full of electricity
I can see it, these crackling trails of blue white fluorescence across my hipbone where his finger traces some hypnotic and repetitive pattern
& smell it: my face crushed here beneath his arm tight, so when I breathe it must be somehow through him. this sodden fabric in my mouth and my nose full of his scent - chlorine and hot metal
electricity
this is how my heart beats: rushes and I'm sweating hot cold then pauses on the edge of some precipice
one - two - three
plunges irregular, breathtaking, bounces off the rocks
seems kind of resilient.
he puts his hand firm in the centre of my chest, like a prelude to CPR.
crescent moons of brown blood under his nails
(here I'm hoping it's mine)
(here I'm hoping it's blood)
he said once: "I don't want to have sex with you, it's too fucking obvious"
Monday, 26 April 2010
Friday, 23 April 2010
Skate
I’m crying, I think, it’s not very pretty
these strings of snot and blood
keep shaking my head, like a dog, trying to clear my vision.
It doesn’t work.
But I keep doing it anyway until it pitches me sideways, my fucked up face on the white painted floorboards. I can see these little misshapen bodies of dust beneath the bed; dust mice my grandmother called them.
I don’t know if this is the regular term.
I’m stretching out a tentative finger to stroke one but it doesn’t reach.
Blood from my nose pools in the back of my mouth, it tastes kind of gross so I cough and spit it out then – shit – I remember where I am
“sorry”
try and scoop it up kinda but then I’m just left with this palm full of – ugh
stuff I don’t know what to do with.
It’s not going very well
I look up at him and he’s put some kind of robe on, he says:
“I’ll get some ice” and I say “if it’s not too much trouble” only I don’t think it’s that intelligible, it’s more like:
“uhh fsshnuh ooumuh bluh” or something.
I think probably my nose is broken. It’s really embarrassing.
About fifteen minutes before and he’s trying to give me head. I told him:
“I don’t really do that?”
But he’s all “oh c’mon you’ll like it, I promise.”
I won’t
I can pretty much guarantee it, but whatever.
I’m roller skating downhill. I’m holding hands with my best friend, her name is Aisha. The surface of the road is made of gravel and the roller skates are the cheap metal kind that go over your regular shoes. I’m enjoying how this combination makes my soles buzz, then how that buzz spreads through all the bones in my feet and up my shins until my knees are buzzing too. Aisha is also enjoying it. I can tell. It’s evening in the late summer so the sunlight has this hazy and kind of melancholy quality. If it had a caption it would read:
NOSTALGIA
it would be written in a font particular to your own childhood. It would make you sigh softly and feel a little sad, but in a warm, sentimental way.
He stops whatever he’s doing.
“this isn’t really working”
His eyes have lost that intense but blurry look. He’s probably getting bored.
I wriggle my toes, my feet are still buzzing.
“hello – oh” he waves at my face.
bored and a little irritated.
not that much.
“I need you to be more – “and he’s frowning grasping for the right word or phrase.
“into it?”
I sit up and cross my legs.
“you could try being a bit – umm” I bite my lip, pretending to think for a moment. I hope it looks cute rather than retarded.
“rougher?”
“ok”
He doesn’t sound that sure.
“like this?”
He kind of pushes me backwards, quite slowly and slaps my cheek; only it’s not really a slap more like a regular touch only slightly – firmer.
It wasn’t really what I had in mind.
I’m smiling brightly, scramble up looking around for some – prop?
“no – more like this”
I can’t see anything suitable so I’m improvising –grasping my hair at the crown and – the mechanics of this sound implausible, but it works – sort of – I slam my head down hard face first into the corner of the glass topped bedside table.
Shit
something kind of – gives way - then fades out in orange and dark green and I hit the floorboards. I don’t think I pass out though and I’m pushing myself up on my arms.
I can hear him opening the freezer door through where the kitchen must be.
I’m wondering in an abstract kind of way whether it’s still appropriate to ask him for money, and if so then how much?
I notice a pile of CD’s stacked on the floor by the bed. Some of them are really fucking cool, for some reason this makes me feel about a million times worse.
these strings of snot and blood
keep shaking my head, like a dog, trying to clear my vision.
It doesn’t work.
But I keep doing it anyway until it pitches me sideways, my fucked up face on the white painted floorboards. I can see these little misshapen bodies of dust beneath the bed; dust mice my grandmother called them.
I don’t know if this is the regular term.
I’m stretching out a tentative finger to stroke one but it doesn’t reach.
Blood from my nose pools in the back of my mouth, it tastes kind of gross so I cough and spit it out then – shit – I remember where I am
“sorry”
try and scoop it up kinda but then I’m just left with this palm full of – ugh
stuff I don’t know what to do with.
