You Never Liked It When I Played Dead


I look down as I know I am about to go, and she has her eyes tightly clenched and I can feel her walls closing around myself.  She opens them wide with surprise, the mouth agape, and suddenly I am being crushed from within.  We lock irises, her black marbles supernova and we mutually explode.  Our sweat mingles and we smell of fetid sheets, toast crumbles clinging to our backs, loose hair clinging to the corners of our mouths.  My lip is still bleeding from when you bit me, and even as I gasp out a laugh, a red drop falls from my wound onto your top lip, a beauty splat for the ages.

When I pull out, I’ve left everything inside except life itself.


So I pop my collar to the mean cold and try to avoid the glances.  Everything is so swish these days and too clean.  Sometimes I want to roll around in mud and walk down a street, filth incarnate, cursing like a sailor in an iron lung watching helpless as his legs are forced at the speed of sound into a keyhole.  When he crawls away, leaving two red lines behind him, he sings a jibbering song.

A jibbering song.  A song for jibbering.  Well, we all would, wouldn’t we?


You look at me as you crouch on your haunches, a jet of steaming piss gushing beneath you, trying to light your cigarette.  Flick, flick, flick.  The damn thing won’t spark.  This is so weird you say.  I’m sitting in an old shed, exhaling the alkaline aromas of rotten wood and neglect and the acidic vapours of your dehydrated vagina stream.  I feel the air could go toxic but it mingles into a strangely sweet and fetid scent like dead mushrooms.

You still haven’t finished.  I think to myself, how can such a tiny box contain so much goddamn fluid?  Are you draining your lungs?

I say aloud this is weird.  You look at me.  Ask me if I have another light.  You drip, drip, drip to a full stop.  When you stand up, I follow the glowing tip of your cigarette and look down at the faintly hissing planks below, bubbling in self-combustion.  It is good to see that dead wood is just as excited by you as I am.



Not far from where I live, a thirty storey tower block stands tall and painted proud.  Right next to it and below is a vast local cemetary.  Everytime I pass it I wonder… how do the inhabitants feel opening their curtains every morning and their first vision being rows upon rows of meaningless marble stones?


The problem with your adventures is that I can never enjoy the moment because I’m too busy worrying about the future.  And when I’m not enjoying your adventures, I’m stuck in the past.  Right now, I’m deeply concerned for my future.  This is because I’ve just given you a ‘boostie’ over a wire fence and I’m now acting as lookout whilst you attempt to break into a warehouse that apparently holds newspapers and magazines before they are despatched to local newsagents.  The CCTV unit you hit square on with a pebble in a fishing slingshot is now pointing aimlessly to the sky, like a prize boxer knocked out cold, and I’m wondering how long it will take security to realise they are staring at a nest of normal screens and one sunset.  Perhaps they will be blinded by the mesmerising pinks, reds and violets.  Red sky at night shepherd’s delight?  No shepherd was ever an accessory to burglary.

You’ve decided to break into this warehouse because you want to find some pornography.  Somewhere in this warehouse you’ve decided is a stack of porn as tall as a house, waiting to be distributed to anonymous corner shops and midnight petrol stations everywhere, to be devoured by truck drivers and middle class husbands.  In this pre-internet age, you want to see if your sexual organs match.  If they are ‘good enough’.  See, this isn’t a problem for you… I bet you’ve seen loads of pussy you say.  I wince.  Partly because of your crude words and partly because it isn’t true.


You fight the lock for an admirable amount of time.  Long after the alarms are writhing in the still autumn air.  Long after my position of lookout has become largely redundant.  A fat man in a blue uniform strides confidently over – or perhaps he is bluffing because he cannot go any faster – towards you.  You’ve already seen him and you don’t seem to care so all I can do is watch between the wire links of the fence at this performance you are about to give.  When he’s almost on top of you, you turn from your lock-picking and try to shake his hand.  He remains unmoved with his hands on his hips.  It took about a minute for me to realise that you knew him when I received a sharp blow to the back of the head and everything went dark.

I dreamt that I was on a swing in a playground but I could go around and around the top bar in a full 360 without falling off, at any speed.  But then the grass around the protective surface below the swing melted away into nothingness and I knew that certainty was now no more.  At any moment the swing’s spell might fail and I could tumble into the abyss.

I woke up, tossed into a thorn bush and crucified at some ungodly angle, legs and arms bent unnaturally.  I hurt all over.  You stood looking at me with a horrible mixture of amusement, pity and disappointment.  I told you to lookout you say, and I realise that I was supposed to be looking out for me.


“Time is what matters.  As time goes by, you and I will be carried inexorably into the mainstream of our period, even thought we’re unaware of what it is.  And later, when they say that young men in the early Taisho era thought, dressed, talked, in such and such a way, they’ll be talking about you and me.  We’ll all be lumped together… In a few decades, people will see you and the people you despise as one and the same, a single entity.”  Yukio Mishima – Spring Snow


You slam the book shut.

So you see, we’re all fucked by history really.  All our deeds are for nothing, unless we can leave a mark that proves we were different in some way.  Do you really want to be remembered as one of this generation? 

You punch the book into my ribcage and I clasp it with hesitant hands.  You tilt your head and shake it slightly.

Too scared even for literature.  Maybe this needs some work.  Standing up, you brush dust from your long skirt and walk away, as I feel a throbbing pulse beating in my hands.

One comment on “You Never Liked It When I Played Dead

  1. daffniginger says:

    ugh fabulous!! I loved everything from her squatting, to you knocked out, and ending with your pulse beating!!

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