[Image Credit: “Soul Groups,” by Kazuya Akimoto]
Washington Bridge now connects with Broadway. You’re bloodied on the jungle floor. Her marvellous intellect. Description of your infantile attempts. Corn soup on your laptop screen. Glamour shots and murder scenes. A rubber doll’s head. Flesh and leg bone on outdoor chair. A bloodied hair lock in a vanilla milkshake. Medical modifications to stop excretive function. The human body is an ugly scene. Sheets of blank paper. Hash browns and draught beer. Acidic liquid discharges from television screens. Human-machine symbiosis. Government interference. Shirt wide open. Buttons pop. You and I laugh anyway. Transplants and antibodies in cargo holds for Northern Africa. The expressway. Tears roll down my face. Robots act as unusual animals. Native cats sleeping. News tickers splutter in deflated pixels. Further silence. Eye contact on a Pepsi-Cola can. Girl on $. Pretty cute. Type the terms of our agreement at random intervals. Eye contact partly collapses. Real life is a pretty good experience. Caterpillars turn on dry mud. Pepsi-Cola on the coffee table. You’re drunk in the double bed. A dead community. Grey colour, massive in size. This condition in our bones. I enclose you. I photocopy your face at funerals. This is the result, a radiation of bony fish, crab remains and ballooning ocean. I am confused. You were born in Kentucky. You moved around before settling in Oakland. As temperatures rise, so does the suicide rate. Bombings over the ‘Hollywood’ sign. This amount of war is absurd. You head over to the payphone and pick up the receiver. A warm summer afternoon. The meat flesh is mislaid, overlooked. A widower with his Cocaine is moist. Can’t move it at all. Hand reconstruction. There is no room. A petty cash box contains my half-eaten sandwich. Armies of abdomen hidden in haversack. I strip to my underwear. A marionette copy, blush cheeked. A voice from the loudspeaker. I’m on a bus travelling a busy street. You’re behind the curtain, running down the hall. Water dribbles into the subway. I haven’t expected you to cum. Semen inside my jaw. Narrow bodies, abandoned snakes. Counterfeit handbags. The spaceships take off. Those on board are destined for NYC. Avenue C. Name the pharmaceuticals. The emotions of man as animal! She winds her hair right off at the base. NYC is a target for food fights. You are a woman. You catch my eye. The edge of the crown. The woman is raw-boned, sharp-cornered and skinny. The subway takes water rapidly. Effects in sand dunes that protect them from spilt oil. I’m going out. November mid-morning. My body. High-arching flames rise. Heavy diarrhoea on the doorstep of the Goodwill store on W 72nd Street. Similar processes. Ticket stubs. Bottles of brandy. Both ways. Drug material. I head into the subway, breathe out the frosting air, light a cigarette as two police walk toward me from the other end of the overpass. She wears a baseball cap full of foulbrood snakes. I am not sure. She hasn’t cut the noose properly. The soil’s lower than on the surface. The sand dunes burn. We hit the road. You and I are shoe-less, ambling away on ankles. She notes the rope binds around my hands. I’m going to drink from the Starbucks on Columbus THIS AMOUNT OF WAR IS ABSURD. She brushes her hair down with her palm. She licks her palm beforehand. She tightens her belt. Buildings tumble into the Hudson River. Commuters flee North down 14th Street. She coughs. Her bones creak. Military nanoswarm weapons fire at all the yellow cabs on Manhattan. You search for universal payoffs, prerogatives and the object of contract between two beings on the shorelines of the East River. Missile impact over the back of the bus seat. A giant weather balloon, I am not sure. You look.
Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novels, Napalm Recipe: Volume One (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017), Police Force As A Corrupt Breeze(Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2016) and Acid Shottas (The Ledatape Organisation, 2014).
He was a member of the band Mattress Grave, and is currently a member in Snake Milker.