down in me

Girls with rib-grazing dark hair over their right eye glare at you from their left, shifting their weight from one side to the other, wearing ankle boots again after a long ankle boot-less spell though they’ve often never flattered. Thin lanky types but everything about them feels heavy like even the ground is attracted to them, like the weight of sheer beauty calls their bones to the floor, like earth itself attempts to slow and forcefully drag off their clothes. What should we do with them? We can attempt a conversation, they do like to go hunting for fun. We can buy them shiny jewelled boxes to fill with various items of interest to skinny bitches. We can bang their empty heads together like chalkboard erasers and watch the eye shadow dust clouds form and dissipate around us. But what am I saying, really? They know we want to get our lipstick hands dirty full of their luscious lips and paste large drooping black eyelashes on their glittery dead eyes. Their eyelids heavy when I pout, they pout, we pout together. Turned into Jane clones from 1965 with a not-so versatile symmetrical haircut, bangs in our eyes we strut the streets of Chiswick with confidence.

It smelled musty in a bad way. Like he’d taken a shit and individually plastic-wrapped the turds, carefully placed them in a box and placed the box in a drawer in a knotty pine wardrobe in a small overstuffed room.

We lost a lot that day. Three tiny, gold coloured safety pins. A sizeable ball of fallen strands of chestnut brown hair. Two tickets to Jimmy Johns and Jane Jannsen. Front row. A row of maize. Green, unpopped and un-movie buttered.

Some of our stomachs hurt and some of us had bad cases of the measles or pox or something else we’d had before. Maybe mumps or melanoma. Diseased mytochondria. Still, we were determined to go before the judge to have our case heard on the matter of the things we’d lost.

There were three other things, two of which we hadn’t the heart to discuss. One of which was the heart. We’d discuss that aplenty when the time came but presently the stink became unbearable and we had to turn out, our eyeballs reeking, our ears plugged, our cheeks pinched, our fancy noses stuffed.

Lights are off save screen glow and the room is five below optimum. There’s a baggie of musty moist greenery on the coffee table like richly soiled fresh-cut clove grass times 50 billion. It makes my tongue curl and water. Also water bottles, fresh and cool and a bowl of rock candy on fancy sticks of bamboo and the most comfortable chair ever. The most comfortable chair ever facing an old Nintendo game system, the chair’s arms snaking controls round mine to show me button combos and pistol aim to pixelate our eyes. Well, my eyes because you’re a comfortable chair and chairs have no eyes. Comfortable chair, fetch me my bobby socks and pull them over my cold toes, you rock. You make whirlpool feelings good in my belly and ears. You make glow in the dark trails appear to follow everything.

1.
The thing that you have to understand is that she’s a true professional. I mean, when you’re doing a photo shoot with Jenna, there’s no bullshit. What I most admire about her is that she has crazy control over her body. Every single inch of space is accounted for. Every limb, every curve, down to each finger, she controls it all. I think it’s all that yoga she does. But it’s not just that, it’s the way she regulates her breathing, in time with the flash. Her tongue is always at the optimum level of moisture. Seriously, I know it sounds ridiculous but she’s taught me so much. Oh you know what else? Okay, so sometimes you’ll be doing a photoshoot with someone, especially someone who might be a little inexperienced and you can smell the arousal wafting off them like fumes from a fishmonger’s. Like, you barely haven’t even grazed a nipple yet and their shit is salivating. Not with Jenna man, she can even control her arousal. So we get done with the preliminary shoot and it’s time to get nasty for the video and it’s like everything she had inside comes rushing out all at once and she becomes this gloriously sticky mess. That’s a pro yo, ha ha. That’s a true pro.

2.
I’m a kill that motherfucker, Jake. That motherfucker don’t know how much I dream of knifin’ him in the face. I’m a … OK, I’m not gonna kill ‘im. That’d give him too much reason to survive. Like inspire him to carry on. Like I’m adversity and dude’s gonna overcome ME. Hell naw. Jake exists on the motherfuckin’ cusp of the crest of my life and to kill a motherfucker is to kill a wave that washes over adversarily or some shit. Summarily, I ain’t about to. I’m a kiss that motherfucker. I’m a sit in righ’ close and I’m a whisper don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, son. This old stranger right ‘ere’s got nothing but love for his fellow man, you know what I’m sayin’? I’m a spit him some shit straight out of my favourite book the motherfuckin’ bible. That bastard’s been around and up the tree of motherfuckin’ life for too long but I’m not gonna be Judas or whoever killed the priest, oh no. That sure as hell ain’t gonna be me.