It’s not going very well
I look up at him and he’s put some kind of robe on, he says:
“I’ll get some ice” and I say “if it’s not too much trouble” only I don’t think it’s that intelligible, it’s more like:
“uhh fsshnuh ooumuh bluh” or something.
I think probably my nose is broken. It’s really embarrassing.
About fifteen minutes before and he’s trying to give me head. I told him:
“I don’t really do that?”
But he’s all “oh c’mon you’ll like it, I promise.”
I won’t
I can pretty much guarantee it, but whatever.
I’m roller skating downhill. I’m holding hands with my best friend, her name is Aisha. The surface of the road is made of gravel and the roller skates are the cheap metal kind that go over your regular shoes. I’m enjoying how this combination makes my soles buzz, then how that buzz spreads through all the bones in my feet and up my shins until my knees are buzzing too. Aisha is also enjoying it. I can tell. It’s evening in the late summer so the sunlight has this hazy and kind of melancholy quality. If it had a caption it would read:
NOSTALGIA
it would be written in a font particular to your own childhood. It would make you sigh softly and feel a little sad, but in a warm, sentimental way.
He stops whatever he’s doing.
“this isn’t really working”
His eyes have lost that intense but blurry look. He’s probably getting bored.
I wriggle my toes, my feet are still buzzing.
“hello – oh” he waves at my face.
bored and a little irritated.
not that much.
“I need you to be more – “and he’s frowning grasping for the right word or phrase.
“into it?”
I sit up and cross my legs.
“you could try being a bit – umm” I bite my lip, pretending to think for a moment. I hope it looks cute rather than retarded.
“rougher?”
“ok”
He doesn’t sound that sure.
“like this?”
He kind of pushes me backwards, quite slowly and slaps my cheek; only it’s not really a slap more like a regular touch only slightly – firmer.
It wasn’t really what I had in mind.
I’m smiling brightly, scramble up looking around for some – prop?
“no – more like this”
I can’t see anything suitable so I’m improvising –grasping my hair at the crown and – the mechanics of this sound implausible, but it works – sort of – I slam my head down hard face first into the corner of the glass topped bedside table.
Shit
something kind of – gives way - then fades out in orange and dark green and I hit the floorboards. I don’t think I pass out though and I’m pushing myself up on my arms.
I can hear him opening the freezer door through where the kitchen must be.
I’m wondering in an abstract kind of way whether it’s still appropriate to ask him for money, and if so then how much?
I notice a pile of CD’s stacked on the floor by the bed. Some of them are really fucking cool, for some reason this makes me feel about a million times worse.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
What Katy Did at School
I am writing an essay about the Medieval Agricultural Revolution. I am quite bored/high.
About midway through I insert a paragraph describing – in fairly graphic and intense detail – how I have just castrated myself. I am inspired by a similar occurrence in Susan Coolidge’s novel of 1873 “What Katy Did at School”.
I presume nobody will notice.
This presumption is incorrect.
I am having a compulsory ‘chat’. I say: “it was a joke” I make a noise; it’s supposed to sound like a laugh
“Ha- ha”
It doesn’t sound right.
“It’s not very funny” he says. He is finding it very difficult to look at me.
“So it’s not a – uh – cry for help?”
He sounds kind of hopeful. I want to say “I didn’t know the university provided help with that sort of thing” But it seems unnecessarily glib.
He shoots a surreptitious and concerned glance at my crotch as I leave.
The mark I receive for this essay is slightly higher than usual.
About midway through I insert a paragraph describing – in fairly graphic and intense detail – how I have just castrated myself. I am inspired by a similar occurrence in Susan Coolidge’s novel of 1873 “What Katy Did at School”.
I presume nobody will notice.
This presumption is incorrect.
I am having a compulsory ‘chat’. I say: “it was a joke” I make a noise; it’s supposed to sound like a laugh
“Ha- ha”
It doesn’t sound right.
“It’s not very funny” he says. He is finding it very difficult to look at me.
“So it’s not a – uh – cry for help?”
He sounds kind of hopeful. I want to say “I didn’t know the university provided help with that sort of thing” But it seems unnecessarily glib.
He shoots a surreptitious and concerned glance at my crotch as I leave.
