The madwoman's face reminds one more than a little of Antonin Artaud. Under a dyed black beehive.
After the teeth came out.
The Theatre of Cruelty has not been kind. Various assaults griddled one upon another like raw emotions uncongenially served.
She has this habit of proferring her middle finger. On which is perched a garnet set in yellow gold. There are some who stoop to kiss her ring.
There are always a few in any crowd.
We circle each other on the square like vultures. Sparring between cigarettes as only institutionalized lovers will. She tells me she drinks in the Saracen's Head. I look at her and see why some drink to forget.
After supper one evening she comes right out with it.
I don't believe you're a warrior monk. That vegetarian sham is just so much pish.
One eye glittering with malice, the other dry as a raisin. She has a point. A stiletto shank, a tongue.
No one has mentioned wars. Faith. A month of Sundays shy of gorging on beef has left me weak. I have no appetite left for a fight. No stamina to quarrel. I dig my arse into the bench and light a cigarette.
She looks at me and sneers.
I can see why she has so quickly risen through the ranks. Of the sedated. Sitting there like she has always been there.
in regione caecorum rex est luscus.
Erasmus might have been a queen. Here, he is just one more Napoleon.