The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man
abmann

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The Gibson

When I met William Gibson, he was unremarkable.
I spent the hours before
preening, primping, crimping - I even delinted
my bright red sex-on-a-stick coat with matching hat,
it wasn't even winter yet through all that wool.
He did not match my wardrobe - a knowledgeable rose-laden lapel -
sending me some sign, any sign
that our lust was as mutual as he had been telling me
since the first day I read about Johnny.
He wore a brown jacket, so unremarkable I cannot
recall if it was leather, tweed, or just
plastic like the automatic flowers of our relationship.
When he spoke, it wasn't the digital sultry
I had come to understand,
but a laconic doldrum voice reading patterns
made from his mind. No techno jargon - his way
of saying he wants me. No jacking in - know what
that means to me. No surreptitious blinks or
lick of tongue when he signed his name, my name,
sprawling ecstasy on over-loved pages.
Flickering recognition at the jaunty tilt
of my hat
William, are we through?

--

The number of toys in my cube is growing.
Punk-a-pus.
Happy Bunny figure: "Hi, Loser."
Two Angels from Dogma inaction figures.
Paine FFX2 statue -holly christ is she hot. i felt dirty trying to get her out of the packaging cuz a where I had to grab.

I also have a book shelf now - as explicated in the Hrothgar entry (bet you knew that.. You're smart!)- in desperate need of a plant
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