Fatted

We used to live in Brussels until I ran out of money. Then I lived in Cairo with a cousin. I would rather not discuss my cousin anymore.

When I moved away from Cairo, I had nothing. If there was fortune to be found there, it was not mine. All the luck had been spent that the time. Karma was in short supply. Destitute, I was. And I moved away. Away away. Gone. Bang.

Jet to the south of France, duck country. Foie gras every day for lunch on crackers. Cheap foie gras, to say. Foie gras for crackers on pennies. Euro cents and sensibilities.

High times in the south of France. Aix, other cities. The sea. Je deteste les villes. Gay Paris. Le Paris homosexuel. Slathered my crackers there, too.

I trucked around for a good time or two and I had my fill of foie gras, I would say. I lived in a cottage in a little village with a pig in the backyard. A one home village, green and empty and full of sky. Beautiful shit. Beautiful shit. The sea.

After getting my last can of foie gras I opened a box of crackers and set them all out on the table. I smelled them, butter, salt. I could smell the salt from the crackers. Then the can of foie gras… I opened it and I put it on the table. It was very smelly for some reason. It was a light brown paste, a duck liver in a can.

I spread it on every cracker with a knife and I set each aside in a growing stack that, when it reached 10 crackers with foie gras high, I started another stack of crackers that, when it reached 10 crackers with foie gras high, I started another stack of crackers that, when it reached 10 crackers with foie gras high, I started another stack of crackers that, when it was done, I left on the table and went outside to look at the clouds passing by as I thought of things. Fuck, says I.

I went to Paris again that night and I got so drunk on wine that I shit in the streets. I stayed with a brother of mine near a monument and puked in his bed. His dog came into the room and licked up the little puddle of foie gras.

I drank some orange juice that morning and I went down to the city. Café, omelette, un café noir, des cigarettes. Au revoir, pisser extraordinaire. Des cafés de café.

In any event. I left France. Jadedly, I’ll admit, but still. Gone. Bang. Away, away.

I’m over the sea.