The mark I receive for this essay is slightly higher than usual.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
Stair
this boy on the stairs, never seen him before.
that thin as to be barely there and way hazy, insubstantial.
but a definite presence and intimidating sort of.
there's no way I can pass
and stand very uncertain, first one leg, then the other.
close to tears for my third favourite t-shirt, maybe. it's a ball in my pocket, shredded and fouled. pat it for comfort.
sniff and swallow a ragged breath.
he senses the noise or the movement or something and looks up at me, he says:
"is K there?"
only he uses his proper name, it doesn't even begin with K. and I jump the railing and fall way down into the dark stairwell.
except I don't, I just shake my head
we ran out of water the beginning of the third week drink turtle blood salt water enemas lips crack, bleed, scab, crack again
he frowns, his hair some halo under the skylight bright and indescribably profound. I think he is speaking.
watch his mouth intently, it's very beautiful.
his brother, his school, some car, the police
something
I wait politely until i guess he's finished:
"we should go get a drink" I say
that thin as to be barely there and way hazy, insubstantial.
but a definite presence and intimidating sort of.
there's no way I can pass
and stand very uncertain, first one leg, then the other.
close to tears for my third favourite t-shirt, maybe. it's a ball in my pocket, shredded and fouled. pat it for comfort.
sniff and swallow a ragged breath.
he senses the noise or the movement or something and looks up at me, he says:
"is K there?"
only he uses his proper name, it doesn't even begin with K. and I jump the railing and fall way down into the dark stairwell.
except I don't, I just shake my head
we ran out of water the beginning of the third week drink turtle blood salt water enemas lips crack, bleed, scab, crack again
he frowns, his hair some halo under the skylight bright and indescribably profound. I think he is speaking.
watch his mouth intently, it's very beautiful.
his brother, his school, some car, the police
something
I wait politely until i guess he's finished:
"we should go get a drink" I say
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Guitar Hero
Emil is talking at some great length about how great his band is or how cute or how like something else i don't catch the name of I'm punching myself in the side of the head mentally so i don't zone out and can keep making little affirmative noises "mm hmm" and keep my eyes at least partially there. I find my broken tooth with my tongue push hard then kind of clamp down with my top teeth. it's hard to explain but it feels very intense and makes me jolt, like i just got cattle prodded.
I would really like to leave now but K is sending me this meaningful glance and tapping the place on his wrist where a watch would be if he ever wore a watch.
personally i can't see why the juxtaposition would be that great or interesting.
"he looks just like your guitar hero avatar" slurred in my ear ten minutes before.
"he DOES NOT" i reply, probably the most forceful thing i've ever said to him and shiver a little in sweet anticipation of some retribution that unfortunately doesn't happen. My guitar hero avatar is called KITTEN he has the same trousers as me but the resemblance pretty much ends there - physically i am about as close to being in love with him as i have ever been to anybody, psychically i realise this is a bit fucked up.
the steps between 'listening' to Emil here and getting him to come back to the hotel to play the role of KITTEN in whatever scenario K has planned for that afternoon seem over complicated and boring.
I yawn and swallow a little of the blood from my tooth.
I wonder half-heartedly if I win out in the end?
Monday, 12 April 2010
I Don't Know
"what are you wearing?"
my head hurts so I can only sneak glances at the screen
"I don't know"
type without looking
my left leg twitches or spasms or something. try to still it with my hand.
A went to buy drugs, he's taking: some ridiculously long time, or, about 11 minutes?
what kind of drugs?
"I don't know"
what I am wearing is stupid or meaningless, I could make something up but my heart isn't in it.
"a Rimbaud t-shirt and a huge smile?"
"cling-film and bunny ears?"
yawn & twitch
I don't know what people want any more.
"cam?"
my head hurts so I can only sneak glances at the screen
"I don't know"
type without looking
my left leg twitches or spasms or something. try to still it with my hand.
A went to buy drugs, he's taking: some ridiculously long time, or, about 11 minutes?
what kind of drugs?
"I don't know"
what I am wearing is stupid or meaningless, I could make something up but my heart isn't in it.
"a Rimbaud t-shirt and a huge smile?"
"cling-film and bunny ears?"
yawn & twitch
I don't know what people want any more.
"cam?"
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Luck
Wrote 'LUCKY' on my chest in emerald green
"What's that, your pony boy name?" sniggers, sneers or whatever.
"It's your luck too"
and unsettled he pretends to be absorbed in the sticky patches of spilled beer on the surface of the table.
We kiss on the downs as some guy in an expensive hat blows him, hurried and incompetent. Screws his eyes tight closed, says: "I can still see the shape of the moon".
Entranced later by the tip of an infected scratch that snakes from the neck of K's youngest brother's t-shirt. He follows my eyes smiles enigmatically:
"Cats" he says,
"You can touch it if you want to".
"What's that, your pony boy name?" sniggers, sneers or whatever.
"It's your luck too"
and unsettled he pretends to be absorbed in the sticky patches of spilled beer on the surface of the table.
We kiss on the downs as some guy in an expensive hat blows him, hurried and incompetent. Screws his eyes tight closed, says: "I can still see the shape of the moon".
Entranced later by the tip of an infected scratch that snakes from the neck of K's youngest brother's t-shirt. He follows my eyes smiles enigmatically:
"Cats" he says,
"You can touch it if you want to".
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