Chapter 1 


In the diner there are 5 booths, 3 on the longer side of the room and 2 on the other. Because it’s deep winter and just began blizzarding outside, everyone has hung up their wet coats which are dripping and making puddles on the floor. All the coats are hung on long poles which are attached to the side of the booths. With a hat set at the top and a jacket hanging below they form the shape of a man, looming over each table. A mirage of guards. Of haunting protectors. 

The blizzard outside was getting progressively worse while Amabel had a chicken noodle soup and a milkshake. She came here every day as it was the last remaining relic of the neighborhood as it had been before. It smelled warmly stale and old inside, large pots of soup bubbling over and getting thicker. Every now and then the waitress would walk over to the stove with a mug of warm water and pour it into the soup to thin it out. The waitress was older, in her late 40’s, but wore a small sexy outfit. A dress and apron which could have come from a costume shop. It was worn thin and the apron particularly was covered in muted colorful smears of icing from the cakes sitting moist on the counter top. 

Outside the diner the snow was building steadily. Amabel thought of a winter before, when she’d been in London during the whitest Christmas of the decade, and slept with the windows of the attic open so that the room filled with snow. At that time she’d been in love with the man who’d forced her to come to England, and then forced her out to the countryside, where it was completely still and nothing ever happened. She lived in front of a small courtyard, which several other buildings looked onto as well. She rarely saw another human entering or exiting the other flats. She herself left seldom. Although it was uncommon for England to receive so much snow, that winter they had been heavily covered. In her occasional, tepid attempts to leave, the snow would be piled up so high outside of her front door that she could not get out. She dreamed that the man who’d brought her here was in control of the weather, had demanded the snow to come so that she couldn’t leave. Although she began to hate him she figured she wasn’t missing out on much that was going on in the outside world and so came to terms with being stuck in the room.

The man visited her rarely. She stayed in the attic and wrote slow, strange stories which were very long but went nowhere. She had a neat pile of all the writing she’d done on the desk, one story atop the last until the papers altogether reached nearly a meter into the air. The man had left very good quality paper in the room - so heavy it felt almost like cardstock - and so the tower did not so much as sway even when the snow and wind came in through the windows. 

Amabel stopped daydreaming briefly and returned to the diner. She could see that the park was now nearly completely covered in white. She did not know how easily she could get home at this point, and so ordered another bowl of chicken noodle soup to delay her trip. 

One morning the man came home, acting as though he’d been there all along. He walked in the front door holding a family sized blue top milk carton and some cereal. I walked down to the kitchen in a pair of old boxers and a large t-shirt with a sweater underneath. The house was cold because I had never figured out how the heating worked. I wore thick socks that allowed me to slide smoothly down the stairs from the attic to the rest of the house. Everything was carpeted in oatmeal colored rug. When I arrived at the door of the kitchen the man looked at me first quizzically, then with delayed admiration, as though he’d forgotten I was there but was, afterall, glad to have this unannounced guest. 

“And how are we this morning?” 

The man had a tendency to come off as extremely camp on occasion. It was something I’d originally found endearing, and had aided in my falling in love with him. I was naively attracted by seeing a man flirt with his feminine side, a trait so unknown to me. Yet now it irked me and seemed almost disgusting. The twangy high pitched tone of his voice, his physicality toying with over embellished womanliness. And here I was locked in the tower like a modern day Rapunzel in a shitty little town. Ha ha. My prince was a fraud. 

Having been alone for so long I had nearly forgotten how to speak. I would hum to myself in the attic, whistle little symphonies sometimes to pass the time, but talk to myself? No, I had not yet crossed that threshold of loneliness. 

I made an attempt to say hello which came out more like a gurgling noise. The man laughed, looked at me with his head cocked and pouted a little, how cute I was, like a child - cooing. As it was clear I would not be the leader of this conversation he took over. 

“I’ve just been down by the water, where we had lunch last summer when the old drunk man came up to us and said you looked delicious, and you were scared because you thought he could do something to you since it was just the three of us up on that big empty field.” I nodded, I remembered. The drunk man had been strange and frothy at the mouth from all the beer bubbling back up from his belly. My man had engaged in conversation with him for a significant amount of time. I sat between the two of them and pulled weird faces while eating Wotsits. Nothing would make the drunk man go away so I just left them both there and went for a walk on my own. I don’t remember what happened after that. 

This is how a lot of my memories end nowadays. They finish abruptly, often with myself walking away into something indescribable simply because it is insignificant. I walk into a road, and a new memory of something else begins - unlinked to the previous. I walk out towards the field, and something happens in which the drunk man and my man are no longer involved. All my memories unlinked from each other, no continuity. Time like a soup. 

He was home very briefly, in fact, only exactly as long as it took him to finish the milk. When he left, I sat in the garden for a while, it was cold but the sun shined harshly for the latter half of the day.  

One night when I was living in that house, I decided to go out. It had been a mild week and no new snow had fallen. There had even been a day or two of that winter kind of sun that is persistent and melts everything away. On a Friday night I put some real clothing on and slipped out of the front door and onto the single road which led through the entire town. It was the main road, the alley ways, back and side streets combined for it was the only road at all. The town had been constructed this way long ago and it had produced a very odd and unfamiliar societal structure. It was something about the directness of the place, of not being able to avoid walking past something, of having your options taken away. When people came to visit the town they found it endearing and juvenile. However the people from here find it very difficult to go to cities with more than one road and so the people from here don’t leave. 

On this night Amabel walked down the road towards where the club was. It was called the Stereo Box Club and it had a big light up sign on the outside which was always guarded by a middle aged bouncer from Puerto Rico. He was one of the very few foreigners who lived permanently in the town. Amabel couldn’t remember how far along the main road the Stereo Box Club was but since you could not possibly get lost in this town she just kept going for a very long time in the dark until she saw the foreigner at the door bathed in a purple orange fluorescent light and stopped. 

“Who’s playing tonight?” 

Her voice came out strained from lack of use but sounded cool still and she was reminded momentarily of her life before all this. The thought was fleeting and nearly unconscious, she had mostly just felt a quick bolt of pleasure from hearing herself speak and thinking that at least her voice was not un-sexy. She looked at the bouncers face and then could not look away. She looked for a million years. Standing underneath the Stereo Box Club neon sign the bouncer and Amabel stayed soaked in orange looking at each other for eternity. 

Chapter 2

I wake up to both of George’s hands on my back, planted on the sides of my ribcage ready to make a dramatic crack. My spine, runny wonky down the middle is his guideline, while the fleshier parts around my skeleton are what he holds on to in preparation. His goal is to bring both of my shoulder blades as close together as possible until the center splits and spills something out which might finally satisfy him. Because George doesn't sleep it doesn’t matter what time it is when this is happening. 

One night he tells me that when I go to sleep he walks around the periphery of my room in smaller and smaller circles towards the middle touching every object in the space until nothing has been left unturned. His insomnia sounds boring and torturous to me. His idleness unproductive. Focused in on the wrong things. If I had double the hours in the day I’d be the smartest person in every room. 

I think about kissing you upside down. Fat top of tongue against fat top of tongue. You look 


                   with that bit of snot dripping from your nose like a sick puppy or a young boy. The love I feel for you is like the love you feel for someone else’s kid, someone you babysit every once in a while and see growing in strange sudden jumps and so they remind you especially of how time goes and what 3 versus 5 versus 8 looks like in an innocent but frightening way. 

Anyway, we’re walking. 

London is so blue. 

Today there’s some red in the sky as well - behind us where the sun is setting the city is soaked in it. Next to me on the bench your face and the sky change together.

By the time we leave it’s nearly dark and I say “Now you’re all purple and blue, like a bruise.” 

We go back home and that night I dream of punching a woman in a bathroom stall. 

