The screen pours milk in the dark and on his profile. Slight neck, embossed nape, nose bending on the lips, bound as roast beef borders, chinless. Thingless, on the run, boarded on cybercafé.
Abdel stylizes smiles on Facebook. In truth his face chokes in fixity. Maybe the fingertips are laughing, mudded into illusions loosened by some others’ nails. They jump in those puddles, girls still pulsing.
But today’s hotter. For his roast beef lips, which he can bit, cause they’re not pork. For his boy soul, which screams desperation revealing a shambling body, sheepishly asthenic.
He shoulder-bounces on the porous wall until the little room. The door is invisible, not absent. From the wastebasket it raises in fact a blade which slices the brain through the nostrils. An acrid merging of semen and mentholated chewing gum. Everyone keeps himself alive as best as possible.
The mirror, cracked and grimy, at least returns the stare. Abdel lifts the jersey and peers at the chest. It’s sheer but thick. Narrow but tense. Hard to say what’s wrong. But for sure he can’t approve himself.
Abdel has sweaty pupils, a cosmic emotional gridlock, a missile bound for his embossed nape. And nature is master of efficiency: it’s not necessary to understand its laws to obey them.
The emptiness which flattens inside, the one which smashes the outer. Abdel in the middle weeps some urine and apologizes, in the thunder of uterine night, not to annoy anyone. Like an ordinary roast beef, which you can suck as well, cause it’s not (your) pork.
