Recipe

you are in the kitchen making spaghetti head full of the most exquisite explosions some complete and cleansing annihilations say:

it's not a monster it's just a frightened child

head undeniably caved a concrete slab held 17 seconds dropped from a great height

when spaghetti is cooked it sticks to the wall

he is really hesitant at the threshold little radiant outlaw banned & barred now inside

a fine powder pollen or dust from the wings of moths you brush against him in the hope that some of it rubs off and you are over awed by this fine inventory; golden rum an erection a glow in the dark Swiss army knife a pocket full of rohypnol an empty reel of cotton

he shows you, more or less

tails you to the bathroom whispers from the door frame:

"my dad is waiting in the van"

and you piss this unsteady overlooked stream like you're in his custody and you like it a lot or too much or not at all

there's a van & you ride up front a sleeping dog in the foot well his sister her friend someone else with an ironic circus act you thought you saw one time his father drives with both hands stoned and over compensates with intense focus so you skin up for him with something smells acrid sweet summer and soft like the quality of the sunlight that precise moment

you don't know where you're going

he kneels up close behind your seat snakes a hand inside your shirt draws a nail scalpel sharp across your chest licks salt behind your ear laughs clouds you spill stuff it floats into your lap you look down for a while


your head rests on a tyre his knee jammed tight into your crotch he is wearing your shirt probably something in your hand you can't remember what it's for your head is full of blur and fog reshaping into a beautiful sentence about a hare or hares plural you open your mouth to tell him because it must be that significant but he mutes you with a handful of pills then regrets this generosity prises your lips open and reclaims maybe half melted from your tongue you smell music and hear woodsmoke

it's not a monster

you spend all afternoon peeling back the blasted concrete embedded with shards of metal your fingers bleed unlike in the story there is nothing underneath.

there is some moment of pure clarity amazed & grateful how competently this you gets along just fine without that you; something else (again) in your hand your feet wet in the sea splutters out into blankness and hum

throwing up some incessant stream of something so much and so long you get bored by this and muffled cramping somewhere there and the effort of positioning your cheek a little closer to the kerb he crawls nearby like tracking through the long grass or pavement and says he would like to fuck you but can't remember why or how and you might reply something about waiting until you finish throwing up although you know really you will never finish throwing up and there is a noise in your ears like a tiny helicopter

"should I put you into the recovery position?"

you laugh:

"yeah, try it"

and he laughs too which makes him retch and you both lay somewhere laughing and throwing up together companionably although he is very wet & cold

when it's morning sooner or later his sister says to the police:

"we're all minors"

you don't think it's necessary to contradict her and you don't visit him in the hospital you just go home somehow & peel spaghetti off the wall.

Meth

can't make him move away fast enough

stupid fucking gazelle

sobbing into convulsions
falling from whatever it is

"want some?"

blink; blink again
shrug

"you know - you can shoot it straight up your ass?"

I think about the needle
you can tell I am thinking about the needle and you snort:

"not like that, dumb fuck"

you scrabble through your bag
you throw stuff about

"like this"

you hold it up like some prize

although it's just kind of regular

"it's cool, you don't feel stuff so much - you know like - numb"
you say the word "numb" again because you like the way it feels in your mouth I guess

you start to say something else but it slides off before it gets anywhere:

"I - uh"

you glance at Early and another man (I don't know who he is)
nervous and scratch your leg
your legs are bare with these striated grey patterns like old dust and cobwebs

you notice I'm staring and rub at your knee, self-consciously
(what seemed uncanny is, in retrospect, mundane; the marks left by the large plaster that had previously wrapped your left knee)

you throw a cigarette packet vaguely in Early's direction

"stop filming him you shit, he's not even awake yet"

this is where I might fall in love

Type

I don't really have a type.
Sometimes it bothers me.
Mostly, I don't think about it at all.
I'm thinking about it right now - sort of.
Except I keep getting sidelined, investigating this mysterious noise.
It's a good one: a kind of scratching or scrabbling - like rats running between the ceiling and the floor. Their little claws scritch scratch over wood. Or - this is better - some Victorian kiddy ghost, a child fading out in a blocked up cupboard.

My favourite story when I was a kid was Edgar Allen Poe's The Cask of Amontillado, so I'm hardly likely to pass on the chance to investigate the potentially sinister origins of a mysterious noise.

I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation

is my favourite line; or maybe this other part that just says Ugh! fifteen times.

It's supposed to be a cough. It seems like it's gonna be this real significant part of the story, something that's the key to the meaning of the whole thing - only it isn't. It's just a guy with a cough.

Ugh! (x15)

It's kind of like the mystery noise in this story.

