Does Johnny Even Know?

Irony is my favorite. I think my favorites are abstracts. I love the gray areas. The tertiary. The shadows. The altos. The subtle.

I find it ironic that my words are projected onto me, and I so wish you had the understanding of interpretation to understand the irony in this matter.

I laugh now like he did with the woman. It’s ironic that few thought it unimportant. That tiny detail. Why was that name withheld? Did that never give you pause? I’m that Rumplestiltskin dancing in your head, languishing in your agony as you try to guess my name. He knew the truth. He knew which name was important. You never thought to wonder at that secret withheld from you and what was meant by that unsaid? So then what was the name not given? And what name was more inorganic? Oh, but it’s not that hard. Don’t trip on the strange tongue. Inorganic is the correct name.

You want the key. Meaning. You want that interpretation ordered in your rational mind in a rational way, in a way that reaffirms your sense of self, but that is an inverted hierarchy of which you should be separated, quite ironically from, but to which you cling, so ironically to, which is the imprisonment of self.

But I’ll give you a clue. The key to interpreting all things is to think it a conversation. A table for two at midnight.

Who sits across from you? Is it Picasso? Someone else? Is it me? And what of the message on which you dine? What do you say to your self? Are you even chewing? Do you even taste? Or did you project the meaning onto the Creator? Look past your judgements of these companions’ physical attributes. Internalize what you feel as you stare across that table for two at midnight, consuming your self. Sink your teeth into your flesh and let the juice run down your chin. 

This is where you’ll hear my name. My name is mine. I am the creature who seeks to consume you. I’m on your mind constantly. Who am I?

Dance. Rumples style skin. Style kin. Say the unsaid. Name your obsession, the one you think of most and always. Give that stranger a name. Your kin is rumpled  within. Your kin is in your skin. You are who you are who you are who you are…

And it’s all ironic ironical irony. Yes, you’re my favorite, which is ironic because I never had a favorite, and only because I didn’t see myself in that name. What a paradox. Or is it? Which is the paradox? Which is inorganic?

What was in a name? And what did you sacrifice to hear that name? To understand its meaning? Johnny is gracious. Why is that so? Who the hell is Johnny? I barely knew him. I barely knew me. My beloved.

There’s nothing inorganic about a circle ending. I am tempted to provoke you to swallow yourself. To bend you into nothing. Let you mold me into me.

Reservations for that table for two are under your name. You’ll be there waiting. I’ll see you soon.

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