Beasts and how to eat them
by Christos Polydorou
All over the world, right this very moment, men who have lied to us to get what they want sleep the sweet sleep, oblivious, warm and shiny within their coverlet of lies. Meanwhile, those who have been lied to, those who deigned remove their armour to consider a life beyond armour, sit spellbound and bitter by their windows, far too early on a Saturday morning, looking out as far as they can, wondering how the hell this hell swallowed them whole, all over again. And you are not even a fictional character, one who could easily receive sympathy. You are a real person, that is, someone who will be kicked, whilst down. Regardless.
This one was so masculine, such beautiful bombasts and disseminations of gender, from his lips fell tree branches, and in his hands, to you, was a magnolia, which he claimed he grew himself, but he stole it, because that is the type of shit he is. He looked into your eyes, and told you he had been seeking a face like yours for so long, with your exact features, someone with your intelligence, thoughtfulness, and humour. You didn’t care about any of that, yourself, all you cared about is that you got to sit beside this great guy that you could care for. Even though he was already disappearing. Even though, by the time you formed the thought of pure surrender clearly, he was gone. You stood up, and searched for him. You asked the doorman if they saw him. You ran into the cold, dark, inhospitable London streets and the claw of the morning to find him, but he had disappeared. You called out his name, but a crow crowed. Even as the crow carried you over the old city you could find not him. Because he probably never even existed. I mean, it happened to you. And who are you?
All over the world, right this very moment, men who have lied to us to get what they want sleep the sweet sleep, oblivious, warm and shiny within their coverlet of lies.
We wouldn’t dare wake them up.
We wouldn’t dare upset the beast.