I wake up sticky, cold sweats from sleeping in your bed and feeling unfamiliar there. The skyline outside your bedroom window feels very different to how I imagined this city would look from afar. Being here breaks my deja-vu mornings. My bathroom smells like the zoo, like animal shit and wet hay. Your bathroom smells like coconut hair gel. I’m having a cigarette on the balcony and thinking still that the skyline here isn’t right. A little crooked and that building there just doesn’t exist, yet from up on top of the hill you live on it does. A fabricated horizon. A magic one. Animated suddenly, buildings and bridges come and go as they please. The London Eye unravels cat like and takes a walk, returning to the shore by the evening and curling up again to do its job. 

Chapter 3

My mother in the sweat soaked state of her menopausal heat waves used to embarrass me but not anymore. It’s impressive to watch a body expel so much, and so suddenly. I have not seen other women sweat as my mother does, and while I’m sure it happens - as all women go through this aggressive reverse puberty - I suspect they do it more shyly or quietly than she does. 

My mother’s side of the family sweats and stares with enthusiasm. They do it without any sense of holding back, the way most people with ‘manners’ do - making some attempt to keep their staring hidden, discrete, selective. This family stares ruthlessly, in all directions, at everything. Sweating is the same - they drip incessantly. Pearls build up on the skin above their brows, small salty domes, and are wiped away intermittently by a damp blue rag (always this). The skin stays matte for a moment, then quickly some new wetness percolates through their pores and appears again in sparkling dewy drops. It’s piggish I guess, as if they’ve always just finished a labouring job. To have a body in a constant state of wetness is something rare and reminiscent of island heat and summer. But when taken out of this context it is stranger, potentially dirty - yet isn’t. It seems at times almost especially healthy, for the sodium content of your body to be released and replenished so frequently. Flushed out. Ultimately more pure than the others - who tend to hold it all in. 

I am disturbed by very little but when you pull at my eyelids making my entire eyeball visible, anatomically circular and set within the bone socket of my face I am admittedly unsettled. It must be something about how standard and dead I look - a complete loss of identity at seeing my insides so clearly (and them looking so much like everyone else's!)

I am 14 and my mother is sweating a lot in the middle of winter. I get home and she’s in the bath, which is a place we can be where there is no distinction between body and water. Her eyes are closed and she is very very still. 

Man says to wife - I’ve met someone and I need you to let me have a love affair with her. It will be short, only a few months, but I will come out better by having gone through being in love with this woman. I love you still, and always. That is why I’m being as forwards as possible about this. I will fall in love, with your permission, for 3-4 months. When it is over I will be only slightly heartbroken. I will be more considerate, wiser, and understanding of you from going through it. I will allow myself to fall fully in love only if you allow it. If you say no, which is your choice entirely, I will either stay away from the other woman  - or kill her. I may remain slightly altered by the experience, and by not having fulfilled this affair, but our lives will continue as they are right now. What do you think of this plan?

On the one hand I am thinking of the very small pulsating throb of your penis - which I can feel ever so slightly on the inside walls of my vaginal canal when you finish inside of me. On the other hand, I am thinking of nothing at all. Outside the window of the train carriage very little is going on. I am constantly looking at the same scenery until I go slightly mad and have to move again. Somehow I always end up back here though, where the gray takes over entirely and I am filled with all sorts of jams and doughs and made swollen by them. I am tripping all the time. I make a joke about it and trip as I am making the joke. The force of my foot hitting the thing I am tripping over and my body jolting forwards makes me throw up in my mouth a bit. But I am on a date and so I swallow it and keep chatting. 

My mother remains in the bath until dinner time. I am a good child but I do not know how to feed myself. My mother comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her body. She is thinner that I’ll ever be. She stands and looks at me sitting at the table for a while, dripping puddles of warmish water onto the floor. Finally, she says, “you look good, healthy” after some consideration. 

She knots the corner of her towel and tucks it in around her chest so that she can cook without getting dressed. Her bare feet smack against the linoleum and pick up crumbs as she moves around the kitchen. A million years ago I told her that I liked scallops and so now we have them for dinner every night. She fries them in butter and olive oil and serves them in a sweet white sauce. 

Chapter 3

The city is green hot in a gross way. Everyone loves it here but the sun is mean. 



Pt. 2

“Okay, it’s not that funny”

The body in front of me is thin and short from age. In the fluorescent light of the room I can see thin white hairs standing straight up on her skin. Her ankles are the thinnest. The line of the stretched tendon is fierce along the backs of her feet running up from her heels, like they could snap. Each of her arms are lying straight along sides of her body, her hands upturned like jesus on the cross. Some kind of ironic move she’s doing in her sleep. Always clever, always having the last laugh.

Aunt Carmella's on her deathbed. At this point she’s 3 days away from the final breath. 3 days after 98 years. I’m the only one there when she dies. I’m sleeping in the hospital room. I breathe her dead air for another 5 hours before waking up, seeing the straight red line of her heartbeat, and calling the nurse. I don’t really care, I didn’t know Aunt Carmella for that long, considering how long she’d been around. I’m 16, I’m in Abilene, Texas watching my aunt die.

“Oh how nice, to scoop it out while it’s still warm.”


Aunt Carmella's feet stick out from underneath the thin hospital cover, everything else is tidily tucked away - besides those stigmata hands.


Gianna was at some bar with her sister for a birthday party. Ice cold. Beer dribbles down the side of a glass and then around the thumb holding the glass. Iiiiice cold. Debbie’s turning 23. The most honest thing I did all year was sit here and watch you guys eat each other out. Uhhhh we don’t like to talk about that. Grace is on a stool by the bar. She’s got on big boots and those skinny legs of hers. The prettiest hands. Small. When laid up against my own I’m reminded of the intimate drawl of a bedtime activity. Sleepy tangle. Hm. Now my words are coming out smokier. Grace is in my hand and I’m in love in the way I always am when a girl gives me her attention like that. this. At the bar with a sweaty thigh laid on top of mine. Cocktail blues. Some kind of tequila in the lowest part of my belly which warms me and turns me softer and tighter at once. That red head’s out of the bathroom now and I can see where she’s come from, a kind of serious shudder as she walks out into the bar again. Green light hitting red hair and white skin like a front yard christmas display. Like a pinball machine. Like a traffic sign. I whisper in another strange ear and forget who I’m talking to.  

Carmella’s in bed. She’s 23 and somewhat beautiful. Middle of July. She’s laying in a few layers of dirty sheets and all around her are glasses half filled with teas and dusty water. Dust on top. Tea curdling. She’s lying with a head hanging off the side of the bed and getting dizzy. Most of the time when someone leaves her somewhere she gets a little nervous and needs to move around a lot but today she stays still and lets the blood run to her brain. A little vein forms along the curve of her forehead, face turning red. She’s alone playing a game with the wall, watching little stars appear as she presses down on her eyelids. Carmella sees green waves and dots then takes her hands away from her eyes and lets them fade away. She sticks a finger in her mouth and up around her gums feeling for some bits of leftover cereal she had at breakfast and fishes the mushy pieces out. She’s in a white top and loose old underwear that have started thinning and sagging from wear. She whistles a bit of a weird tune and fades in and out of hot sleep.

You gave me someone to be competitive with a time in my life when that was very important and I want to thank you for that but - I’ve had enough now. I’d like to go back to how it was before.

I only care about one thing and that’s money mpney money momney

And one more thing -

Carmella enters a little dreamsong.

Dear Diary,

My father is sitting archbacked over his diary at the kitchen table, writing frantically before dinner is served...

Dear Diary

Dear Carmella

Writing - suddenly - to his late mother he begins even more furiously to tear pages out.

