Femme Fatigue—Suffix: A story by Vice Lesley Thinkbabymusic Collective

Femme Fatigue—Suffix
A story by Vice Lesley
Photography © Ed Templeton

Lipstick killer, the pawn is in its seat, out to get her.

You can take a car to the center of the Earth and find but the desert, we’re all destined to bend the knee at love; heaven, you’re a slave to leisure; lying in the bed of another, the devil can only be smiling.
 
On the wheel, an excursion towards the sun. The mouth delivers a smile at the jaw, in all its fame and vanity, and soon find heartbreak a lessened opponent. In her radiant world, with fashion playing on the radio, will make this a trip to remember. We assume a car nearly fancy in looks, and in all six gears shall wreck us both in the prowl of romance.  Will have us pull up our sleeve and thrust down our hat; we get our kicks when we yield at nothing. 

Oh but I shall learn how to drive this wretched thing.

Beloved Juno, female deity, mope all you covet, but perch not in sloth. All misfits of love; each in drag and glitter, shall come and veil your name from the mouths of men. And in despair, you will turn this vehicle to the heart of the situation, opening a new chapter; where we can speak of pleasant things, until our face loses its twinkle. Said you were but an aid to beauty, teenage crush; rogue where beauty won't have you, with crimes what treasures abide in you, because you’re moneyed; we would but gleam at its side like a sponsor. It lay beside you at the sand, needing not woe, but woe still, it throws you a look and you quiver.

I wrestled your heart, let me now into the liver.
 
Trapped in this car, both secluded, complete disorientation. Jealous thing, if you only knew the wonder you bring. Far past the covering of these wastelands; soon we'll have reached the sea, lying beyond the morals of the hip, may we reach those shores like a charging jinx, but I promise you, our luck will heal. For it’s in a woe’s fortune to offer but the desert, bondage of cancer; and though to linger in a place like this could be noble, romantic poverty, it would be pointless in the end; the mouth would be empty, as empty as the hand, then no one would find us in the sand.

Now scattered on the hood, the pirates of the court, experience awaits us yet. Dear gods, makers of the ball, gallant judges and worst of all, invisible; retrieve these dogs of rue and bring me my lover’s head; too virgin a dream to surrender or spoil, it sleeps at the knees of morning, under our sheets of heavy cloth, unknown fabric. We can rush to the highest point of the soul, the very top, to turn blue around the lung and shape this hapless novelty; or we can hoist this terrible sail and never go home, to never awake.  

There’s a moment of breach, a fragment of despair in everyone’s eyebut the demons care not. Whilst upon the temples, a ray of light, the mess only a day can bring, throwing a plan entirely off course, making a each curse even more difficult to program, rather give you my word than tell you I'll miss any of it. We're leaving and can never be back here. Winos in chrome, C's bigslide poem, fingers have grown from my lover's hip, rotate the canvas far unto the concrete, pushing it even harder into a distance. 

I want you, do you still know where that is?

Let my tribe grade thy loss in these big realm of nations. We don't need to wail.

Originally from Vice Lesley: The Smile of a Crocodile, paperback (2015). Photo: Ed Templeton, photograph with text 1997. "Thomas C. & Michelle, haircut, 1997". C-print, bildyta 33,5 x 22 cm. Nils Staerk Contemporary Art, Copenhagen.