Mystery Tears

A poem about hysteria

You could order them from China over the Internet. The website showed a grainy picture of Vivien Leigh in Streetcar Named Desire. It was two vials for twenty euros and they were packaged like AA batteries.

They first became popular on the young German art scene – thin boys would tap a few drops into their eyes then paint their girlfriends legs akimbo and faces cramped with wisdom, in the style of the Weimar Republic. It was sexy. They weren’t like artificial Hollywood tears, they had a sticky, salty texture and a staggered release system. One minute, you’re sitting at the dinner table eating a perfectly nice steak then you’re crying until you’re sick in a plant-pot.

My partner sadly became addicted to Mystery Tears. A thousand pounds went in a week and everything I did provoked despair. She loved the trickling sensation. ‘It’s so romantic,’ she said, ‘and yet I feel nothing.’ She started labelling her stash with names like For Another and Things I Dare Not Tell. She alternated vials, sometimes cried all night.

She had bottles sent by special delivery marked Not Enough. A dealer sold her stuff cut with Fairy Liquid, street-name: River of Sorrow. Our flat shook and dampened. I never touched it. Each day she woke up calmer and calmer.

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