My mother my Dear mother - please come visit me one more time, I’d like to see you again before… I know you’re by the seaside and that it’s beautiful there and away from all the hustle bustle of the city (it’s horrible here I know I know) but I can’t hardly remember what you look like, and the kids would love to see you, and Lorraine as well.

“WHAT’s for diNNERr!”

Dad screams - sweating sloppily onto the page, all over the diary, into the sweet iced tea my mother sat tentatively in front of him when she saw how worked up he was getting while writing. She looks at me, raising an eyebrow comically as though to say - “what’s gotten into this guy!” like they do in soap operas - eyes to camera breaking fourth wall type shit - ha ha ! The crowd clucks. I am the crowd, my mother’s some beautiful actress on a day time show. We’re playing a game now. My brother is the laugh track. My father’s the chaotic comedic relief but doesn’t know it yet.

My mother sings back -

“Meeaaaatloaf darliiing, it’s Thursday remember!”


Everyone else that I love is disgusting and filled with hate. They spat at me my whole life and they won’t stop now just cause I’m sick. I’m weak - I said it from day one and it’s the truth.


Girl and boy are sat on roof w unidentified city skyline in background. Girl turns to boy after she finishes telling a lie.

“So, now you know everything about me.”

Boy getting down lower bringing himself somehow from sitting position to a place closer to the floor and more at her feet answers -

“Yes I do, I do”

Girl smiling, thinking - what a fool.

       Before going to bed she repeats this mantra - Everything is Mine.

Here we are - we’ve arrived. There are ponds all over the land and a few old churches that are mostly overgrown with moss and things - you can take a look if you like. Maybe once you’ve had a rest - I know the journey is long - maybe after that I can take you for a walk, to see the property. It’s a nice day for that. Yes, you’ve arrived on a good day. It’s the perfect weather don’t you think - balmyyyy - that’s what my mother would say. Oh yes - here’s the main river - it runs through the entire land. About 8 meters across at most places. Yes! It is quite substantial, you can even fish in parts of it. Big fatty salmon.  

Anyway, here is the main house, where you will be staying. Although - of course - you may chose to stay in any of the properties on the land. It is all yours. Everything is yours.


“Tonite I’d like to have an argument.”

“Alright honey, what about?”

“Well, I don’t know. What’s getting on your nerves at the moment?

You take your position and I’ll take the opposite, we’ll just see how things go.”

“Okay, let’s try it.”

In anticipation of the




Sun’s going down. ____ is beside me falling asleep. The bus radio is playing a slowed down version of an old pop song I recognize from my adolescence. I’m working really hard to push this feeling of fear away that seems to follow me everywhere these days. I’m so glad I have ____ at least. I don’t tell her about anything but still her presence soothes me. Her body against mine at night in all these foreign beds. She makes them known to me. My front half fitting against hers the same way no matter where we are …  I do wonder when she’ll leave me. When my accidental coldness will no longer be tolerable for her. And then what.

Carmella’s leaving class one day and a man boy sitting next to her tells her -

“It is all so exciting because you’re very young. Me - I am blase to it all because I am old and careless. At your age I went out to the desert and I just sat on a rock for 3 months. I came back to the city caked in dirt and darkened by the devil. I was like an animal and people no longer interested me. Everything had become rotton and I no longer wanted to participate in the fakeness of the people who welcomed me back. Whenever you read of a great creative, or possibly even a genius man they all wanted to run away and live in isolation. That’s the sign of a true intellect.”

Carmella is used to people talking to her like this so she shrugs and says he didn’t ask for his life story in the first place.

Carmella's on her mother’s couch. She’s sitting spread legged and soggy eating cubes of papaya that she cut up in the kitchen earlier. It’s spring but it’s still cold outside, gray and heavy.

Carmella’s in a pool holding her face above water, her ears below. She listens to the underwater sound of her strong heartbeat, her toes just barely reaching the gritty pool floor.

Carmella is walking to the bathroom.

“Heavy footed” thinks the cat. I walk to the bathroom to pee and she kisses my toes but thinks still how unladylike my walk is. Galloping into the WC, feet like bricks. Sorry little cat but I’m sleepy, I wouldn’t expect you to understand, you nod off all day in sunny patches on the floor while I get on with it.

Mama’s in the living room picking at her toe nails, overgrown from being on holiday for too many weeks and she’s thinking -

I think the way you’re living is weird and it freaks me out. I made you, and now I can’t understand you - that’s the biggest fear I had when you were inside me - that nothing I’d say would make sense to you, and you to me. Some dark endless misunderstanding between mother and child. In my mind we’re sat in this white room facing each other and we feel like we’re being watched so we keep our mouths shut. I say something fake like “so how’s school, how’s Michaella?” and you say “It’s okay, she’s not my friend anymore” and I feel bad for knowing so little about your life, about you. The way you answer my lame question isn’t malicious like you hate me, it’s more tired - like you pity me. And the way I ask is the same. So we’re in a loop of feeling bad for each other for not supplying the right relationship. You don’t look like me. I’m uncomfortable and unsupportive.

Sitting in the womb I’m sticky and 28 weeks into development. Thin slices of toenails and gooey eyeballs are hardening into something I’ll be able to work with in a couple months. My mother’s mother on her own in Africa in ‘62 has transplanted stress and fear into her murky womb and now we’re all a little nervous. Mrs. Dupont swallows her glass of red wine in one gulp. The top layer is thick with grease from the roast suckling pig Mr. Dupont made for dinner. It’s little carcass syrups having penetrated the room, making the air in the house wet with cooked meat juices. Mrs. Dupont breathes in deeply and imagines droplets of fat adhering to her lung polyps. Mrs. Dupont is going crazy from the baby in her belly. She slurps down another slither of meat and dismisses herself from the room. Has a cigarette out the window of her bedroom screaming “I don’t want to share!” into the hills beyond the house.

The cat’s lying in the hallway in front of a mirror, lounging as per. I walk out heading to the bathroom and she stops me. She says :

“Don’t you think I look especially pretty today? More so than usual?”

I say no, you look as attractive as always. And you do always look good, isn’t that enough for you?”

She says no and turns back to the mirror, her most trustworthy friend.

I walk heavy to the bathroom knowing she is hyper aware of my iron feet. The cat’s lucky. She’s poised. She’s pampered both by others and herself . She’s slender and her coat is always shining. When I leave the bathroom she turns her head in 360 degree owl-like fashion and with this move instantly exposes my own lack of grace. I used to shrink when she looked at me, now I hold my ground so that my monstrous body looms over her tiny, sexy one. She can’t always have the last word.   

Everyone is standing in front of me and I am thinking to myself - which one am I dedicating this life to. I have an endless amount of lives, one day I will exhaust myself and decide not to fill another body and finally I will rest but until then I can go again and again. My mother always returns, either as sister or as aunt. My father joins, as lover or best friend. As pet. As boss. A million variations for my family. Maybe in a past life I killed you. In a past life I was beheaded. In a future life I have one arm amputated, the right one. By now you’ve played every role. I fed you from my breast in one life and now you’re licking me again in other ways. Everything becomes symbolic, a twisted hint.


Being the first to arrive home that day from school, P and Y were the kids who baptized the newly laid floor of the courtyard below their flat. The old floor, soaked with piss and trash juice had been deemed by the parents of the block as a ‘no play zone’, but this morning two men had come and dug up the gravel and left behind a flat piece of land, polished and clean, resembling a grainy sort of black tar. Having watched it’s holy creation with their own eyes, the mothers couldn’t keep their children off of the floor - so undeniable was it’s newness.  

P sits on the asphalt, testing how hot it is with the soft underside of his paw. London’s unusual sun has already begun baking the tar, seeming to finish off the job by cooking the still gooey black into something fully hardened. The men this morning, who’d come with sledge hammers and hard hats, had ripped the previous floor up from beneath their own feet. P sits, imagining what else might have come up with it, continuing to test his thin skin on the new burning floor.


