The beautiful woman

I like Grace Jones, I drive eating up the road and I have good social standing.
There are things I haven’t yet said or heard and this gives me hope. It’s not that everything always goes my way, it’s just that I try to make it work and, in the end, it does. Bad luck is just the bad habit of feeling unlucky, it gets you when you are young and doesn’t let go.
I avoid various different things, like unnecessary tension, long digestion, states of drowsiness and excesses of sobriety. In general, I am accommodating with those who listen to me and if I have to give someone advice, I tell them to read in periods of calm but with at a fast pace, like spring marathons when you go around with short sleeves and wink at the neighbour.
I also avoid disputes and punch-ups. I want to remain righteous even if I lose with nobility and courage, so I am already off-target before anything falls on me, chairs with wings, angry hands and other bar vendettas. Once I narrowly missed a punch in the stomach by pretending to have a bout of vomiting, a bit like saving those present from the disgust in exchange for compromised honour.
I avoid expressing the thoughts that I find most fitting when I know I am not understood. If you go around saying with a sigh I’ll ship you off to Latin America or that social decline burns the most elementary principles like small explosions in the atmosphere, you will attract dislike and disapproval to your orbit.
I have experienced immoral situations because of immoral women. With them, I don’t do the chasing, I let them do it, according to the philosophy of go ahead if you want me. It’s satisfying to feel on display, to operate in the underworld of the lives of others, to silently relieve them of their hidden perversions. And as for the wounds on my wrists, where the skin thickens and changes colour, no-one has ever asked why.
I would buy you a coffee even if I didn’t know you, lunch if I like how you look and a whole evening if we can speak to each other without worrying about the passing of time.
I live alone because I have made habits my company, maybe I depend on them but I am not willing to get rid of them in exchange for a bed warmed by a woman, by food shared at lunch time, by good mornings and goodnights that open and close like locks.
Women, the strangest creatures, have been around here with all their ways, moments and the need to feel like someone’s mother. I have loved, in my own way I have loved too, and never to the point of draining myself to build the house of love that, watch out, if it takes you the wrong way, takes you somewhere you don’t want to go, in a perfect nightmare dipped in your favourite sweet. On the other hand, desire cannot be controlled and to control oneself would be torture and a betrayal of oneself too. I have no solutions for this, trying to find them or even just talking about them, would be a waste of time.
The reasons I have been attacked with fierce words are now clearer to me but I wouldn’t rule out running into situations I’ve already seen with the same mentality of old or with something similar. What’s the harm in wanting someone who holds someone else close in public? What’s the harm in compensating for the weaknesses of a friend? As I’ve already said, I never make the first move, I’ve found myself dancing and I’ve been dancing for a few years, and yes, of course you get a bit tired, but life becomes harsh like an eternal aperitif.
I’ve been told, screamed at, that I act the part of a beautiful woman, one of those women who flutter their eyes and plot on the quiet, if you know what I mean. I replied as I could, making moralism and similar words my aim, but on second thought, damn, it’s not a bad expression.