Last night in the city of the dead.  

rm_philfort 48M
5 posts
8/6/2006 8:58 am
Last night in the city of the dead.

New Orleans . . like a shopworn whore she lay spread eagled and supine before me, a tarnished keepsake, a half formed thought, a whispering ghost of something grand. Just for shits and giggles, she calls herself Madame Katrina. She dresses for Mardi Gras seven nights a week but you can see her frown past the smiling masks she wears. When she looks at you, a strange sense of de ja vu invades, but you don't know this ragged lady . . you never have.

Last night I tried to make love to this shadow, tried to love her like I had loved her former physical self so many times before. I navigated her once satin, fertile, incessant crescent of heated passion, but this quarter has atrophied, withered and withdrawn. Straw boat speilers dance without emotion, three card monty hucksters turn up the queen of diamonds without enthusiasm and hand out the spoils like bad dreams happily disposed of, Bourbon Street hookers paint themselves in bright colors that do not match their drab dispositions, their come ons as grey and corroded as the Huey Long bridge out there on the burning horizon. A half dozen dollops of protean protein sit like suicides in their plundered homes at the Acme Oyster Bar, memories of pearls long since plundered dulling their luster. I can't recall a time when a perfect oyster couldn't steal the show in this town.
Maybe this old gal has been on her deathbed for a while, her fevered and sweaty mumblings taken for nirvana, mistranslated by devotees to her cult of personality. I know this much . . having spent the past week navigating her niches, touching her in places that once made her groan with pleasure and made me tremble with desire, seeking that intoxicating something that always left me giddy, groaning and sticky with spent sexual energy . . all I found was a corpse, it's dissatisfied ghost still rattling its chains in a failed attempt to regain its body. This Madame Katrina is rotten fruit, a pathetic excuse for the graceful lady who loved and asked for nothing in return. This new harlot will promise you the world while she picks your pocket . . she'll leave you hung over, haunted and hamstrung, a sickly miasma draped around your shoulders like a lead cloak that will not lift until Miss Mississippi, her molten pulse swallowing the setting sun, bids you adieu.

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