T was not the kind of man I would usually go for but something about his aire of indecency, money and sex had got me interested. What’s the point of being a woman. I want everyone in the room to desire me all of the time. I kick my little pink booties in the air and arch my back like a dog, I know how the game goes. Someone tells me I always look slutty but in a subtle way. Someone gets all close to my face and tells me ‘you know everyone in this building wants to fuck you’. Her prosecco breath tickling the inside of my ear and getting me all hot. As in getting me sick. As in I can’t explain.

Either way, it felt good to tell the man in my bed that he was stupid. That he was too loud and that his jokes at the dinner table were borderline offensive, also just un-funny. This desire to be the mean one, a desire already accomplished. You are mean!

While you were asleep I touched all of the things in your room.

Why? Out of spite?

I just wanted to make my mark - now I’m definitely here. Indelible little fingerprints all over your shit.

That doesn’t bother me.

What do you mean?

As in, I don’t mind. Lick it all - what do I care.

Carmella’s mother tells me she is asleep in the other room. Her body is warm beneath a thick sweaty duvet. I put my hand across her unconscious forehead and wipe away a little fever grease. Three times a year Carmella becomes sick and sweats a lot and something green comes out from a lot of her orifices and in it’s own way it mummifies her and casts her in a hard opaque resin and she becomes very stiff inside rigor mortis setting in but then, suddenly, she becomes soft again and all of her bones recalibrate and her pores are cleaned out and her muscles are massaged to a state where they are nearly as new as when she popped out the womb the first time. After each sickness she is completely refreshed, made new again, dissolved into a gaseous state and then reformed as a solid. Slips through a liquid - this is her favorite part - like a full body orgasm, the good part right before the release lasting for what feels like days. She is lying there sick and the whole house, the whole family, all her friends and whoever might be her boss at the time just let her do it they give her the time to. Days and days off just lying there wet. A puddle of sick. A puddle of girl turning green and then pink again. Some people - me - coming to watch for a bit. To see a body in a state of change and still visually at such ease. To watch and to see almost no trace of the shift inside. Carmella’s belly - oh. Carmella’s belly rose and fell the way bellies do under the sun. Hot and baking on the inside, the hair on the surface turning white against the skin turning an earthy reddish brown underneath. It was an honor to watch Carmella sleep in these times - really, it was my honor.


All men are immortal.

Here is a picture of my best friend the morning after she lost her virginity, doe eyed and relieved. Not a completely successful break into this half of her life, but alright - if it needs be. He was cute enough and played that confident tanned boy body role of ‘charming’ well for his age. Would become a monster probably, a master at it. I had given him that all-knowing look then already - which said something along the lines of ‘I know’ or ‘Me too’. Fucking each other over. Fucking each others friends over, fucking each others friends full stop. Even then the potential to go further - to switch bodies to get so knock out drunk that we meet each other in different rooms. Having coffee with one instead of the other one morning because someone needs to sleep in longer. Sleep stuck in the corners of eyes, yellow and (demanding). Fat lips. A sideways look on the beach towards some stretched muscle on a back or a belly running tight beneath a dress. This one’s mine. Which one? Him! Seeing double suddenly, rocking into each other a bit. These boys were like that and even in the innocence of some sticky summer sweet romance the opportunity was there. Let him hear from downstairs so it’s like he’s involved in this with us. Let him get in from below. Just let him in the bed!

What happens when 6 sunstroked bodies with bellies full of Whispering Angel collide is especially soft.

Here is the dream Carmella dreamed in her third round of sickness this year, the last one of 2016. Lying in bed during one of the early days - a fresh sickness - she dreamt :

P is lying on the ground. He has been on the tacky asphalt forever. He is part boy part floor. In the dream my mother is a furious business lady. In the dream I am engulfed in a fire. Fire eats me up.  

So, what did I look like from the side?



“all of your bulges were subtle and so it was easy for the eye to follow you from top to bottom without much deviation from a straight line.”

So it was a pleasure then, to observe me?

“Indeed, I enjoyed it very much, while you were mine to look at.”

And now?

“I would not go so far as to say that I miss you, although I do of course think of you in private from time to time, if that’s what you are asking.”

And in the end?

“And in the end you were cold, both in attitude and to the touch.”

I wonder why..

“Because you had begun to despise me, I suppose. Remember what I said about everything becoming annoying? Everything had became annoying.”

I remember. 

“I used to especially dislike this about you - 


“I was about to tell you”

No don’t, I’m already embarrassed about too many things.

“That’s not true”

You don’t know. 


And at the beginning?

“At the beginning I was surprised by how intelligent you were. I usually like sleeping beside successful but soft bodies that I can teach things too.”

That’s boring, are you ever bored?

“I find it thrilling, I don’t know boredom. I refuse it.”

That’s brave. 


Why does this exchange of information, or intellect never feel equal?

“Because it isn’t. One of us is always smarter. I guess with you I wasn’t sure. Sometimes your silence made me question whether you were completely dumb or if you were more clever than you let on. That you were just making fun of me all the the time. That’s why I had to kill you.”


Anyway, what about in the middle?

“In the middle I don’t know. You did some things which I’m ashamed to say made me view you differently. I guess it has something to do with embarrassment. I am very aware of my image you know, reputation? What the people expect of me? You don’t have a lot of regard for that and I must admit it disturbed me.”


“Yes, disturbed, it means to interfere with the normal arrangement or - ”

(interrupting) I know what “disturbed” means

“Okay well, that’s what it did to me, on occasion I found myself disturbed by you.”

I think that’s okay, replace disturbed with a word like, challenged or surprised by and I think those are signs of a healthy relationship” 

“Yes, I suppose you would think that way.”

So you wouldn’t be interested in hearing how I feel about all this?



“You like seeing yourself in certain lights, you know what I mean?” 

I don’t know what you mean. 

“Certain warmer lights turn you on. You’re like a stupid lizard.”

I think you’ve got the wrong girl, I’m very active. You’re the one who lies around in bed all day. 

“I don’t like it when you try and teach me things about myself. I mean, you’re correct most of the time but I can’t understand how you don’t see that it’s a waste of time. I’ll never listen!”

Yes, that much has become clear to me.

“You have an air of superiority about you, you know that? and it stinks, like, I can actually smell it here in the room with us? 

Now you’re just getting angry. 

“Yes, but anyway, this is all becoming very boring for me.”

The conversation is? 

“Sure, all of it.”

my father’s shaking his head back and forth furiously. “no no no no no”

I put another piece of sashimi in my mouth. It melts a little when it hits my tongue. As it should. Good sashimi does that. Bad sashimi lies fake and chewy between your teeth and waits to be taken care of.

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I lost track and started on my own train of thought. About a dream I had where I ate the pinky toes off both my feet and fed them to you. If your parents are wealthy and expect something of you, you disobey and become unsuccessful and poor. If it is the other way around, you either fall into place or you become RICH and delicious to prove them wrong.

The pond by my mother's home is deeper than any place in the world. If you like you can swim from there to the center of the earth. It is the only place in the world where you can do that, I’ve been told all my life.

He has chunks of foie gras which he’s spread on toasted brioche squeezed between his cheeks, making room in the rest of his mouth to keep talking and then, to have another large sip of his drink. The alcohol is purple and syrupy. It cakes a little in the corners between his lips. He keeps talking. A hallway from his stomach to me is formed through his mouth for this information to pass.

Up on stage I feel as though I know a lot. Also - I am the stupidest one in the room. Before going up I order champagne from a butch lesbian bartender and she seems upset with me rather than sympathetic. I order two glasses and she says she can only serve one per person. I tell her my uncle is coming from Florida to watch me read tonight but she doesn’t believe me. She spits in the second flute as she hands it over and then sorta winks at me. I get mixed signals from everyone in the room.

