BAYWATCH AS A BIOSPHERE – Shane Jesse Christmass
May 30, 2019
I am in the motel room again/ A small lamp … the bedspread … a soft knock on the door. My dirty clothes are pressed and clean … heavy footsteps in the parking lot. A shapeless grey pile beside the chain-link fence. A bumper sticker that says: Economic Growth and/or molecular. A medium close shot … the sun pours … wide streaks … the slightest movement of NYC shadows.
I pull the blanket tighter around me. A loud knock on the apartment door. A high-calibre bullet pierces body armour. Tall trees bud from black water. Sour apples on the forest floor. I have a shopping bag full of car polish and spare windscreen wipers. An inborn memory of invisible dust. I have poor eyesight. Tony Johnny tells me he spends his Friday nights hanging out with terminally-ill individuals … cancer patients.
A tiny office inside a motel. An old TV monitor on the countertop. Tony Johnny wears dirty jeans. He holds a video camera. He walks along a suburban road. A broken rear-view mirror left in the sewer ditch. I observe the meteorological conditions. The sky is grey … fierce smoke … a flea-bitten congregation of cops and bale wire … saline bags hang from telephone lines. A small trapdoor … a square manhole … a mouth drips. Tony Johnny carries a tyre jack.
Tony Johnny shoots me at point-blank range. A wide turn of smoke over the mountain range. Tony Johnny calls me a crude trick … a dumb creature with a different smell … a dead carcass full of dollar notes. I walk beneath the window glass … fingers full of stern cigarettes. Tony Johnny circles me with delirious sex … technology … humanity never occurs. The lights are on … a side street.
Rope ladders sold as lifebelts. A sudden downpour … the camera pans … Tony Johnny has beautiful eyes. Tony Johnny beneath a woollen blanket. I place the hotel rug upon him. Biscuits on the tea tray. Tony Johnny tells me he is writing a statistical manual that details my mental disorders. I experience a psychedelic experience as soon as I enter the power station. Tony Johnny plays a major role in animal evolution. A new 77-minute documentary about conscious control … worthless debt and external stimuli.
I open the shut window. Outside it is humid. Tony Johnny has sleepy eyes. He sniggers … a childlike voice … the thunder frightens me. The camera pans past. Tony Johnny tells me he has a physical need to fuck me. I speak in abrupt statements … telephone calls and trances … and/or delusions. I stand at the front desk of the hotel offering patrons false beliefs and a dog collar … a new number plate for their debaucheries. I take a deep breath. My filthy hand full of numerous ideas. They administer the medical treatments to Tony Johnny. His skin smells burnt … he is stabbed by unknown substances … rubber shuffling upon him … doppelganger with HIV.