Descending Winter

Welcome to days spent curled up against radiators. Tearing away cottony white blankets of clouds to reveal the brightest of blue skies, but it doesn’t change the cold manifested into a clear drop hanging precariously from the tip of an indoor plant leaf. Life has become very very quiet and I fill the hours by colouring a tapestry in circus elephants, and writing steamy pornographic short stories set in the searing heat of a Sydney summer I dream of.

A throwaway opening:

I told him I wanted to see him touch himself. I had seen him shit, vomit, yell at his dad, cry, lie, fuck, and behave in a way so disgustingly pathetic, it only seemed right we breached this final unbidden territory. We had spent the day sweating out the December Sun, swimming in countless tall glasses of vodkas splashed with a taste of lime and lemonade, a day of useless nothing and fucking.

Stripped down to knee-high pants, he was all lean and brown body in the sun, the rays languishing the time they had to roll over all that bare skin. Though he laughed drowsily at my request, his eyes remaining closed, his fingers still fluttered flirtatiously over the top button…

This and that

Fan fiction alert!

My brains slid around in my head like oily fried eggs on a plate. With the cold cutting through my jacket and the fact that the rocky white bone of my wisdom teeth were ripping through my fleshy sore gums – well, I was in a poor state.

But manically laughing! Haha! Such is life for the irresponsible and uncensored!!!

“I feel great,” I chirruped. “You know, I honestly think I could run home. You guys get on the bus – I’ll see you at home! How long do you think it would take me? Well let’s see, if it’s a one hour bus ride, it’s got to take me at least twice as long to walk, no wait, three times, or four? Oh look there it is, quick we better run for it! (running) This feels great!!!! Hey listen, you gotta have a go at driving the bus. No you’re not really driving the bus but you’re at the front on the top layer and it feels like – damn it the seats are taken. Hey just sit next to that dude he won’t mind for 5 minutes. Hey dude, you don’t mind if my friend – etc. etc.”

In the morning you look to my bed and find nothing but a mass of splinters.

So you open the door to leave and find him sitting on the floor. When he looks up you’re struck by those grey eyes of a raw new boy misplaced in a man’s body. How exquisite that their clouded beauty now lie solely on your face! Whoever really sees you but him?

You slide down the frame of the door like water, but the guilt clamping you tight so that you’re unable to touch him. It is his fingers that wrap around your wrist and his arm that circles around you until you’re locked into the warm, hard curve of his body.

He whispers in tones so unusual to his reserve, open and begging, until you pressing your cheek against his face, your forehead, your lips, until your hot tears have melted your skin and there was not a breathe of space between you. But how could he ever be enough – when behind the thin skin lay aching red organs stamp marked with child given fingerprints that would always grow and work and die separately from each other, so unfairly and greedily for their owner alone.

In the end your stomach lurches you away from here.

Bad English Television zaps the brain into lumpy porridge and Bad English Weather sends mouths into spiraling mutterings about the whereabouts of Mr Sun and whatthefuckamidoinghere’s. It’s a schizophrenic existence, with the mind-boggling multiculturalism and the endless saturation of living keeping you lovin’, the anchorlessness, the questions marks, the insecurity sees you loathing.

All life experience my friend! I banged out of the email. And scribbled more.