It’s July and I’m visiting my mother for her birthday month. I spend a lot of time alone and sometimes that makes me feel like a queen. This afternoon I’m sitting in the pond. The pond overlooks a cow field and it smells fresh and mossy. It is filled with toads and salamanders. They sit the way I do, along the edge with their arms on the sides, all our heads falling slightly back so as to look up towards the sky through the tree branches, which sway and touch fingers a little. One toad beside me sighs gently. The salamander next to him is smoking a tiny cigarette. He mentions to no one in particular that he has to go on a business trip soon. “Japan” he continues. “Tokyo”. The salamander begins to cry quietly and tears fall on his cigarette. He mumbles that he gets so frightened, that everything is too bright and too big. That he nearly choked to death on a piece of udon last time he was there. That he doesn’t know the language, can’t read the street signs. He’s so scared. The toad sighs again and brings his toes to the surface of the pond. He wiggles them a little and makes rings in the water which reach out away from him. He thinks to himself, privately, that he is actually very resilient and good at being in places where he is not comfortable. He smiles a little for being so strong, stronger than the salamander who has stopped crying and is now looking down at his paws.

I met my parole officer at Odessa and sat her down. She had a coffee and I had a big eggy breakfast. I told her : I know you’re here to tell me all the things I can’t do but I am going to do them anyway so I just thought I should come clean now. My parole officer is in love with me and so she lets me do whatever I want.

The little girl’s in the corner watching soap operas and eating cherries. She eats them like apples because her mouth is still so small. She finishes each one in three careful bites, until she gets to the pit, sweet and bloodied. She walks over to me and spits the seed in my hands, like a gift. She smiles big and there are lines of red between her teeth. A killer! She looks too small and mischievous. Her mouth curious, moving constantly, searching for the center. I take the pit and pop it in my own mouth. Bigger and smellier. Deeper. Older. There’s a little flesh stuck to it still because she’s not careful and doesn’t regard the fruit as sacred yet, like the rest of us do. I chew the skin off and swallow the pit. It sits heavy in my stomach and makes my belly puff out a little. At night in bed alone under warm itchy light I play that I am pregnant. I lay my hands on my skin and take deep breaths and imagine milky leaking and whole fertility. The little girl gave me the gift of motherhood but I am still very alone, still resorting to playing dress up and make believe. I never begin to show, although I do remain swollen for a few years, most likely self induced.

for a little bit of time I had a lot of money. It was strange for me because I came from nothing I mean


I became very confused. I started living differently. Doors opened wide and then wider. The door even looked different. heavy and it almost sparkled. For a few years, during my time of wealth the city seemed very new to me. I navigated it with boring ease. The dirt didn’t touch me. I came home clean and then bathed anyway in an ivory claw foot tub which sat in the middle of my condo. Impractical but chic. It was always white in there - I suspect I had a cleaning lady although I do not recall hiring one, you see, at this time I was being very well taken care of. It felt sort of as though I was being carried everywhere, and fed by many small white hands, and massaged constantly. I can’t even remember how this wealth had come into my life. A vague memory tells me it was through some strange business deal which I’d unexpectedly cashed out on.

Old things become re-familiarized and it’s half comfortable half jarring. I wonder if I can ever be fully at ease or committed while I’m here. I always have a little fever which turns me slightly mad. When I look around and see a lot of wet half moldy things, sopping, I tell myself : you like this too much and that’s why you can’t live in cities like Paris you want the dirt in the gutter the muddy stuff that collects in the corners you wanna eat it I don’t know if I’m right. I like the city I’m from I like the city I’m from I been told how lucky I am all my life I feel big now when at dinner slurping oysters I say “my boyfriend is moving here and I wanna plan a sweet little trip for us when he arrives sluerpppshlurppp oh darling where do you suggest, you and Bobby are always going on the most wuuuuunderful vacations slubperdopbulp” I’m very bloated underneath my dress from all the bread I’ve been eating dipping it into leftover juices from the white wine mussels but I don’t let anybody know I am so elegant and so at ease when I get home

I slip my slim shapely body under silk sheets I’m like the embodiment of the sensation of tongue on clean pink cunt and I go right to sleep close my eyes and I’m gone.

Girls are always telling eachother their dreams as though anyone cares to listen. I started seeing someone new and I killed all her friends accidentally so now every morning when we wake up before we fuck she relays what happened to her the night before in sleepy half sentences I kiss her just to shut her up and stuff myself into her morning breath body. I think she thinks I am so enamored by her stories that I can't help myself but


can she run her mouth.

It was the coldness of the place. She looked around vision half blurred and shiny. The way it gets when she starts thinking the rain is fake, when it starts glitching and someone’s coming after her all of a sudden. All the cliches. The mental break halfway to insanity. Like some sick leaking out of her ear and pooling pink around her feet. No one else seemed to be paying attention. She sat in a lot of wetness like a dog. A dog wouldn’t mind. A dog is nice when there’s some dew on it, looking out across the green so satisfied. Limp tongue hanging out of wet mouth. White teeth and strong lungs. Some dogs, she thinks - like german hunting dogs - are soooo healthy. They remind her of red meat and of sheep. They remind her of purpose and satisfaction. She’s more along the lines of ‘decrepit’ or some other word which hints at deterioration and illness. She smells like backed up plumbing. She’s picking the hairs out of her eyebrows and even eating them, sometimes. She doesn’t look good. She’s got little holes in her face which fill up with black sludge and then harden and then get pushed out of her skin and then get filled again and the holes get bigger and the sludge gets a little more grey and green maybe. Mmmmm. It’s strange how she’s so public about her death. She walks right out onto the field under flood lights and stands kind of twitching in the middle looking out across the green. She’s kissing her mother goodbye kindly and saying thank you for all your help you really didn’t do anything wrong you know, and she’s jacking off her lover one last time because she can’t help but keep giving until every last circuit gives out. Finally they do and she grunts and her knees give, they buckle. Her face hits the wet grass and slips to the right, mud stain on her cheek, some dirt sneaking itself into her ear. A voice comes on over the loudspeaker ;

“alright folks shows over” and it crackles out and the few people in the audience drag themselves home unsatisfied and sleepy and go to bed and sigh, good riddance.

there was a recurring theme for her -

- here’s the problem -
- here’s how I’m feelin’ -

A plane overhead bursts gently into flames and there is a sudden warmth which makes the city feel quiet and easy for a moment. She thanks the sky and ash begins to fall around her. Sweet. She looks ahead towards her lover and offers a weak smile. Once she had tried tickling him and it had been so hard to get a natural laugh out that she had stopped abruptly and found a place to throw up instead. He slipped his hands beneath her blouse and felt along her skin for a specific mole. Upon finding it he fingered it momentarily and then withdrew himself. His touch was clinical. Didn’t come back for seconds. The city didn’t give much either. It was hard and gray. All cement. It was sulfuric. And salty. On occasion something broke and let a warmer thing in but this was rare and never lasted. She had to leave often to make it tolerable. When this wasn’t possible she had to build a cave and stay put, turn the heating up high and manufacture a fake and sticky fever. She took long bathes and let herself get soft and malleable. Her pores opening up wide enough to stick a finger into. All the windows steamy and the air like milk.

“It’s a shame”
she thinks,
“that all of my teeth are rotting out of my head so early on in life.” I wonder why that is and if anyone else can taste it.
“if I am not talented now”
she thought
“then I am a lost cause”

talent does not come later in life. it is innate. I am like a rock. I am so bland and embarrassed by my smell. I wonder how many people I can make fall in love with me before I am passed my prime. I wonder why I am so selfish and so greedy.

