McDonald’s is a porn theatre.
Sweet, glossy yellow bread. Bright glossy yellow moth lights.
August walks in, orders a burger. Number sixty-seven. Thinking, this is what Mishima would do.
I’m speaking down to the Japanese officers in Ichigaya and I’m about to kill myself. Thinking, this is what I would do.
Salsa falls on my menu. My eyes dart around, before I gently lower the previous page onto it. I pass it to the waitress. I’m sorry. I’m a fuckup.
You always need to know your name. At Starbucks I say, I don’t know. Jean. Jeauww-n. Like French. Not here. I’m 67.
You’re 67, and it tastes the exact same.
You’re 14, and you’re jerking off to Saint Sebastian, and smelling the sweet umami of a staling burger and
pressed against your lips, Mac sauce running down your thigh, it tastes the exact same.
Little yellow crown of love.
I’m sitting with Mishima and he says, I loathe the American occupation, but secretly, and I would never tell a soul, I love this.