The Hill

The Hill
Mark Coleman

My life’s as unsympathetic as a day spent under Filostrato’s reign. At the end of the day, I order myself to sing melancholic depression era songs on the street corner. Shaking and looking into the eyes passing by for something resembling a ducat. All I find is a penny, face up, on the curb. I wander out to the island- where no one thought to leave a dollar- and I lay in the road. Boccaccio knew the power that this thing could have on people.
She issues forth from Sicily with long legs and the resilience typical of Palermo. I eat pasta sans antipasto, every night, due to Fortune. I’m not the kind that The Decameron considers worthy of true love. I struggle like a thief, in a pocket not suited to me. Nothing beyond the foreseen response transpires:
“I love you.”
“Likewise.”
I flip a coin precociously, feeling very Wisecarver, while watching Old Kong climb. Gradually, the shooter becomes the shot. Coughing after an unprepared for swig of whiskey, I take a few more. Collapse is imminent. Once it hits the tongue, it doesn’t leave before the deluge.
Julie walks up, with fleas in her hair, and asks how I am. My response is along the lines of something like as good as to be expected. She smiles and asks if I want to fuck. To which I reply,
“Of course.”
“Drop ‘em. I’ll suck you off, first.” She runs her tongue up and down me, like a finger over a message delivering viol. She tickles the heart shaped monstrosity called the glans. Moistened and bucking, she takes me into her disease ridden cunt. There, I sow what I have no plans of reaping. Grows like a weed with my own proclivities. Budget restraints wouldn’t allow a cock cosy. Poverty can be very Catholic.
I pull out and start begging. Priapism forcing my fedora to shield my member. Took off quite a few caps in my day. Awful bloody mess. Swimming through geysers of pink ejaculate in search of a queen. I want to contemplate my reflection in a railway station more beautiful than the Quirinal. Main station offers nothing, but consensual rape.
So, I take what I can get on the bus to Boulder. Praying that Morselli will send the Count to me, advising a sojourn to Switzerland. Hunting in the Alps, before retreating to the Alder. She takes me in her, out by the frozen creek, before we pay a visit to my friend who’s drinking himself to death.
Opens the door, then does a stage into the living room table. We both pass on the food that he offers us with blood obscuring his vision. He suggests heading up to the hill. We hit up a frat party. Someone gives me his pot, when the police come, and I hide it in a vaseline jar next to the Playboys. The festivities resume after a handful of arrests. I retrieve the bag, and roll a joint, which I giddily smoke in the corner. She finds me, and I’m forced to share.