“At least” she thought

“I’ve stopped finally with that intense and secret gluttony. At least I can move on from such unrestrained consumption which at times had felt so wild.”

she unwrapped the chocolate cake she’d picked up on her way home. Maple Bourbon Buttermilk Icing. She slid the black mass onto a white plate and peeled back the plastic sheet with which the baker had wrapped the cake for safer travel. It was wet from trapped moisture. She threw a silver fork onto her bed and placed the plate beside it. She pulled her pants down from around her hips and sat on top of her duvet. She brought a forkful of cake to her mouth.


It was easy to imagine him falling in love with someone else and in the moments when I no longer wanted him to be mine I relished in the possibility of it. It brought up a sad kind of longing for something which I still had and that tickled me. A sweet kind of torture. Jane snorted a line in the bathroom and came back burning and even prettier than before. He wanted boiled pierogies and then he wanted to hold my boney hips and fuck me in the ass. My father, in his older age has become very afraid of this ugly encroaching ‘intellect’ and of breaking. I try to think of what to say and something sad comes out. My tongue dribbles. Something squelches. In a quiet room in which no one lives a candle burns and the base spills over letting hot wax drip down the window pane. “what’s happening” he asks, finally. “it’s not working” - she says - “it’s the end, probably”

Jane lies still on the ground in some residential area in London, posh. I cut up three fat lines of coke and they look pretty. Her mouth is a dusty red, a slit. A gash or something equally violent. Everyone around me is desperate for a brainless kind of wealth. A sticky overripe peachy kind of desire. Everyone is side eyeing each other. Everyone is sizing each other up and disguising their weirdness as a compliment or as a gross lust. No one wanted to fuck me when I went home I was like a gaping hole that everyone looked away from.

I suck my lips into my head and my teeth stand out white, then I relax and I am beautiful again.

Paris’s gray sits on my shoulder and purrs. Hums to me. Becomes sexier and slithers down the divide in my back. Slips between my toes - then withdraws. This city invokes a lazy beauty which lounges by the Seine, maybe rolling in accidentally. Unaffected ease. Sleazy motherfucker. Slow yawn. The babylike rise and fall of a puffy belly. You’re a beautiful sleeper, like a drunk or something.

Buy a horse. Buy a better horse. Buy a donkey cause it’s a funny juxtaposition for the garden. Be greedy because you can be, because you’re making so much money now. All the leftover things which come out of certain smaller crevices, where some genuine earwax can be squeezed out still - are stolen and mass produced. I’m sick. I’m lying in a big beautiful hotel room and I have all these starchy brand new things around me in bed. Kissing me and making me full. A bubble bath is running and I’m going to be so clean and then I’m going to go back to bed because I can. Buy a horse. Then buy a better one.

Ankle kisser. Gobsmacked little bitch. I think out of all the girls Maria likes me the best, because I dress alright and because we use the same coconut creme conditioner. There’s a comfortability in smelling yourself on someone else, it can be something sweet. It can be porous, can remind you of conception or consummation or some other “c” word that’s not coming to mind. Ooh Maria. I wanna consume you. Cuddle you. Corrupt. Control you. MMMmmmm. Kidnap you. I wanna kiss your ankles. Kiss your knees. Hey, I love you. Maria!

What I noticed first was that my once ravishing mother was now old. I rang the doorbell. I hadn’t been home in 16 years. The fact that the house still stood, albeit slightly more lived in then I remembered but no less confident, was astonishing. It was a sort of beaten-in teal. Next door my late aunt had lived. And next to her, another aunt. Across the street, some in law or another. All the backyards were connected by doors built into wooden picket fences. A hereditary lack of privacy. I didn’t have a taste for this. It felt creepy on my skin. What did the house smell like? It smelled like toast, I like it in big homes when there are so many people that there’s never not someone eating. That feels good. That feels full, like a small safe version of infinity. My mom is 68 years old now. I think she’s pretty tired. When she opens the door she’s wearing a light pink dress that she wore a lot when I was a kid. The fabric is thin enough so I can see her body underneath. Women age strangely, a lot of skin gets thin and loose, almost translucent. I used to worry that I’d rip you somehow. When I met my mother she was 33, not a young mom. Pretty average. A good amount of life lived before me, and still a good amount ahead of her. She spoke 3 languages fluently and had a soft round voice because of it. Germanic, primarily. A little stuck in the throat maybe. Deep. My old mother invites me inside. I imagine I look pretty bad myself. I’ve been living in cities and on the highways between cities for the past decade and a half. My

mother’s nearly seventy years old. I let that idea kick me in the face as I walk into the living room. Not a thing has been moved since I’ve gone. In these beautifully consistent cul-de-sacs things don’t just change. Husbands get bonuses and then they re-do the bathrooms or something. Add a kitchen island for your teenage daughter to get fucked on when you’re out of town, if she’s that kind of girl. Or just get a new toilet, a bathtub, a faux marble sink. Whatever’s in. My momma brings me a beer although I didn’t ask for one. She looks cool all of a sudden. I wonder sometimes if there’s an age between young and old where you don’t feel the direct signs of death but you understand it’s approach, and so you just sink in and enjoy it. I look forward to that. Quiet and self assured. On the other hand I’ve been reading a lot about people who know they’re dying. All that confidence goes out the window, you’re an infant again. Throwing a temper tantrum cause you don’t have the capacity to ask for what you want. Or the capacity to know. I take a sip of my beer and sit on the couch.

You’d look good with a hole in your head. A thumb up your ass. You weird fool. You say yes to a lot of things, don’t you - no questions asked. There’s this guy in the corner who’s desperate to say something but he doesn’t know how to get it out. On the edges of the room are all these hungry vultures and they scare him into submission. “keep your fucking mouth shut you dumb shit” they got hot blood bubbling out of their mouths, bits of old meals between their teeth. All of a sudden there’s a lot of chaos, the guy said something loud and stupid and for a moment the whole room stopped breathing. A few men and women threw up right there in the middle of it all, sometimes it doesn't matter where you get sick as long as it’s out of your body. People’s teeth started falling right out of their heads and into their palms - they came out clean, expatriated with such force and necessity that no bits of gum held to the ivory. Clean socket. Pink and juicy. Some people cried but this was a lame and unsatisfying bodily function in comparison to the more brutal ones happening around them. Organs ruptured internally. Things ripped and became infected and oozed pus and began already to heal, the process sped up by fear. This kinda chaos is pretty thick, it’s edible. It tastes nutty. A precursor to the apocalyptic frenzy. It’s coming! He’s coming! I, personally, hope we burn to death. It’s more romantic than freezing. It’ll look good on film, makes a more convincing and demonic headline too. What DID turn Mr. Normal into a mass murderer? The hair-like tendrils of flames in all these hellish paintings lick the bottoms of the worn in feet of sinners. Like you! You put my big toe in your mouth and growl. We could still fuck in heaven bby, the devil can watch ;)

It was undeniable that her beauty depended entirely on her lips. Of all the disgusting things I do, which is the worst? I find my lying especially deplorable. I am the biggest girl in the room and I look for every way to make myself even bigger. Stupid kid. Everyone’s avoiding you because you’re dirty, now only the little kids will play with you cause they’re small and grubby anyway and love that you’ll really get down on the ground with them. You’re good at that. There will come a bitter age when they too will turn against you but don’t think to hard on it now. Mom called the other day to remind you that happiness really does lie in the now, so, forget the rest or whatever. I fell in love with my last guy on the beach, that’s when I knew it had happened. He never complained about nothing, everything was “beautiful” and after a while I think that’s what drove me crazy. In the end he left me for my mother, so I drilled an inch deep hole into the small of my back which, whenever I want to be reminded of him, I stick my finger into. I have never had my heart broken, towards the end I always become very hard and mean on the outside and

this prevents me from feeling anything at all. That wet and desperate hiccupy cry makes its way out of the other guy’s throat and again, I’ve won.

