this is a reflective question, not part of some interrogation.
This is where I launch into a monologue with you hooked on the other end of the line: "Acid burst over the dreary domain of the constipated bourgeoisie like the angelic herald of a new psychedelic millennium," I begin. "We discovered a new way to think. It has to do with piecing together new thoughts."
Overcome by the heat, you start, drop by drop, to drip down, whereupon a puddle forms by your feet. Your clothes contain you like ice-cream's contained by its carton when sitting outside in the sun. Your kitchen becomes a balloon and you are taken into the stratosphere, melting all the while. Eventually all that remains is your slopping puddle on the floor of this empty, spinning room. Cutlery flies about, suspended somehow, while pots and pans slide over the surfaces.
"When things get too heavy, just call me helium, the lightest gas." You nod silently. "It's like frying a small fish," I say, returning to a topic we've covered many times in previous conversations. In your held breath, I can hear that you know what I'm saying. This could, of course, be overconfidence and is probably foolishness but it informs my decisions all the same.
I say: "We've got time. There's no rush."
As a single tear rolls down your cheek, I go on. My voice sounds silky. When you explode wordlessly, I put the phone down, adjust my collar and go on my way.
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