Amor Non Tenet Ordinem
Unlike your best friend
Leaning back on the stairwell railing beside you,
Who’s visiting you
In the high-rise apartment building
Where you now live,
Who’s visiting you from out of town,
Visiting you from the town where you used to live
Before some whore
Ripped off not only you
But all your friends, including this guy,
Your “best friend”—
Before some whore ripped you all off
And you lost your job over it
Because your boss and co-workers (friends, that is)
Weren’t understanding, and you moved
Away, left in shame and ignominy . . .
Unlike your best friend,
You can’t look at the young lady
Smoking at the other end of the hall,
With hair that looks like something out of MOMA,
And say as casual as you please, “Yeah, I’d do her.”
Which means not only can you fuck her,
But you’re going to fuck her,
So hard the tiles will fall down in the neighbour’s shower,
Fuck her while looking down at her
Swollen and discoloured face,
Where her boyfriend has beaten her
Head against the doorjamb in their flat
Before taking all the money she earned
The past two weeks of night shifts at the convenience store
And gambling it away in some kind of revenge
For miscarrying their baby—Yeah,
Fuck her until you decide to do something
About her asshole boyfriend,
Only she beats you to it, kills the son of a bitch
By herself. So you help her
Dispose of the body.
I mean, of course you do.
You wanted the asshole dead
Just as much as she did, if not more.
What I’m saying is, he beat up her, not you,
And you still thought about killing him.
See what I mean?
Anyway, there you are,
Out on the back of a mountain,
In your car’s headlights, pouring rain,
Thunder and lightning,
She’s standing and watching,
Staring at something 1000 yards away.
Back in your apartment (not hers)
You’re fucking, you’re fucking
The shit out of her,
Or you think
You’re fucking the shit out of her,
Or you’re trying to, at least.
Somehow, she’s still really far away.
But you don’t even notice.
Okay, what I said earlier, about you two
Fucking—that was wrong.
This, right now, post-murder, post-corpse disposal,
This is the first time
You two have had sex.
See? There goes the tile
In the neighbour’s shower.
You two are fucking
With all the pent-up energy
Of two crazy and lonely people
Guilty of murder, albeit well-deserved.
She’s taking everything you’ve got
And giving it back, giving herself
In just exactly the way you’d expect
Of a twenty-seven-year-old-woman with a face
Like someone had been using her to stop line drives.
Past an overheard conversation
She has with her ex-best friend
Who can’t comprehend
Or accept what she’s done
(You were eavesdropping).
In a motel beside the highway,
It ends the way it began:
Misunderstanding, hurt feelings,
Defenses go up.
Faster than you can blink,
You strangle her with the scarf she gave you
A week and a half after the murder.
The backside of the mountain
Again. Rain, digging in the headlights.
What did you expect?
I mean, she was your half-sister.
From subTerrain #68 (Pulp Fiction)
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