The sadness of the rich
Oscar, an AKC-certified fawn French bulldog and a savage critique of consumer society, has a weeping eye, and so it rains in the halls of the hearts of the rich.
One actually cannot die from a broken heart, the rich have experimented on this front, as they did with trenches and Lorca in the past, or the generalized orphaning of fauna, or the placing of the sole of a clad foot on a heart held between two clad hands, or et cetera. A heart so held will stretch beyond repair, a melted clock of heart, a sunned wheel of Appenzeller of heart, one scrambles to pick it from the earth it litters, as with flags that are not to know dirt or fire but which find it faster than bleached moths, one bends down and fills hurried hands with ruined heart, it spills from the palm in intestinal coils having forgotten what kind of organ it was supposed to be, all stretched and routed, and laid end to end, until the heart so pulled measures the distance between colony and grave.
But the rain that pours the stairs of the hearts of the rich is a different matter altogether, it swells, it con-cat-e-nates, because Oscar’s sneeze sounds serious this time, plus the eye’s winsome weep, plus the delivery is late, plus the streets are scattered with dead cops and live cops, the latter turning in place to face the sun and mourn the former and scorn the uncarapaced, and with them the heliotropic rich cry out to the darkened air to never forget the boys in blue and curse the sun for not dimming itself in tribute and promise vengeance on whatever clouded the window to the soul of Oscar, that savage critique of consumer society.
Yes, the ruble’s still falling and the Russian driver of the rich is nipping about the continent and then some for them, flogging caviar spoon over fist like it was coke and coke was oil back in the naughts, but still they cannot be cheered, their sadness knows no limits, they pace the sodden floor in oxen heart slippers as Oscar, incorrigible, huffs moths like bags of diesel, and in Brescia, hucksters passed chows off as pandas, because that’s the way things go now, the rich sigh, the fucking fount of the Occident, they point out with a lofted spoon, has to copy the fucking Chinese who themselves passed off tremendous hounds as lions, the fur of their scruff teased to the point of regality with Russian off-brand Aqua Net, the dogs continually passing out from all the hair spray and attention, they became prima donnas, their riders were tremendous in scope and length, the details crystalline, literally, as in they wanted every object coated in crystals, not just the water dish but the water itself, undrinkable and fit only to scatter across the floor as spited milk, the thirsty dogs asked for big cats on the brink of extinction, Goldschläger sliders, antique weapons that double as vibes, other dogs even, as if by demanding so far beyond their means, they would actually transmute into lions and so open a tear in the fabric of space and cash, like Cortazar’s axototls and their tremendous golden eyes, gobbling the gawker men up in a wondrous act of transubstantiation and empathy.
But in Brescia the chows were plainer, just dyed white and black to be a panda for those who didn’t know what pandas were, their rider was simple, its demand central, asking only stop in bold letters of mucous secreted from the eyes of the pandas, who were not pandas, which showed what the Brescian veterinarian called un’accentuata lacrimazione oculare, a heightened weeping of the eye, caused from excessive exposure to the flash of the hundreds of photos daily taken of pandas who were teased to the point of species treason, and the children, conned to hell and back, weep shining tears, and Oscar feasts on the brined remains of the deposed and outside the day is bright as looted milk, no filter.