“VAE VICTIS”, a Brooklyn Story by Marcel Swann.
We're both despicable persons, ambulating shells. The light of the riot squad were divvying up houses in Bainbridge St.. From our talks it came out the hatred toward the other people unites us; beyond the moonlight that influences our faces' shapes overloading them with soft shades / shades that make us appear similar, at least as far as you don't take refuge in Malcom X Blv's corner. My feet are freezing like Yukon is and my nose is bleeding as Arizona does. I've been blowing my nose till I perfectly disintegrated it, and that's all I learnt over years of sports. Gazes at the floor, paying attention to the Nikes, and exhales with vim King Nitrogen from his nostril Z. Hope Brooklyn could keep goin' on this way one more week at least, cold but without snow.
We're only a spittle on Pantagruel's hand. “But also Pantagruel was used to overdo with diuretic drugs right?” I was asking to you while you were focused on picking an over-trod Donatella Versace's picture up off the ground and I read on your lips “this mouth drives me crazy” that I already heard that night we met during a concert in the 25th.
“Maremma!” you exclaimed by recycling my Made in Tuscany slang with your Tennessee accent “How cool this woman is! I've dreamt of her two weeks ago too, a pair of, with a Miu Miu dress, but barefoot..She was showing me a book..A little book about bees...” Your hands are fluorescent purple in color, they literally look fluorescent. Starlight for the fishing.
“But why are you sayin' she was barefoot? I mean why you remember this detail?” Why am I so interested in the detail? And why am I asking why he was remembering that precise detail? Everything was appearing stupid to me while inquiring.
“Because at other times...other times she'd shown up in my dreams she was taller than me and having Versace heels. They were clearly Versace heels, this time was shorter than me, shorter..”
“So this time was wearing Miu Miu and with no heels?” I leave you very pensive, intent on bending the ripped picture again, as it was the most precious memory from a beloved relative. You are a maniac.
We're just like beasts to be eaten away by lumacari. Close the door, and let Jay-Z's voice echo along Greene Av., the young boys smoking pot sitting on the stairs, then both lock our doors: me counting the stripes on the mural close to the bed and you listening the same old Gloria Estefan's song, that one you say to be perfect when having a warm shower. I could kick you back at arm's length. I've here a Negazione's vinyl, and it lies close to me / I could get “Lei ha bisogno di qualcuno che la guardi”, and bother Gloria for the simple counter attack. Vae Victis. When we met you'd just broken up with your girlfriend. You've been dating that German girl studying in NYU Polytechnic for seven months, and you swore you'd never been too tied to a person. At that time I didn't know about your passion for Gloria Estefan but the German girl already did. I saw that tattoo with a clearly Chicano lettering on the right side of your neck: Vae Victis. Why tattooing a latin quote with a Chicano style? What the hell?! I was dying from laughing for that tattoo. Some time later you told me why. She'd cheated on you with a Mexican boy and you meant to downplay. That's all. “We're only a spittle on giants' hands” I told you, and was the first thing coming to mind. Vae Victis. Thinking about it, I guess the German girl was studying law.