beneath a muted dutch overcast,
the blackout curtains over the studio window are drawn.
she leans on her side, naked,
flanked by messy cream sheets,
her hard brown eyes fixed toward the maze of streets.
he could ask her anything.
he wanted to know how she wanted to get fucked.
when i shut my eyes at night
and allow my mind to wander,
sometimes
if the mood is right
i can still make out the space between his eyes,
their shape
their size
hes all but forgotten, otherwise.
the fleeting moments of love still remain
but theres nothing else to gain
by recalling his frame and the bones in his waist.
ive willed myself to forget his lips,
but their smokey taste still sits.
the way he ignored me through sleepless nights
the fights
the light that grew in his solitude
the tears that drew in his bleakest gloom.
the bedroom is an empty void with a new lover by my side.
but yours is the ghost that looms,
so in the earliest mornings when i wake and see his face,
if he looks back too
through the haze i see you.
//jf 5.6.2020
The late, great, Italian multi-disciplinary artist and filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini wasn’t always about doom and gloom and the dark side of the human condition. His trio of films dubbed the “Trilogy of Life”, adapted from three prolific tomes of short stories, is as light and airy as your garden-variety Italian sex romp: something the filmmaker specifically hated hearing. But it’s true, and that’s not to fault it! His “Canterbury Tales” adaptation is wedged between his cinematic depictions of The Decameron and One Thousand and One Nights, respectively, and his detached filmmaking style lends itself nicely to the non-streamlined essence of the picture.
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the stepfather didnt assume anything the day his girlfriend told him that she had a two year old daughter. that was fifteen years ago. things were different. he wasnt bombarded by calls to shelter youth the way he is now, by the government and other parents. people are scared. and in many ways the stepfather agrees with them. modern life is a breeding ground for deviants. he wonders if he would have the same opinion if he had walked away, during the date at the restaurant where she told him. he liked lucille. the night of the fifth date they finally had sex after fooling around as far as a young couple could without performing the act itself. he couldnt wait to see her the next night, but sitting down at the table with her already waiting for him felt eagerly pessimistic. she told him about her daughter. who was the father? she told him that too. he could tell she was nervous, the way she held him tight with one hand and collected herself with the napkin she held in the other. when the dinner was over they hugged it out and went to a movie. it was too early to go home. what if he said no? then he would still be in his forties now, still trying to reconcile the missing pieces of his own adolescence. but he would be single. and he wouldnt have susanna. by all accounts he is her stepfather. and try as he may to do the best that he can, she is seventeen now and it is almost too late. evenings spent just the two of them kindling their bond were only embers. he is okay with that. she isnt his kid, as much as he feels like she is. there is still a beacon that goes off inside him any time he wants to question that blossoming independence. maybe he should have been harder on her? more of a disciplinarian? lucy couldnt handle that. no, he decided to leave most of the parenting to her. he just had to. lucy had problems of her own. has. she has to be his primary responsibility, and susanna hers.
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theory of a daskeman 