Permanent

Suns rays, always melting my skin to the mailbox.

SHEET TALK FROM LONDON

You’re fucking all right, you are. You’re a fucking fine catch for a local sorta night. I seen you across the bar likes, and I thort, fuck, she’s lookin brilliant, ain she. I mean your hair was lookin well curly, fallin real nice down your shoulders and that. You was lookin proper nang in that tight skirt fing … Glad we ripped it off though? A million bucks, that’s what I said to my mate. This girl looks bloody fantas –

I fucking love a tight skirt. Did I mention your skirt was amazin? All taut and that, all close on your hips and your curves … I fuckin love curves, you know, summin to grab hold of, pull tight when it gets a little steamy, when you’re doing shit like –

Fuck, this beats going out with the boys. Not that I’m inta that kinda thing, I’m the sensitive one of ma mates, you know? Feelings and all that shit. I’m well glad I came back to yours now, well glad –

You got any food in that kitchen? I always need a feast when I been out on the piss. Not that I’m hammered right now, I’m feeling sober as fuck to be honest. I swear on my life, I’ve only had like two fucking cans. Anyways, you were fucking amazing just then. Spot me some cash and I’ll grab us a bite?

Untitled

5.06. Afternoon. The sun was peeking out, winking cheekily in the spaces between buildings and other objects of great height. I felt tired, very tired and a little bit drunk. That was probably just the bourbon speaking. I was sick of watching the sun cackle at another unproductive day – all it had to do was spread some rays and the quota was fulfilled. Easiest shit, really. Get low behind the buildings, big old sun, get back low down there.

Why I said all of those things that seemed to have no forethought:

"Sorry for the other day. Words seemed to have a power over me like nothing else did. They were a largely inexplicable force of movement, a hacked off helicopter propeller that turned of its own accord. They courted me to begin with, paid in cash for boozy, wine-drenched dinners. There was a wink over the table, I invited them home. Whilst we sat silently sipping our coffees, they danced teasingly around my mouth. As we slept, they weaved themselves with undulating dexterity around my body, crept silently down my throat; waiting to prize open my lips and reappear at any time they wished."

Tooth Farm

There is glitter around Daisy’s eyes, silver. There is thin blonde hair hanging limply from her scalp. There are small white specs falling like tired snow, light as anything, around the crown of her head. Daisy is visibly wincing; screwing up her eyes as if blinking through dust, emitting a low moan that appears to come from deep within her stomach, from somewhere low and empty. She’s screwing and unscrewing her toes, slender and pale, grabbing tightly onto the furnishings. She’s yelping.

The apartment has shifted in the last few hours, taken on a more sinister tone. The couches are old and beat-up, bits of foam exposed underneath the striped blue fabric, the arm bolsters torn to shreds. No one really notices though, unless they feel it with their fingers, because the light globe has been busted for a week or so.

There’s about ten of them, in this living room, all sitting around her. Daisy can see their faces partially, as the creamy blinds spit bits of light upon them. The light sits sometimes on her breasts, shows the small pink circles under her semi-translucent dress. No one is looking at them now though.

It’s all men there with glitter Daisy, men with flattened chests and sun-brown nipples, men with hardened, peeling feet and rolled up, washed out jeans. Silver-eyes is in the middle of them, making noises that they’ve never heard her make, twitching violently. Dark groaning, no sobs. She’s got her mouth open just wide enough to see a pit of black on the right hand side. There’s a tooth on the ground and a pair of dirty pliers. They’re asking her to finish wailing, murmuring internal pleads in the silences between the thick, ungodly sounds she emits. Daisy, shut it, Daisy shut the fuck up.

She lost her first casualty in the tooth farm and gained twenty dollars and half a pack of cigarettes. She grabs a fistful of hair and pulls out strands of dirty blonde.

The Dark Horse

"You," I breathed, "are the dark horse. You move always in the night.
You graze for only a moment in the spring-covered field, you pause gravely where others burst forth."