Bones

When you asked me what her name was, I smiled and said that no one knows.  We were inelegantly sprawled over the summit of the burial mound – a five thousand year old pile of disturbed earth covered in soft grass, sunlight and history.  You told me; someone SHOULD know.  You looked downcast and you asked me to repeat your name.  You told me that I’ll probably outlive you – because, in one of your more brutal backhanded compliments, I’m safe and sensible – and that I need to pass your name on and to promise that it will continue.  According to your vision, in hundreds of years, a person on their deathbed will whisper a name that means nothing to them, a name that was once whispered to them, and it will be your name. 

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There was a time I could look deep into her eyes and feel the scorch.  Those diluating pupils glowing and warming my bones to the pink marrow pulsating.  One look, one smile could melt a glacial heart.  Five seconds was all I could endure, but I stayed to be burned.  I thrust my arm into the bonfire and watched my flesh crackle, feeling the exquisite pain of a brutal orgasm.

Now the fire has gone and I feel the brittle frostburn that tears skin and leaves it hanging a pathetic rag.  The Man in La Jetee searched for the girl on the end of the pier and instead only circled his own destruction.  I would like to find my girl on the end of the pier and turn my back to the figure sinking to his knees behind me, blasted apart by a single mercy shot through the ribs.

The light goes out.  The sparkle crackles.  A single drop of water ice falls from her iris and runs down her cheek.  She wipes it away, quickly, embarressed.

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You know; sometimes this world feels alien.  And sometimes, the world looks alien too.

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(Look at my pictures, read my words, then look me in the eye, and tell me I am without a soul.  Without a heartbeat.)

Walking up stairs and walking into stares.  He just wants to ruin lives, and I’d happily beat his spleen into a jellyfish and ride his head all the way.  All the way. 

You’re there to stop me; to remind me that ghosts are just ghosts and are impossible to grasp, comprehend or reason with.  I walk through you as if you aren’t there, and in that moment your patience snaps and you are no longer there.  You turn, you leave, you’re gone and I’m standing alone and impotent. 

He enjoys ruining lives, but he enjoys ruining faces more.  One has become three with more to follow.  I never wanted to cause a scene.  Instead I look at the floor and remember the last words of Robert-Francois Damiens as he viewed the various apparatus of his barbaric execution.

“La journee sera rude.”

“The day will be hard.”

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‘Truth’

“I once gave a boy a blowjob in exchange for help with my homework.”

“Truth”

‘I had a threesome with two friends at University’

‘Dare’

“I dare you to buy a birthday cake from the bakery and then fuck it until it is a pile of crumbs on the plate.”

“Dare”

‘I dare you to tell the truth for once.’

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When they met, a guitar note arced a metallic rainbow and he stumbled in the heaving melee, a mass of sweating bodies and lank hair pulsing like a vast internal organ.  Her arm shone through the tangled darkness of limbs and things to haul him to his feet and back to the flickering stroke lights.  Six years later under flickering cameras he stumbles in his shiny shoes whilst walking down the aisle.  A long, white gloved hand reaches out and pulls him from the sea of eyeballs.  He feels her strength, always. 

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It’s too loud tonight.  Drinking, falling, shouting, fighting.  I’m sat up on my shelf, surrounded by candles.  My body aches with flu and my tongue hurts so I have a lisp when I sthpeak.  Haven’t shaved my bollocks in months, haven’t masturbated in weeks – can’t really be bothered with anything below the waist right now.

Rolling on the grass of old graves she beams like the sun and I can feel the warmth of her shiny teeth.  Pollen clings to her eyebrows and she doesn’t flinch.  Midges dance above us, silently humming in the still air.

Beads of sweat on her collarbone and the faint scent of perfume and odour, damp through her white shirt too tight for a humid day.  Her forehead is sticky, her fringe slick.  I want to tear off her clothes and wash my cool, pale body over hers. 

Etc

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Oh well.

It’ll get better.

Until then, all I seem to long for these days is the melody of the sea.

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