Anais on the phone

September 23, 2003 1:50 p.m.

I recorded our conversation

If we can call it that

On digital Dat

And then mixed it.

I blended it with Michael Nyman at his most manic.

�Wheelbarrow Walk� from �Drowning by Numbers�

It was like roast duck, her voice

With a thick prune sauce offered in repeat courses

During a meal lasting four hours

In a modest restaurant I know

Not far from the Seine by Notre Dame.

It engulfed me, her voice

More cello than violin

More oboe than clarinet.

More bassoon.

Her swanky, American boom.

With a big buzz-oom!

I kept my boyish giggles to myself

In the dark light

I took off my clothes.

In the late night cool air of Paris in mid-summer

I slipped into the black water of her voice

Prune juice

I came out a black man

Dripping velvety molasses.

A woman on a houseboat

Anais Nin

Invited me in

To take a shower.

To wash off my skin

This thin veneer, this coat of something else

This sweet oil slick that had enveloped me.

Her dog licked between my toes.

I let it; I liked it.

She touched my lips

I said nothing

She guided me towards sa douche.

Where she washed me off.

Then left me to drench myself in her water

�til the boiler ran dry.

And I was high.

I knew what I was doing

Taking more than I�d been offered.

I knew she wouldn�t mind

My bursting mind.

When I stepped out

I found she had changed.

She was wearing a black silk gown.

He hair unwrapped

At the back

Like a thick fur against the cold drafts of a medieval hall.

Unwrapping her I found her breasts

Beneath

A black thong in plain stretch tulle.

With a pearl string front and back

And four suspenders

Embroidered

With two little satin bows at the back.

I ignored her voice,

I ignored the time of day,

As I planted butterfly kisses

On her chest,

Then rested my head to listen

To her voice deep inside

Her

From a chasm

A dark well

A profound sound

That had nothing to do

With what she said

Or where the accent came from

Or was going to

For that matter

If it mattered

In that

Oily black chamber.

Putting my tongue to her breast

The tip touching a piece of apricot

Dried in the sun

In Tangiers

Setting off flutes and drums

And only �The Stones� know what else

A kind of hullabaloo

As the glue

Stuck

I will fill the bath with prune juice

Tonight

Lie in it naked

Letting my ears fill

My nose and mouth,

My eyes

My head.

I will swallow it

Gulp it down

Until I am more prune juice than man

Until her brown liquid has pickled me.

from Henry