He’s six-foot-one and his clothes always fit.
He sees you looking but he don’t give a shit.
He’s Imperial… Slim.
He’s Imperial… Slim.

He’s got more bitches than your fingers can count
but it’s not a figure that he cares to flount.
He’s Imperial… Slim.
Yes, he’s Imperial… Slim.

He’ll pass you in line without a second thought.
The things you wanna own? He’s already bought.
Those cries in the night are the ones he’s caused.
Not a blemish,
not a scar,
not the tiniest flaw.

He’s Imperial Slim.


And it’s on Spring afternoons like these
when the sun is shining with exactly the right amount of gold
and the Radiohead is playing just so
that I realize I didn’t miss Tokyo at all,
just her
and the billowing cool of her indifferent beauty.


He would look at the photograph for hours, a perfect statue of a man whose gnarled hands would idly scratch his rough stubble of a beard or rest one palm over an eye, as if by denying himself the depth of vision he could somehow see deeper.

But he couldn’t remember ever taking it. His daughter assured him that he did, he had, a great many years now long past. Decades disappeared, across a great gulf of empty memories like someone had taken a razor to the long reel of film in his mind and excised a 40-year chunk of it.

He should be terrified, but instead the experience was one of immense calm, like he’d been drinking enough to lose himself a little. Just a little, just so that he could sit back without feeling the cold claws of his reality. There was no fear in the realization that most of the life he’d lived was missing, for he couldn’t be sure he’d even lived it in the first place.

The woman frozen in the photograph, staring back at him from across all those years, triggered no recognition whatsoever. Caught in profile, features blurred, watching the photographer with sidelong eyes that communicated both annoyance and coy delight in a single glance. She was a vision, whoever she was, or had been. If he’d loved or hated her he knew not now.