So here’s me. At the end of one row. Next to me a guy. Next to him a girl, but we’ll see more about her later. Across from me a guy. Next to him a guy. The guy next to me is wearing a suit in a conservative style. The guy across from me is also wearing a suit in a more fashionably conservative style. The guy next to him is wearing a fashionable suit. The guy next to me’s suit is grey. His shirt is light blue. His tie navy. The guy across from me’s suit is navy blue, his shirt is small navy and white checks. The collar is open. He has a five o’clock shadow. Dark hair. Light blue eyes. He reminds me of Hugh Laurie. Or a model for Brooks Brothers. His thighs are large. The guy next to Hugh his suit is brown. It fits slim. His shirt is bright pink. His tie is navy blue with tiny white polka dots. It has a large knot. It is off-centre. He has a brown mop top. His skin fair. His look is carefully constructed dishevelment. This guy, the guy next to Hugh - the guy diagonal - he’s eating a pot of noodles from Wasabi. He’s not using chopsticks, as I expected when he first pulled it out of the bag. He’s shovelling them in his mouth with a white plastic fork. Hugh is looking at the floor. His brow furrowed. He’s squinting to see something far off in his imagination. Every so often, he softly shakes his head no. The guy next to me’s thighs are slim. His legs are long. His face I daren’t look at. He is talking to the girl next to him. He’s excited by the conversation and faintly elbows me every time he makes a point. The girl is also eating. I can’t see what she’s eating out of a white container. It smells like more noodles. This girl, she’s a receptionist. The guy next to me, he’s a sales guy in the same office. They’ve been dating for a month. I’m bored. The guy diagonal finishes his noodles six stops too early. He wipes his mouth with a brown paper napkin. He stuffs everything back in to the bag. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do next. I can see his socks. I can see the outline of his cock. It is pointing left. His pant’s zipper and seam are aligned with the imaginary line that separates his left ball from his right ball. I imagine his ball sack is stiff, hot. Hugh’s pants have a looser fit. Probably his balls are bigger. He keeps shaking no. No. No. The guy next to me and the girl, his girlfriend now that I have deemed it so, they get off at Westminster. A thoroughfare. They are catching another one, to her place. She uses a diaphragm. I didn’t think those were available any more, but they are. It’s in her sensible black handbag. Next to the tampon. Beneath the lipstick. Behind the boredom she’s sating with the salesman tryst.

Squashed between a white chick, an asian lady and a black guy, I don’t know where to look. Could be one sweet, one hot, one kinky, and me. Could be what you saw on TV.

I close my eyes tonight and pretend I am a tiny floating speck. I don’t think about writing this. I think speck-like thoughts such as who’s for dinner and will we ever be love. Then I feel weightless, truly weightless. Turns out we crashed into an elephant. Luckily, I am a speck and as a speck I’m not hurt, just jostled. A little shook.

Sometimes I don’t know what much to make of my presence felt. I would badger with the phone but as a speck it’s really hard for me to dial your number. I feel so inadequate mainly owing to my size, but also to my lack of gravity.

I don’t want to be a speck anymore. I want to be a needle to inject you with my feeling. You’d come crying, wake up crying and tell me of your hurt. You’d come screaming, claw your face and wake up drenched again. And with the same old speck floating in your goddamn semen.

I love you. So much you could die.

I only write when you’re not there to read. I wastefully collect dust bunnies and chuck them in the bin and smile because something so gross took the name of something so cute. It reminds me of me. How appropriated everything of mine can ever be. When I create stolen-idea-you I see it running with a grey hoodie on, up over your head. Not like a hoodlum. Not like a runner. Like a writer who runs. Who knew so many people were doing things so opposite? No one told me but that could be because I wasn’t listening. I was very busy cultivating culture shock and sating inherited appetites for the sake of prosperity. I bet you were writing. It makes sense to me when I think about the time. But it’s pointless to blame stations and chained links and other everythings we had no hope for, no hope of. Right? In this one eternity I’ll make believe it’s just you and me and me and you because I take up a lot of space in minds and I want to fill yours ‘til you pop like stardust. Clean and ready for the next blow.

I want to tell you what I’ve been thinking about: tattoos where, shooting video game villains, your hip bone grinding mine to a fine jelly. Not necessarily in that order. Let’s hide under the blanket now. I’m feeling hapless and undiscovered.

(Meet my sister.)

Smart little Ryan interviewed me on his interview site, THUNK.

Also the likes of Jimmy, Chris and Socrates.

You notice the implicit familiarity in referring to them by their first names. I notice how many of your contemporaries admit to believing in an afterlife.

*update!* I am like one of those ‘real live bloggers’. Another one just crashed through the ceiling: Krammer.