Busy street, drunk revellers pass by.
Some sexy, some not.
Cold, frosty air deepens the chill on those that aren’t inebriated.
Mostly generic, wearing the same clothes they have always worn, in a 2002 way, except it’s not ironic. It’s what they wear everyday.
YOU FUCKED IT.
The moment has passed and you’ve done it. London night smells of weed soaked petrol, bleach mopped tiles and sour dust. The air is thick and burnt, delicious and cold, clagging up my lungs. Pummelling this soft, savage piece of plastic into a sticky river. So fucking wet. You could walk towards me right now. Heart-leap and blood-swell, filling the tide of this hunger. Fall to my knees and bow. I guess you never know the precise moment when you actually fuck it. It sort of happens like an uneasiness, a glue that oozes over and then you only feel it’s power when it hits you across the face like an iron fucking bollard. Blowing smoke from my mouth in booming twists of puffed-up chilled-out, zen-like, warrior vibes. He’s hardcore. You know that the last fag you had or the last move you made, the last eye you caught, the last crotch you stared at, made you fuck it. Pulsating rhythm of wetness. Spit and white. I hate the penetration part. The bit where they stick the sheathed beast in. It’s too late and you’re standing at the bus stop again. Shivering, beats as thick as the cans that contain these ears. Slowing, I feel inside, and it’s all, it’s all because you lie. What do you want to see me do with all this information? I spent the night as you. Terrified that they would call my name and and…and I want to be inside now. Panic temporarily dispersed by rewards of this hula hoops mega bag. I want to see you hold his cock. Sliding juicy fingers clumsily along the cursor, just fucking touch it. This is why I never cross the river. In whose mind is a sober rave a good idea anyway? I couldn’t contain the laughter. The sneer creeping across my face. What the fuck? Hood up. What the actual fuck? Side step and barely move my shoulders now. Am I cringing as I walk down the road with you? Am I actually doing this? What grits now grinds against my will? I’m 15 and I want to scream to passers by: Girlfriend I’m doing this as an experiment! I am putting up with this shit, listening to these words because I’m researching. What are you researching? How to be really fucking uncool, how to not be? We could be friends, away from my heart. How to find my fucking tribe. Turn him over, just turn him over, I know what I like or I know what got me off last time. Just can’t find it now. This one’s weird. Massive… Just fucking pick another one. Wait he’s got my name. London Rat no better than the Beached version. Bleached hair, pecks high, chest pumped, wheels in motion, late home and early to rise. Leather boots and grunge T-shirts fill my vision. I brush up against your skirt. When will I sleep properly without you? When will these stinging eyes make me realise? I fucked it tonight. Closer. Closer. I’m no steps closer to you. I wasn’t sure if we could be friends. Family of words, so well-listened, so well-versed, they’re mine. Ten years of hearing you. If I ever spoke to you, what would be ruined? I know you back to front from your insta. And the door slams and the blanket creeps. I’m never fucking leaving East again. There is literally nothing for me over there. Mission five million and fifty thousand fail. Head is done. Queered enough. Emptiness contains me.
People don’t act
like they act
in real life
in real life. They
and record the passive changes