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.