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You are here: Home / Lit / 20:52) Chris Abraham 03-NOV-94 9:47

20:52) Chris Abraham 03-NOV-94 9:47

A small lithe italian man walks sing song
along a beach in miami. He rubs his short
crop hair with a fist while pondering the
import of his early drug-taking. As a young
boy in Yungaburra, he used to dress small
marsupials in gold lame while singing arias
in aboriginal tongue. The neon sign hung
just behind the sodden dirty window of the
desert's oasis, deep in the outback, far away.
It swung slightly, crackling XXXX. A Wombat,
blown horribly off course, stumbled in in sequins,
its handbag a rediculous mauve. The men looked
down over their beers and through the smoke
of phillip morris and, as tears formed in
their reddened eyes, passing leather torn
ravaged skin, they bellowed in absurd contraltos:
Versace! Versace! Versace! Versace!

The jetliner's hum lowered him into Miami.
The club kids came to greet him, showering him
with Finlandia and caplets of Ecstacy. In his
limo, the sunroof drawn aside, Luciano sold out
his voice to another Broadway album and people
swayed, rubbing sheer silk fabrics into
a dizzying array of golds and earth tones.
The king is dead long live the Queen.

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