I’m busy, I need you not to touch me like that. My gut is backed up so that when I speak you can see some of my lunch coming up at the end of my throat. You know, you can probably smell it. Ah! You’re so horrible to me that in the end, like a good woman, I fall in love with you. Like a monster, slack jawed and stinking I order my filet mignon rare while you eat a delicately arranged salad and sip wine. I’m playing footsie under the table but not with you, with someone else. I’m crazy now for real. I’m quiet though and so it’s a secret and so everyone thinks I’m fine. The role I’m supposed to fill is simple - when I stay still I look very beautiful and it is easy to fool people into thinking that there’s a lot going on behind these glassy eyes.

My mom takes a seat across from me in the ‘lounge’, her pink dress settling slightly around her thin body as she does. She looks out of place. This is my perfect suburban house and everything is pastel. Marzipan white chocolate pinks and greens and blues fill the space. Perpetual baby room stink. Pill popped softness. My American dream is crock potted in the back round, pre- packaged, shrink wrapped, delivered. She says “Baby, tell me, where’ve you been all these years” My pants are leaking but the sofa is wrapped in a thick sheet of plastic so the dirt just slips off the sides and onto the floor. They hit white and reanimate, dirt balls crawling off into corners and shivering a little when they get there. Not used to this kind of linoleum. I look up and we catch eyes, sudden and awkward. How much responsibility do you feel for your family? I say none, and it’s true. Now, look how pretty you are when the answer you get is not what you expected! A guttural kind of snagging in your throat. A juicy hiccup at the end of your laugh. It’s a genuine response though and so I love you all the more for it.

Daisy’s knocked up.
She looks so good in her summer dresses all big with these wonderful swollen ankles. Man,

I’ve never seen anything like it.

Her self awareness is stupid and does not allow me enough space for manipulating insults and revealing disgusting bits of truth to her about herself, the ones I find when I’m dick deep slobbering licking salt out her pits and all that.

I’m looking at Mama. I’ve nearly finished my beer and it’s warm at the bottom in a gross, salivating way. Back washed. She tells me my father will be home in 20 minutes and that I should best be getting along, that he wouldn't want to see me here, like this. That it would affect his health badly. My father's been dead for 6 years. As a form of punishment I take the last sip. There are little pieces of soggy bread at the bottom which catch in my throat and stick in the ridges.

I’m back at a bridge I went to a lot as a kid. It’s not a bridge really, it reaches out a mile into the ocean and then meets nothing, just stops out there in open water. I guess some people jump, or just walk to the end and sit for a bit - then walk back.

Dear Diary,


“the water and the liquor feel goooood”

she’s running through the fountain, letting it take care of her.

Jack wont kiss me on the steps of the church because he is very religious and it would be blasphemous to do so. It is this prudity which makes me love him even more. his total innocence. his holy control. I lie there and I turn into a version of myself so desperate to be had that it becomes mostly just humorous. my purpose singular. animalistic. vulgar. he hates me for it but he’s starting to pull my hair a little in the rare moments when he does succumb to me, and for his small effort I am grateful.

i let the plastic handle rip into the tan fat of my forearm and i feel more self sufficient than ever before. i make mean fuck me eyes at all of the TFL employees and they look almost scared - like they hadn’t known about that humiliating gagging noise i find myself throwing up sometimes. occasionally I find myself refreshing.

“yeah it’s satin - touching goddamn monkey skin chest”

I don’t know what he meant but it sounds cool and mean in my mouth. Sounded even better in his.

Some girls I knew in elementary school started saying “the LES doesn’t have anything for me anymore” and most of the time I don’t feel like I have the right to call anything mine. most of the time I think I’m the problem.

I got heavier.

I ate all the stones at the beach while I was waiting for you to finish teaching your surf lesson and I laid on my back and I let them press against my spine from the inside.

In the meantime everything tastes less sweet
than ever before
my mother washes the makeup off of my father’s face and I drink the bath water after they’ve gone to bed. clean. sweet.

I like to think of myself as “resilient”
but I am rotton

Jerome is divorcing his wife
they don’t sleep in the same bed anymore but
when we look at him weepy eyed and sigh he says
“it’s no big tragedy”

Dana tells me that the day before her mother died she asked if she’d live longer if she just tried eating a little more.

I threw up in the tent on the beach that morning. 
Our baby in the bile. 
You more pink than I remembered

I liked watching him after he’d been fed

full in a milky way,

his skin getting even nicer, like I could see the outline of his organs - slightly swollen from food. 

he reclines on his mothers couch

puts a hand on a warm brown belly, satisfied. I get a good look out the window behind him and it’s a strong view down 28th street.

while still on the couch he tells me :

“ohhhh and in the summer she was always a little damp…”

I lie there naked and make myself edible. There are ways a woman can do this, because there are dips in our bodies which are reminiscent of butter, or something. 

I see his mother on the train and tell her that her son is very talented. 

“In what?” she asks, 

sweaty in fake leather shorts which stay stuck to the subway seats after she gets up. 

“hmmmm” I say, 

and step out - avoiding conflict. 

I live in a hot hot city, and so everyone is always fighting. I like it in the winter when the buses get steamy, everyone inside them hot and bothered, wrist deep in their neighbors and not really sure why. 

I always try to enter space with a sense of authority. Left foot first, then left again, then nose - then the right foot follows. 

In a couple of decades (not very many) scientists perfect the technology necessary to create a stable embryonic sack in which a full term pregnancy can take place outside of the female body. 
This changes our understanding of the role of the woman in our society. 
Some feel we should just take the eggs and dispose of the bodies - we don’t need then anymore. 
It’s a mans world after all.
Others cling to the romanticized image of female flesh - they can’t let go. Their dreams are occupied by fleshy grabbing and entering and the now nostalgic notion of cumming. 

Creamy dreams.
Sticky sheets. 
Some wonder if we can really live in a womanless world. For others it is no question at all.

In a couple of decades scientists have also perfected the technology necessary to make the perfect robot. Life is equal parts productivity and pleasure. We do not wash our dishes or caulk our bathtubs. We go to work - to the good, stimulating jobs left over after the robots were appointed the others. 
And then we go home, read the news and watch films. Cook yourself dinner - if you still care for that sort of thing. 
When you need it - you’re welcome to stick your aching dick in one of our fleshy computerized holes, the perfect fit every time. Bush or Brazilian. Brown or pink. Tight or loose. You can curate your cunt. It’s all buttons on a machine sweetie. 
Of course some men miss the chase before copulation. Some men have rape fantasies they can’t shake. Others simply get off on humiliation. They crave the vile possibility of rejection. So we make a robot for that too, we’re working on her now and she’s a mean little bitch. 
In a couple of decades we have the answer to everything :)
But for now we still have our women. The tiresome human condition comes with empathy and love and so we find it too hard to kill off our sisters and mothers and daughters just like that.

The women are kept on edge. Or perhaps they’re left unbothered. We can’t really tell and we don’t really care. It’s a funny thing, knowing that you’re physically un-needed - that it is only the tenuous emotional strings to Daddy keeping you attached to this society. They go through their work day to day, slightly bored. Waiting for eventual annihilation. Some have given up, damaged deeply by the suggestion of their uselessness. Imagine all the lazy hopeless women on the sides of roads. It gives us even more incentive to get rid of them.

