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09/27/2020
Torfdoen
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Torfdoen
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Tiger's contact lenses
Face down in the moss. Thank God, the champagne flute is still in one piece. I'm digging like mad in the peaty soil, stealing my lemons. There aren't many. I stare at the back of my hand. That son of a bitch has marked his territory. Gotta keep moving. Feel his pale paprika breath.
A small puddle of sparkling wine on green overgrown ground. I greedily slurp the dew, which according to its sour note can only be an old, noble drop. Somehow expired, but deliberately. Like a Norne today, but instead of the sweet-etheric, fermented woody, like nothing known in nature. Real oakmoss. I'm thinking Success, Paco Rabanne, Lauder for Men. It's hard to know where to start and where to stop having sex.
I stumble through a densely overgrown, exotic world of plants, but I am still not interested in it, too busy to look into the flute, balance the lemons and pick the remaining earth out of my teeth.
Then I pause. It's all right. It's an '80s chypre jungle I got into. Super dense, with lots of shades. Disco lights, terrycloth covers and hygienically excessive things worked into a complex natural growth. Little ironed out, without the urge to dismantle everything into its sterile individual parts. And with a latent herbaceousness that is sultry and vegetable. Sparkling tiger eyes. Survivor.
Shortly before I think I'm about to hold a very mature, but somehow timeless galbanum cocktail with an earthy citrus fruit mystery in my hands, it tears me to the ground.
She holds two thick lemons in front of my face. The tiger creeps elegantly around the ferns and lianas. He steps out of his hiding place and doesn't even look at me
"Out of sheer friendship, he did not kill you. He likes you."
He pisses in the champagne flute
I stand up and wipe the dirt off my pants.
"That's nice of him. I like him too. Especially since he didn "t attack me. It "s as if he had an order. There seems to be a somewhat rougher tone here at all."
She approaches me and removes the arrow from my head.
"Don't talk nonsense. He likes playing with you. And he's nothing against the power of the old forest."
Someone holds out a full champagne flute to me from a velvet seating area. I take the glass and drink it. Far away glittering and booming.
The only reasonable thing seems to me to be challenging the Mistress of the Forest to a dance-off, 8 minutes Boogie Wonderland.
Good idea, I still think, becoming one with the movements, overgrowing in green acidity.
(Thanks, dear Tabla, for the rehearsal.)
A small puddle of sparkling wine on green overgrown ground. I greedily slurp the dew, which according to its sour note can only be an old, noble drop. Somehow expired, but deliberately. Like a Norne today, but instead of the sweet-etheric, fermented woody, like nothing known in nature. Real oakmoss. I'm thinking Success, Paco Rabanne, Lauder for Men. It's hard to know where to start and where to stop having sex.
I stumble through a densely overgrown, exotic world of plants, but I am still not interested in it, too busy to look into the flute, balance the lemons and pick the remaining earth out of my teeth.
Then I pause. It's all right. It's an '80s chypre jungle I got into. Super dense, with lots of shades. Disco lights, terrycloth covers and hygienically excessive things worked into a complex natural growth. Little ironed out, without the urge to dismantle everything into its sterile individual parts. And with a latent herbaceousness that is sultry and vegetable. Sparkling tiger eyes. Survivor.
Shortly before I think I'm about to hold a very mature, but somehow timeless galbanum cocktail with an earthy citrus fruit mystery in my hands, it tears me to the ground.
She holds two thick lemons in front of my face. The tiger creeps elegantly around the ferns and lianas. He steps out of his hiding place and doesn't even look at me
"Out of sheer friendship, he did not kill you. He likes you."
He pisses in the champagne flute
I stand up and wipe the dirt off my pants.
"That's nice of him. I like him too. Especially since he didn "t attack me. It "s as if he had an order. There seems to be a somewhat rougher tone here at all."
She approaches me and removes the arrow from my head.
"Don't talk nonsense. He likes playing with you. And he's nothing against the power of the old forest."
Someone holds out a full champagne flute to me from a velvet seating area. I take the glass and drink it. Far away glittering and booming.
The only reasonable thing seems to me to be challenging the Mistress of the Forest to a dance-off, 8 minutes Boogie Wonderland.
Good idea, I still think, becoming one with the movements, overgrowing in green acidity.
(Thanks, dear Tabla, for the rehearsal.)
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