The Beastby Bill Lewis |
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The Beast sits by the telephone Beauty doesn't call anymore. Outside across the lawn a peacock cries out like a woman being murdered. The Beast sits inside, curtains block the gardens where stone animals crowd. The Beast wears a black eye patch. Beauty stabbed him in the eye with the slim blade of her body. Her smile is a Stanley knife. The delicate lines around her mouth cut deep into his sight. His vision hurts. She is not cruel but her face is a loaded gun that he presses against the temple of his memory. He is caught in a pincer movement, his bad body image on one side Beauty on the other. He reads Angela Carter novels, fairy tales and Mother Goose and hopes that wisdom does not go stale over the centuries. In those stories she always returns. To be honest he fears that a little. He has, after all, only one eye left. He plays records. It is the nature of the Beast to own vinyl, not a CD collection. Julie London cries him a river Frank Sinatra sings, it can happen to you/ fairy tales can come true He does not know that sentimentality is an act of violence. In the dark bedroom his good eye waters. | ||||||||
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