Geoffrey
Dyer
the morning after ruby
tuesday
The radio a whisper really, and the sun
swells out from the
house. This is the way the day looks to those without the
possibility of love: crisp, beautiful. The lacquer on the floor
takes its revenge on hierarchy, because no one can identify
what type of wood preserves it. It shines. The mountain in the
closet is dead and the ancestry is open, which means we are
the new predator and nobody’s predecessors. She was a savage
idea, brought up from the roots of the ground wearing a
mohawk and bones. Would’ve been better if the shiny blue
plastic had been real. Would’ve been cooler if we ’d
kept talk-
ing. If we got to know the organic mechanisms behind the
alleged skin. I want to escape the collection, I want to make
it
out with the girl. I want to say these aren’t gutters anymore,
but veins, and that I’m reaching at something sincere with
all
this ludicrous behavior. The way to win a fashion princess is
drink all night and talk about quitting morphine.
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