Theo opened his eyes and his ex was standing there.
Your mother’s eyes Who are you now?
Propped in bed, Monsieur Vincent is lifting his shirt to display to Monsieur Ravoux the admittedly illogical nearly bloodless bullet hole in the region of his heart.
In defense of threatened minks everywhere.
And now?
Crossing the town square, his back loaded like a porcupine with painting equipment.
This great ruck of goat-fuckers.
The British occupiers the Americans in Iraq.
My teeth. My god.
8:38.
Destroy them thoroughly the Sheik instructing you and your friends over lukewarm Cokes and Cheetos Puffs.
It is January. It is 1890. Henry de Groux, that Symbolist fop with the widow’s peak, is refusing to allow his work to be displayed alongside Monsieur Vincent’s craziness at Les XX exhibition in Brussels. Brave little Lautrec limps up and challenges him to a duel. Signac vows to pick up the fight, should Henri fare less than excellently in it.
November already.
You have built a career out of portraying yourself as a lifelong victim Mrs. Hirsi Ali that’s very clever of you.
The voice is—
Death being a sexually transmitted disease, Pim once sharing with Theo on a balcony outside a party in honor of a famous Dutch drag queen.
Thinking you are better than the rest of us who were born here but you are a liar Mrs. Hirsi Ali there is no way around it.
We were made for heaven, but we live in hell.
The garret in Positano.
A liar aswirl in an ocean of faggots clowns and kikes.
Monsieur Vincent is stumbling through the du—
Scrutinizing.
Remove the sodomite’s head from his body the imam recommending on your video then burn the black coffin into which the cursèd refuse is flung.
No. That’s not it.
The whole town of white and pink buildings clinging to the cliff above the turquoise sea along the Amalfi coast.
Look: the short fat filthy pig peddling.
Monsieur Ravoux’s voice overwhelming the room, appalled: What in heaven’s name have you done?
God being a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh, Voltaire once famously volunteering.
Erase them from the face of the earth ruin their economies set their companies on fire the Sheik teaching over Diet Squirts and a bowl of Panda licorice chews.
Dear Theo: I have used up more than one hundred tubes of paint this past fortnight. Would you by any chance be in a position to spare a few francs that I might continue with my mission? — Mercilessly yours, Vincent
The nightstreet, glittery.
You’re thirsty but it’s too late for such nonsense.
That poem by Heinrich Heine commencing: This is awful weather.
A joyjig.
How your dying mother tucked her bony hands against her bony cheek and stared stubbornly across the room at what the next life offered since this one had failed her so miserably.
Fishermen know the sea is dangerous, the storm terrible, I replied to de Groux outside the exhibition, yet they never find these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.
Allah Allah oxen free.
Sink their ships bring down their planes the Sheik coaching over Chocomels and curry-flavored Tijgernootjes.
The idea of yellowness.
Theo doggystyling his ex against the terrace’s balustrade before she was his ex, breakfast table behind them, sun thrilling his bare shoulder blades.
Approaching the doorstep of his fate.
The high-pitched color.
Theo waving merrily at the young couple several terraces over that happened to catch sight of them. Perhaps they were on their honeymoon.
Your mouth dry.
My father always believing in his own self-righteousness.
The quartet sharing an outrageous moment.
Come to me you think that’s it come to me.
Your mouth dry.
Theodoor van Gogh is such a naughty boy.
The Sword of Unified Belief you signed your letter and then you moved to your farewell poem.
The light within him was black.
Again.
A child playing by himself among trash bags in the alley.
Look: I am reaching out my hand to shake Gauguin’s for the first time.
And, afterward, coffee and a platter of melon slices, grapes, strawberries at the umbrellaed table overlooking the shimmering infinity.
You.
It appears I have tried to kill myself, Monsieur Vincent responds in a tone that suggests he is every bit as taken aback by this fact as the next man.
Theo’s ex in front of him, demanding: Who the fuck did you shag THIS time? WHO?
So this is my final word
Riddled with bullets
Baptized in blood
As I had hoped.
I’m glad I haven’t learned how to paint, he explaining to Gauguin’s back, the master inspecting Monsieur Vincent’s sunflowers. Think of what I might have lost.
The scarlet bung of a quotation bobs to the surface of Theo’s memory.
You a poet a Renaissance man who suspected?
Look: the photograph of me sitting with Bernard at a lone table on the banks of the river, empty road punctuated with a few leafless trees and a grungy inn to my left. Bernard’s bearded face looking over my shoulder at the camera.
I desire to go to hell and not heaven, for in the former place I shall enjoy the company of popes, kings, and princes, while in the latter only beggars, monks, and apostles.
Your teachers smiling down at you.
Of me, however, there survives only this trace: a black top hat, a black-coated back, a pair of legs protruding from a stool.
Who said that?
Amused.
My voice declaring: I am thirsty. I want my pipe.
Rise and shine or there’ll be no time for breakfast, Theo singsonged softly, and Lieuwe responded from deep beneath his quilt-and-pillow barricade: You are sooooo uncool, Dad. Seriously.