Funny Games 2

I won. It was my turn. I can’t look. We’re ten minutes in and neither of us gets it. Seems weird though, but less weird than the day before yesterday, when I pulled this film out the vomit of my sweetheart. Two boys then forcing her to swallow it. And the stick’s still warm from the stomach. And it flashes on and off in the machine. Either way, the look on her face is some piece of shit. Her breath too like the back end of anything dead. And she melts now and then like this new family we’re watching. And the scroller tells us we have till the weekend to pretend we’re in Florida. Where the forecast for tomorrow is all kinds of upset. So I’m sitting here looking at one half of a woman, when there’s sweethearts enough to last me all week. And we can feel the effects all at once in an instant: at the back of our eyes, the film laying its eggs. It’s hard to understand a disaster this friendly, to stop ourselves crying over the effluvium we spill. It’s harmless though, this constant threat of death. And polite too, like the creatures crawling out her eyes are only playing. But wow, this looking’s more dangerous than it looks. And we know how to be quiet. Even if, with our mouths this full, it’s no kind of game. And the question remains: did we do something wrong to end up alive? I’m happy if you are is just a way to stay human. And could we leave now please? Did you know, the dog attacked us in its sleep? And we behave ourselves in case we wake up. The film demands we take off our clothes, slaps us in the face, shatters our legs, plays guessing games: cold, warmer, really warm, hello? hello? It’s so cloudy I have eczema in all my pulled muscles. And the sun’s little girlfriends lay dead on the lawn. This removal of nature is the love we love seeing. But I misunderstand, and feel better than I should. To be more comfortable, I apologize, and I hear Jesus Christ had stopped watching by now. And it’s difficult to go without going insane. Not gay, not criminal, not alcoholic: truth is we’re failing to identify. Fucking all this emptiness makes us hungrier for less. We fall asleep, kaput, like they say on TV. We age like the dead. Get so old in a rush. But never that old when old becomes sweet. Because this family game is just a grave in a bucket. And we get bored easier than is possible. Our moral decency is silly. We’re so embarrassed it might kill us. By the way, bravo on that degrading shit. And us with our hearts so young and so little music. All we can do is something to eat. After all, what’s wrong with a strategy that says we should breathe but not walk? I journey to the end of the night to wake up the next day. It’s a signal I’m wasting my time. Please, I love you, but you killed my dream of maybe dying from my wounds. And when we’d prepared to be audience for the whole rest of our lives. New toys and such cowardly fucks, such pussy husband and wife. I almost cut myself on my mistakes. If it’s possible, I’m this prayer walking backwards. Please, I was fantastic, I was remote control. I’m so sorry your mirror image isn’t me. It’s how I avoid panic by waiting it out: in a black hole, in another hour, with gravitational force. I’m moving for the sake of sucking at paralysis. Hello? We met yesterday. You remember. The second I get home I’m recasting the dog.