Everything around me is was and will be drunk for the forseeable future.
I’ll tell you anything and forget it just to hear you quote it back to me brand new, like it fell from the perfect slobbering bullhorn lips of the single archetypal orator.
Your thigh landed like a hammer when it brushed against my knee.
I dreamed my back was covered in fur and I spoke in tongues all night last night as I dreamed of your arrival. You are still arriving, arriving two weeks gone, you are scheming for a moment when again you can shiver and rush south like a hot wind of lead. It’s not my plan, but still, it is joyous, even if I am disgusted at my own weakness. My hands swim south through you like scorpions, all skeleton, racing like sperm to find you and fix you with the sharpest, hollowest parts of themselves. You arrive banging like a washing machine jumping against the wall, madly humping, love held out over your heart, pointed down your tit like a knife. That’s how you get off the bus. That’s how you unpack your bags. That’s how you insist on reading the story straight, always to the equator, always to the end, the pages tearing where the bones and brads have tacked them, supposedly permanent. Your love becomes a long, singing cleavage as I, the dumb wolf, paw and slobber, the things I’ve heard men say drooling off my teeth and blackening the pages we have abandoned ourselves to removing, to putting behind us as though we were discarding the shells of aeroplanes.
This isn’t our story. This isn’t our house. We’ve been borrowed and told how it’s going to end. However many times we run there, however many pages we fix and turn, tearing, we will hit the end aglow like the embers of tuning forks to lie as flat as starfish.