Hour of the wolves

man:

when you float through the streets of the city and your soles stick,

into the gooey stuff of last night's delirium - the kick of it all gone now

and the void it left is all filled with puke and a headache - in the hour when the city itself is still not quite awake - the wolves hour they call it. when you stagger, half drunk, half into noman's land of hangover and if you happen to be i:

• my breath escapes in hick-ups - foul and fiery like i was Godzilla

• i sway and i stumble

• i choke on the tar of a thousand fags overnight

• i see the world dance in the vapors of booze

• the city now silhouetted against a paling sky

• windows of early saturday risers, flaring up, smell of coffee

• my eyes dry and hot as the Sahara (i hoped they didn't glow on their own)

• and in the glare of headlights - - A GIRL is walking against me-

a dazzling swirl of beauty.

i see HER in slow mo, yet i am too overwhelmed to pin point an aspect i love so completely, so strong and already.

I thought I had been in love with anna.

Now I know that is bulshit. Love blows you away in a single gust. everything about THE GIRL falls in place like music.

WOMAN:

I see a drunk, staggering against me. he doesn't quite look like a bum. But close.

• Unshaved, coming out of a bad drunk. Maybe didn’t go to sleep at all.

• At least he washed his face, I doubt that he brushed his teeth.

• Filthy shorts and that t-shirt looks contagious to the touch.

• No woman to lay for the night - he went to a party, it’s over and now he’s alone.

• Does he make Money?! Haha, that drunken shit sack can’t afford a cab.

• Or maybe he also likes walking in the hour before dawn. His body is strong, it is not his first time to stagger alone in the sunrise. Just like I do. Except I am fit , I am sober and I can kick his ass anytime. For this was MY hour – the time when the wolves come out to stalk their pray. I am a poet and I feed on the city.

'Do you think so?', he says as we are almost face to face, about to pass on the sidewalk.

'Excuse me?' , say I.

'About kicking my ass',  he says. ' Not that I would mind to wrestle with you… but I like your ass way too much to bruise it'. Except for he stops talking after 'wrestle' , or his lips stop moving, that is. He thinks that he is just thinking and has stopped speaking , just in time to avoid becoming a fucken rude asshole. But I hear it anyways. His effort strikes me as sweet and I can’t help a smile. His eyes meet mine and those bloodshot liquored- up eyes light up - crooked teeth frame His SMILE.

I thought I was JUST THINKING of kicking his ass. We both freeze and stare at each other. I know that he knows all my thoughts before I will speak them. He knows that I know His, before HE will think them. An explosion happens, WE are the center. There is no time or need to explain – WE know.

'My place or yours', I hear my self think, but before I can say it, he is already kissing me.

Ughhhh – that breath!