Her body is a look.
His mind works with associations.
Porn-patterned, she’s constantly disguised and doesn’t know it.
He believes what he imagines.
Ignores what is actually in front of him.
He refuses truths, not his own.
He carries all of his flags and women are one blank page after another.
The projections of his brain landing on her skin.
And whilst he’s thinking about one thing, she’s contemplating another.
They’re never on the same page.
Because he never leaves his.
He has no interest in her guidance.
Nuclear misinterpretation, stories are read into her words.
He hears what he chooses to deform as it hits his ears.
Without his adjustments she does not matter at all.
She can say whatever she wants to say, it’s all just a double entendre, a list of innuendos.
The girl likes to play, likes to tease.
He is living in his own head, inventing a two-voiced narrative.
When she speaks he listens to the voice-over he creates.
How could this story end well?
The tragedy is that it’s the crippled old song for both of them.
Women drag a long shadow behind them.
They’ve attached tents of signs to our bodies, our words,
Functioning both as malady and cure, it’s driving us insane.
And it all started in the forefathers’ brains which are as chimaera-infested as yours.
“A Girl Feeding Peacocks” by Frederic Leighton, 1st Baron Leighton (1830-1896)