Monday Evening LIVE in Theater!

By Sigge S. Amdal © 2007

A middle-aged, disillusioned, smack-ridden woman in a wheelchair bemoans her disability when the subway seems one step too far. By the touch of a button she whirls off into the distant tunnel like the depart of an ancient ghoul.

'Mind the gap, oh desperate one,' I mumble to myself before she goes.

Pity not your existence wretched woman! Whatever be your ills they are petty to non-existence. Wail thee more and I shall prove it to you!

On a river of blood and blinking metal, here arrives the tube, ladies and gentlemen. Fashionably late, of course, just in time. The soulless torture of electronically powered steel horses comes to an end as the sleeping beast eeks to a halt. I enter. I enter like a red cock prancing victoriously about in the ring while the ruined loser picks up the feathers of his shattered future! You couldn't do worse than that, old friend. No more drink for you, Rodriguez. I scan the cart for danger, surveillance and easy company. They are all of the wrong sex, all enemies, my cellular phone jumps out of the pocket and into my hands to kill time.

A peach enters the wagon.

Modest, Modesty, Mother Theresa; a faggot (en. bassoon) – the instrument – slowly fades the carpet in, we fumble like midgets on speed, the carpet opens again while "Hush!" es dampen the lively chatter of the doomed and worthless. Johann Strauss unfolds his Blue Danube like a baboon's buttocks to the National Geographic film crew.

I rise, I fall, I rise again. I pray my love to dance avec elegance in the artificial waltz of the railroad tracks' turns and curves; "Come, come, my love! Don't be shy, I'll make you blush like your ma!"

Sudden cold, my love evaporates like dew on a cold bottle, glass sweat, window tears; no more here. I am somewhere near the cathedral now. And there! Hiding behind innocent scaffolding, the red-brown bricks are unmistakably shining with glee, taunting the blue as in blues the blue as without you horizon with its dull red glow. That's why all the vampires have gone.

None but righteous men and lost men are allowed passage here, haunting the square with the angels and hookers who intertwine and collapse into singular entities.

The music stops. I hear church bells. So much death near a religion, so much dread near a church, so little hope in the folded hands crushed to oblivion by iron fists. I dare say I understand the undead when they don't want to see the church or the cross, only the orthodox believe Iesu of Nazareth would enjoy the sight of it, the crucifix.

I nail my head to the window impatient. "Patient, be patient, we are soon in passing, soon forever onto our journey into the night."

I look down on my thigh, "HOLY MOTHER!" is it blood on my khaki pants?

No such epiphany, what's mere tomato juice is only a stern warning, a threat.

We round the corner into the second half. The women are fainting and the children are gassed to death by the odours of boredom and silence enforced on playful minds. Bars! These are prison bars in your child's mind!

Another stop en route. A new peach; not bright like a star, but red in all of black's colours, inviting eyes, beautiful waistline, dark makeup and brown top. She dulls her appearance down to suit her poetic self-image. Dramatic, no doubt, but look at those thighs! How I long to come between them, like a love triangle, torn between and drawn towards the two of two sisters, inseparable twins. Inseparable, you say? Sounds like a challenge, methinks.

I confront my reflection through the tunnel. It is speechless to my arguments, how can I know whether it be from fear or from awe? Strauss returns, the cheeky monkey, and relieves me of all personal doubts and fear; what bodily harm can come to the open pursuer of clean, housebroken love-making in conventional form? That's how I always disguise my surprise.

"What are you writing on?"

She looks up from her battered notepad and puts down the Nobel prize. With the teasing air of a tombstone she reluctantly informs me that her treatise deals with the insubordinate interruptions of strange men on the night train. How peculiar. How coincidental.

"How come?" I say, as if picking my next pet snake from a cluster bare-handed.

She scoffs politely. Something tells me she enjoys the role play involving set pieces of severe and unusual punishment. In that case, I am up for it.

"Tell me now, dark-painted girl-child; how will you breathe life into your poetry by looking out the window? Your emotional scope thus far has only played a single note, and I have played a thousand just watching you. Can you describe the bits of white flesh that separates itself from the body to die, in a manner that makes me want it like ice cream? We all scream for ice cream! Where is your footing? Fact or fantasy, please don't say both when you know perfectly well what I'm asking."

The choir resonates in the walls of the cart, all the singers are sounding on in-breath, until it culminates in primitive panting.

"Will you sleep with me if I guess correctly the colour of your panties? I am horny like a street dog here."

She replies from statistics, not confidence; "Yes."

"All right, let me think."

Let us see, the subject's sub-twenty, she's adopted the view of her older friends that she is mature, all the while knowing her own age and feeling the urge to play. I have never seen black panties under all-black robes; they must be screaming.

"They are pink," I conclude.

"How did you do it?"

"A poet would know."

The doors open, arrogance pulls me out, and proud steps in the drunkard night echo 'tween the hostels and shooting galleries as the sound of the night train disappear into memory; "Take me home, trusty feet. Your master is weary."

Curtain falls, the audience engage in enraged objections, the children are trampled down between the seats, money back was guaranteed; You'll find me in the hall of promiscuous ballet dancers.


Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.