It’s in these spit-soaked upper limbs that I find the greatest form of contortion. The pull of bone and sinew, sex-rocked and worn-out. The strain of brutalized muscle. Muscle that could only wish it had worked as hard as my feet. Those feet that pitter-pattered, a prostitution cacophony. As if in warning. To tell of my coming. The money was easy. The drugs were easier. A shot, sniff, swallow… a three-way assault into modern heaven.
It was Saturday morning and I had to work later in the afternoon. I was up sipping my coffee sitting in the living room chair, watching dead bodies on the news.
My dad was off to the side of the TV, partly blocking it. He had his head sticking out the window. He was pumping the lever on a pellet gun over and over again. He stuck the pellet gun out the window and the gun popped when he fired.
Last time I got real bored, like 3 days ago, I drew designs with them handfuls of pork lard in my bedroom carpet. That shag looks marbley pretty with the lard swirlin; it smells like bacon. The smell of bacon helps relax me. Helps me sleep. The lard makes my skin slicker soft. Lard makes everything better… sept carpet I s’pose. That’s another thing I’m always getting in trouble for.