The boy with pierced ears sitting in front of me will never be a prince with a white tuff under his chin and a red gala dress. Versailles is at the bottom of the glasses they serve us at the dining hall. The coffee shop person walks with a pink phone at their hip, Barbie’s diamantes and Disney tee shirts.
Shakira is singing above the lamps.
My friend Cyprien looks like all the boys walking in this cafe. Big fat coats and blue lights, like in Antarctica. But here the music goes bahm bahm bahm. In Antartica the ice would break.
The tips of my fingers are firm and round like when playing piano. This time they’re on my computer’s keyboard, which is moist from my sweat, even though I’ve kept still – maybe the music, the coffee, is making me sweat. The water in my bottle is trembling. Fucking hell shut the fuck up Shakira.
My friend Cyprien looks like all the boys here, except maybe for people from other countries or those with a big fat coat.
Fucking Shakira for fuck’s sake fucking fuck I want an axe to go through her neck like when you kill a bird, still squirming after taking a bullet on its side, between its feathers. Shakira isn’t far from a bird, I’m sure she wears feathers sometimes. Like a native-american guru. Except she dances with her hips a lot more, which, I have been told, never lie. Never! hahahahaha
My hands are moist. If I put feathers on my hands, does that mean that by extension I end up creating a new Shakira, one that is much smaller, and much less annoying? since:
1) My fingers don’t lie (like Shakira)
2) My fingers can’t sing (like Shakira, but unlike Shakira my fingers don’t try to sing)
Which is why finger-Shakira would be much less annoying. I say we whip out our private jets and go find her, gut her, and put my feathered hand on the stage instead. I could even play some rhythm games there, calm the crowds down, bahm, done.