Threads of wet hair stick to my face and my skirt is swimming upstream to my undies. I feel like Marilyn Manson on a bad hair day. Through the window it looks run down. There is a small plastic sign on the inside door that says OPEN. I push the door. Inside it’s dismal like the Chroma key has been turned down to cut out the saturated colour. I’m relieved to be inside, away from the rain and sounds of passing cars and semi-trailers. … Continue reading
You hombres’d like to know maybe or, rather, I’d like to tell you of a pale whoreboy by the Texaco, like the last chocolate – he’s long been travelling, he says, the capillaries of the nation.
Leather-Jacket-Right-On-Own-Skin type this fallen, fallen, three times fallen James Dean; jacket’s unzipped, door ajar & straight into his ivory (also, Marlboros for fireplace). … Continue reading