During the night, the streets very dirty uneven rocks no way to be sure of your footing much less direction as for safety all sorts of criminals or rather people who had to survive hiding under one level of stone or behind an arcade you can’t even see just standing there: there’s no way to tell the difference between alive and dead. Criminalities, which are understandable, mix with religious practices, for people have to do anything to satisfy that which can no longer be satisfied
We shall define sexuality as that which can’t be satisfied and therefore as that which transforms the person.
(Stylistically: simultaneous contrasts, extravagancies, incoherences, half-formed misshapen thoughts, lousy spelling, what signifies what? What is the secret of this chaos?
(Since there’s no possibility, there’s play. Elegance and completely filthy sex fit together. Expectations that aren’t satiated.)
Questioning is our mode.
CYNTHIA: Just why are you fucking me? You’ve got a girlfriend named Trick and you love her. According to you she’s satisfied with you and you with her.
Propertius is staring blankly at the door.
CYNTHIA: I’m sick of being nice to you. So what if you want a girl who’ll consider you her top priority and yet’ll never ask you for anything? I can’t be her.
Propertius is staring blankly at the door and scratching his head.
CYNTHIA: DON’T FUCK ME CAUSE YOU LIKE THE SMELL OF MY CUNT. LEAVE ME ALONE. This is the only way I can directly speak to you cause you’re autistic.
PROPERTIUS: This is my poem to your cunt door.
Oh little door
I love you so very very much.
CYNTHIA: Well, everyone wants to fuck me I tell you I’m sick of this life. Who cares if you’re another person waiting at my door? You’re just another man and you don’t mean shit to me.
PROPERTIUS: Oh please, cunt, I’m cold and I’ll be the best man for you and I know you’re fucking someone else that’s why you won’t let me near you you cheap rags stinking fish who wants anything to do with corpses anyway? (to himself) And thus I tried to drown my mourning.
CYNTHIA: This is the kind of funeral I want goddamn you
Now I’m dead. I want:
One. Well my mother father and grandmother are dead. Fuck that.
Two. When my mother popped off, afterwards, she lay in this highly polished wood coffin the most expensive funeral house in New York City—where all the society die after they’re dead—FAKE, everything was real but there are times real is fake, flowers, tons of smells, wood halls polished like fingernails; preacher or rabbi asks me “Do you know anything good I can say (I have to say something: SAY SOMETHING!) over your mother’s mutilating body?” (it being understood that all society people are such pigs that …) and I tell him how beautiful she is; no one cries they’re there to stare at me as I make my blind way through the narrow aisle, to number how hysterical I am did I really love her? The beginning of the funeral the family lawyer, having walked over to me, shakes my lapels, “Where are the 800 IBM shares?” “What 800 IBM shares?” “There are 800 missing IBM shares and no one knows how your mother died. I thought she gave them to you.” “She never gave me a penny.”
Three. I do everything for sexual love. What a life it’s like I no longer exist cause no one loves me. So WHEN I DIE, I’ll die because you’ll know THAT YOU CAUSED ME TO DIE and you’ll be responsible. That’s what my death’ll do to you and you’ll learn to love. I’m teaching you by killing myself.
Four. You’re gonna have to die too. You’ll be like me. You’ll be where I now am. Your cockbone will be in my cunt-bone.
Five. This is why life shits: Because you’re gonna love me the second I leave you flat. Our sexuality comes from repression. When you reject me, I’m gonna die in front of you. In the long run nothing’s important. This is the one sentiment that makes me happy.
Please be nice to me.
BARBARELLA: You’ve got to get a man who has money.
DANIELLE: I want money and power.
CYNTHIA and BARBARELLA (agreeing): Money and sex are definitely the main criteria.
DANIELLE: Sex?
CYNTHIA: I think I want a wife who has a cock. You understand what I mean. I don’t understand why men even try to deal with me like I can be a wife, and then bitch at me and hurt me as much as possible cause I’m not a wife. Who’d ever think I’m a wife? Do you think I’m a wife? (Barbarella giggles.) But when I’m sexually open I totally change and this real fem part comes out.
BARBARELLA: I want a husband. No. I take that back. I want someone who’ll support me.
CYNTHIA: Good luck.
BARBARELLA: I’m both the wife and husband. Even though none of us are getting anything right now, except for Danielle who’s getting everything, our desires are totally volatile.
DANIELLE: I can’t be a wife. I can be a hostess. If I’ve got lots of money.
BARBARELLA: One-night stands don’t amuse me anymore.
CYNTHIA: I think if you really worship sex, you don’t fuck around. Danielle fucks around more than any of us, and she’s the one who doesn’t really care about sex.
BARBARELLA: Most men don’t like sex. They like being powerful and when you have good sex you lose all power.
CYNTHIA: I need sex to stay alive.
A street in Rome. The sky’s color is deep dark blue. One star can be seen. Very little can be seen on the street—just different shades of black.