It is so dark this time of year. Are my eyes open? I think I’m in a coma. Oh god, I’m not going to die, I’m going to be stuck in a coma for two centuries, on a heart-ventilator and all I’ll hear is a beeping noise for the rest of my life, only I read once that coma people can hear what’s going on around them, so maybe I’d hear my wife come and visit me and my kids and my parents would come because they’d feel so guilty, who are you, I’ve never heard that voice before, but she’s weeping, she’s weeping so bitterly, and he’s trying to be a man, trying not to cry, only he can’t help it, you can hear it when he pronounces the beginnings of words, that short, sort of choking sound, it’s so difficult for them, they didn’t mean to give me up, they have met my wife and kids, they see now what kind of man I was, and they hate themselves for what they did, they can’t live with themselves, suddenly I hear a loud crash, they’ve held hands and jumped out the window, they felt so guilty about their leaving me, why did you do it, was I so ugly, was I too much trouble, maybe I don’t have a father, maybe my mother got knocked up by some roving salesperson of some kind and was kind enough not to abort me but she really couldn’t handle a child, not at the age of sixteen, or fifteen, or fourteen, that would be a disgrace, so she had me in a public restroom and dropped me off in front of the orphanage in a wool blanket and with a note that said ‘here is my lovely boy, I love him dearly but I can’t take care of him, please see that is treated well and that he knows one day how truly sorry I am’. Are you recording this? I think I’m on the floor. You see, I was under stress, none of this ever happened. I won’t be taken alive, damn you, do you hear me? I don’t think I’m making words. They’re probably inside my brain. They’re recording my thoughts, they know all about her. Run Flower, run for your life. They know, they know about you. She wanted it rough, I swear, it wasn’t rape. Tongue curved, against my lips. Soft skin, naked breasts. My fingers around her butt cheek. Other hand on lower back, her spine. She’s against me. Pushing. A bouquet in my nostrils, lying in a field of wild flowers. Her hand is on me, groping. She pulls me down. Rough. Fear nothing. Hurt me. More. Don’t stop. I want to scream. Hard. I’m wet. Make me cry. Fear you. Fear.
* * *
A curtain. That is sad, sad business. Someone is speaking on the other side. The audience applauds. Hurray for him who can make the masses drool. There are others around him, he feels them pass when they brush against his sleeve. What am I wearing? Hands against his back, pushing him. A cloak. He is moved towards the curtain. Some sort of hat, it feels like. The curtain parts and he is on stage. I think I’m naked underneath. The audience looks at him and begins to laugh. What is this? The man at the pulpit is clapping, grinning in a sort of mock reverence. He’s gesturing for me to take my position. Is it a speech? Why are they laughing? They are rolling in aisles, what did I do? Am I a comedian? This is simple business, then. The man has stepped down. He climbs the stairs of the pulpit and looks out at the swarm of unknown faces, laughing and pointing at him. He turns to make sure it is him they are looking at. Yes, no one else.
There is paper in my pocket, ah, my speech. He pulls it from his cloak, the sides parting. The laughter rises higher. What did I do? I’m naked; my crotch is exposed. They’re laughing at my nudity. I have a vagina. Tits, too. Big ones. I bet I could suck my own tits. They’re laughing, again. Did I just have a nipple in my mouth? My fingers, I’ve got to keep them out of there until I’m done speaking. I think I have an asses ears, how is my ass? A bit flabby, I think. Nice big hips, though. Did I just flash them my ass? They’re laughing. I’ve got to focus on the speech.
I didn’t even write this, some guy from Rotterdam wrote it. There’s a cup of wine, I’ll take a sip and gain my composure. Okay, let us begin.
I’ve always preferred the lyre to the flute; I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m modest, I didn’t even write this. It makes me sound conceited. A satire? Well, why didn’t you say that? I wasn’t masturbating in church, I was massaging it, I have a rash. I think they can hear me speaking, they seem pleased.
I’ve invented a lot of things from the sound of it. I hope it’s all true; I wouldn’t want to be brought up on charges. A god, so that’s why I’m an orphan. I don’t have earthly parents. Why don’t you just say ‘good things’, no one understands what ‘asses in lion-skins’ means for god’s sake. Where’s Flower? Can one woman rape another?
Some people might say this is slander, I’m sure those men are fine people. Should I be reading this? It seems to be going over well. God, I’m eloquent. Do you think they know I didn’t write this? I remember writing it. It sure sounds like my existence is advantageous; I’ve proven that without a doubt. Boy, there sure are a lot of people on my shit list. I hope they don’t take it personally. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.
I’ll be honest, I don’t agree with that one. I’m pretty stupid, comparatively, and I definitely don’t live a happy life. Are there really still philosophers? Now I know that this is all a joke, but really, I don’t have the right to be so irreverent. I don’t even know who Momus or Harpocrates are? I’m sure these ‘ecclesiastics’ are fine fellows. I’m going to be in real trouble when I’m done. How long is this thing? I’m a woman, though. This is strange. Have I been caressing my breasts this entire time? It’s true, I don’t like parties, nor do I have any friends to speak of, cheerio for that one. I never beat my wife, and do you really think crocodiles are capable of reason? It’s not love that binds us all; surely you know that, its tranquility. This is absurd. I’d rather be exploring this body of mine.