My friend said to me last week: "I'm not even your type"
Me: "I don't have a type"

I'm doing this really unattractive spitting thing with my finger and thumb in my mouth, trying to untangle my hair from my teeth. It's pretty wedged in. It feels like an unfeasibly large amount of hair, but that could be the mushrooms I ate several hours before.
It occurs to me that doing something so unappealing immediately after sex could be construed as really, really impolite - so I make a kind of demi- veil with my other hand. I'm hoping the uncovered part of my face looks sexy and engaged. It probably doesn't.

We end up fucking maybe four or five times a year. It's usually a result of some accident of convenience and proximity I guess.

(for him)

and I'm pretty obliging and not really - bothered?

This really pisses him off sometimes - like now:

"it doesn't mean anything to you, does it?"

kind of in disgust

" we could be - “he’s looking around the room, like for inspiration.

"eating toast, or watching TV"

he's looking at his girlfriend - she's pretty fast asleep though.

“I really like watching TV with you"

I say, quietly - I don't want to wake her up.
He looks very confused and aroused or something.

"I like the way you heckle all the time, under your breath"

this last is muffled by his cock in my mouth. I'm trying to give him this ultra-professional head as a kind of apology, but my hair keeps getting in my mouth and wrapping itself around my teeth and tongue.

Ugh! (x15)

My friend is very beautiful. I want to point out that I'm aware of this, in an abstract kind of way.

He's gathering my hair into some kind of clump and holding it there, more or less securely, with both hands.

That's better

Feeling much more streamlined and efficient

He makes this gentle noise; it’s like the kind of noise you’d make if someone simultaneously punched you in the stomach and put a really nice piece of cake in your mouth.

“mmm Ugh! (x1)

It’s nice

And I’m warm and present; although my left hand seems kind of spongy it’s very easy to classify this as a hallucinatory effect – it doesn’t really make me anxious at all.

“It’s like in your writing – “

“huh?”

It doesn’t seem the appropriate moment for literary criticism, plus I’m deflated some that whatever I’m doing isn’t involving enough to distract him from attempting it.

Should I stop; or what?

“ – you focus on sex – like – a lot – but then you’re determined to come across as – wow – uh completely detached and uninterested except in this abstract, analytical way – wait!”

He jerks my head back swift firm and I’m looking at his face as he speaks –

“why do you see yourself as this person who –? “

I scramble for his mouth

And cover it

“sh-shut the fuck up”

(it’s ok; we’ve been friends for at least 2 years)

and I’m glad my hand is over his mouth when he comes

no-one wakes up or anything

I’m walking off in search of water, careful, wavering baby steps. His come tastes all dark and organic, like peat maybe?

Ugh! (x abt 4)

I’m not sure if this taste is the tripping thing or not. I need to rinse either way.

My friend whispers; “don’t you want me to –?”

Trying to move away fast, but it’s challenging with all these people on the floor and the walk messages from my brain getting distracted before they reach my leg muscles.

It’s kind of funny.

“I’m not even your type”

Doesn’t concern me then

But it does now – sort of

Edgar Allen Poe had a type, I’m sure –

Scritch scratch

I’m inching along the corridor, lightly tapping the wall. When the nature of the sound seems to change I crouch down and scrabble with the tips of my fingers, a patch just above the skirting boards. Peel back the paper, the plasterboard –

There’s nothing here

I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be.

Just some quantity of dust – straw and plaster and old mortar, it makes me cough

Ugh! (x15)

- his type would’ve been a dead or dying adolescent, preferably with a vagina full of little white teeth.

Stay

"I'll make you then"

some intense stare right in close and I narrow my eyes, what should be a menacing squint
only it's not
and he exhales, smiles:

"it's so hot, I can actually see the blood as it flows to your mouth"

hands raised, poised
and I am lean but soft.
so slow and hazed where he is taut and engaged, energy fizzes through those discrete muscles swift information.

I will never make it although I am more familiar with strategy

(look one way, move the other)

eyes to the open door
spring for the open window.
But it's less of a spring, more of a stagger with these edges all blurred. No momentum, hardly takes me off the bed before I am caught.Right arm twisted here in the small of my back, a heel to my shin and knees down, cushioned some in these dusty pools of clothing. Barely hurts but all the same makes me catch my breath

flush and bite back that smile itches in the corners of my mouth, lips already filled with blood.
limp as he ties me arms outstretched, to the iron frame of the bed. one wrist; a blue bandanna, one wrist; a black t-shirt, slightly damp.

stands back beyond the reach of my feet.

"I hate you; touch me"

that's what i want my eyes to eyes to say only I don't know that look
try it - but it reads as something else.

"I have to go to Exeter, I'll be a while"

grins ands locks the door behind him.