I am lying on the carpet. Fake, synthetic Persian in browns and blacks and some beige high lights. Late this afternoon I tried to clean it. The neighbour did not want to lend me her vacuum cleaner, so I swept it with the broken broom, after I taped it with the grey duck tape I always have with me when travelling. Sweeping the carpet did not work that well, but I did manage to clear away quite a few long grey hairs, tangled together with dust. After that, I put an old cloth I took with me from my mother's apartment and which I use as a wet rug for everything, except cleaning the toilet, and folded it carefully over the broom, wetted it of course before, and sort of mopped the carpet with it.
To the blue old cloth dust and small paper-rests are sticking and some unclear stuff; I cleaned everything with a piece of toilet paper; hang the blue cloth away to dry on the drying lines in the small balcony. The room is all empty but the fake Persian. The town in the large open window glass is dark. The walls are white and barren. I like empty rooms. Floor, walls, windows; while the body is caged, surrenders itself to the illusion of being protected, the illusion of safety, the soul can soar, can yearn freely. And here I am. I am lain naked on the stained, dirty, Persian; the synthetic material burns my back and buttocks, the rhythmic movements causing friction, turning them red and hot. My face is turned upwards to the ceiling. The room is lightened by the harsh white fluorescent kitchen lamps, merciless, sucking all colour away. My legs are spread, my hair a mess. A fat, bold, short, to some one else married, middle aged man is fucking me. Pushing my legs far behind my head. Holding my ankles tightly. He is fucking me violently, painfully. I sigh and ask for more. He had to take off his glasses to do the job, he is short sighted. I wonder what he sees. |
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