It has been several years since this plan was leaked to the media, so the idea has been rotting in the corner for some time. The smell is awkward and stale but few dare to address it. We don’t allow the birth of female children anymore and so our homes are filled only with the last born generation of women (the ones who will die youngest) their sisters, and those who birthed them. Small men however, are born all the time. While the women are still here, they may as well churn out a few more. These are the calmest babies born to date, so settled in their immortality against the impending death of the women that they feel no need to cry. Instead, they drool dumbly down their chins and sit sparkling in pools of snot. Sweet smelling, that milky baby odor everyone talks about emits much more strongly with this batch. Some suspect it stays for good. Healthy and round their giggles reverberate against the walls of weird homes. Male homes. 

In bed I can only assume there is little romance. Like making love to a corpse. Although in fact, it is divided. Some men’s wives lie dry and unwilling besides them. Others cum with a force and desperation the men say they’ve never experienced before. 



Opening Scene

begins black

[ sound of bath noises (water being moved) very prominent ]

1st shot opens -


A man - heavily made up in drag is in the bath
A woman - sitting to his left is bathing him - she dunks his head under water and begins washing his face.

No dialogue . Very intimate .

back to black - loud bath water noises continue

Scene Two


This scene goes on for a while silently as we watch the lamb bleed out.

scene switches - We see a girls face - she has just opened her eyes.

“I was thinking about a bleeding lamb walking through the snow leaving a trail of red behind it.”

She speaks quickly and with excitement. Almost out of breath.

She is sitting in at a table with 3 other people in a kitchen.

The rest are boys.

The first one says :

“I watched grandpa walking on a treadmill naked for a few minutes then he shooed me away.”

The second one says : 

“I was in a field. I don’t know. I was picking glass out of my foot or something.”

The third one says :

            “I don’t like this game.”

The girl says : 

“Phew. Let’s try again.”

( we assume the goal is to all be seeing the same image.)


we see a woman on a bed in a nice room. It is warm. She looks puzzled or bored. She is not bad looking, she has small tits which have fallen slightly to the side of her chest because she is lying on her back.

Woman :

 “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

The woman is naked and playing with / touching the skin on her stomach. There is a man in the room but we can only see the bottom half of his body. He is moving around frantically, uncomfortably. Touching things, getting dressed. He throws a rag at her to clean the cum off of her belly. She still looks puzzled.

(we do not understand what she is talking about)

Scene 4

In the backyard of a suburban looking house there are 10 - 15 boys. They are between the ages of 13 and 19.

All of the boys are kissing, or caressing each other’s bodies and faces. They look very average, some are more beautiful than others but mostly they look very normal. There is no talking in this scene, just the sound of
kissing, maybe music playing low in the background, as though coming from some garden radio in the distance.

This scene goes on for a while, we watch as the boys test the boundaries of each other’s bodies. It is sexual but it feels innocent, as though it is their first time doing something like this. 
Some are in pairs of two. Others are in larger groups, switching between kissing and watching.

Scene 5

In this scene Jack is dancing in the middle of the shot.

The song playing is “He’s The Greatest Dancer” by Sister Sledge.

Scene 6

A man and a woman are walking through an exhibition in a big museum. They are older and maybe a couple but maybe just good friends. 
The man is blind and the woman is walking him around the exhibition and explaining each painting to him in detail.

We come back to this image throughout the film, as she describes different pieces to him.

Scene 7

My mother is 17 or 18 years old. She is inside of a messy apartment, where she lives with her boyfriend. She is sitting on the floor among bed sheets which have come loose off of the bed and are tangled besides and around her. The bed is flat and also on the floor, a few feet away. There are some beer cans and empty bottles of vodka in corners. A few pictures are tacked to the walls. The front door is knocked down. 
The apartment is in Germany. My mother has recently dropped out of high school, because she is disinterested and young and angry with her parents and their lifestyle, and in love. Her boyfriend is older, 22 or 23.

My mother is sitting on the floor and she is alone. She is kneeling with one leg up and the other beneath her, sitting on her right foot. This way of sitting is like when you are a kid looking at something small on the ground. She is resting her head on her right knee and cutting things out of a magazine.

Her boyfriend walks into the apartment through the broken down door. He is holding several dozen roses. There are enough of them so that he is struggling somewhat to carry them all and they are blocking his face when we first see him. When he comes in he goes straight to the bathroom and throws the roses into the bathtub. My mother turns her head towards the door but does not get up.

My mother’s boyfriend comes into the room where my mother is sitting. He stands above her and she leans her head on her knee to look up at him. We only see his bottom half and the hand which gives her one of the roses. She takes it and sniffs.

Boyfriend :

 “We’re going to sell them in bars, to couples or whatever”

She keeps smelling.

“I think we can probably make some money from it”

She hands it back to him and nods.

Mother :

“Yeah, probably.”

He walks back into the other room.

Boyfriend :

 “I think I am going to kill myself tonight”

My mother nods her head along to a song we cannot hear.

Scene 8

This shot is taken from below, so that the statue looks big, as though she is standing above us. From below, we are looking at a statue of the Lady of Sorrows. 
She is being rained on and so it looks as though she is crying.

Scene 9

My mother is standing outside of the bathroom door now.
(this door can lock, unlike the front door which is broken down) 
She is afraid that her boyfriend may slit his wrists in the tub. 
(this is a very romantic image, him in the red tub with all the roses)

When she realizes that nothing is going to happen she goes back to the other room and continues cutting out pictures from magazine on the floor.

Scene 10

Three girls are sitting in a bed, criss-crossed legs above the covers. It is warm. They are in pajamas (thin tee-shirts and loose shorts, tank tops and underwear) they are young, 12 or 13, pre-highschool.
One of the girls is tall and blonde. One of the girls is small and blonde. One of the girls has long brown hair and is medium. Tall blonde and medium brown are looking at each other. Small blonde has her eyes on her hands in her lap. They sit like this for a moment.

After a moment -

Small blonde :

“I don’t think we should talk about it”

Medium brown and long blonde continue looking at each other. Tall blonde gets up and leaves the room, she comes back in a moment and sits down on the bed again - peels a banana and eats it in three bites. She is peppy and says :

“Yeah, sure, I don’t mind. We won’t talk about it.”

Medium brown nods.

Small blonde smiles, a little unconvinced. Long blonde smiles big, banana in her mouth. The girls laugh.

Scene 11

In this scene a girl is in a bathtub and she is masturbating under the water. One of her legs is up over the side of the tub and water is dripping off of her toe onto the wooden floor of the bathroom. The shot is very still. The sound of water being moved for body very prominent. Some moaning. There is a shot of just the foot with water dripping off of toe. There is a shot of hand on cunt. There is a shot in a mirror which is leaning on the edge of the tub in which we can see a fragmented view of body.

Scene 12

A girl and a boy are on the street. The girl has fallen slightly behind the boy. She is holding a peach with both hands and she is looking at the peach. She is in a direct stream of sunlight. The boy turns around and sees that the girl isn’t behind him anymore, he stops and watches her. She takes a moment, and then takes an bite out of the fruit ( a close up on the fruit ) (maybe lots of close ups on peaches / first bites of peaches, as though she’s remembering many different bites as she takes this one ) 

the boy walks towards her now, he is tall and long. 

Scene 13

This is just a scene in which two people are showering together. 

They take turns getting under the shower head so they can both get wet and they do not pay so much attention to one another, as though they do this all the time.  

Scene 14

In this scene Pink Floyd’s “Money” is playing LOUDLY as a camera pans through an empty house. 

Scene 15

This is just a scene in which two people are showering together.

They take turns getting under the shower head so they can both get wet. They are slow. The girls hair is parted at the top where the water is hitting her head and she doesn’t bother to move it. The boy holds the back of her head and they look at each other for a while, with lots of water getting in their eyes. It’s romantic but they have to blink a lot so they can see better. It’s good lighting, yellowy and warm. The boy holds the girls back and she puts both her hands on his chest and watches. They pay a lot of attention to each other, and this is the first time they are showering together. 

Scene 16

Lulu is sitting in a bathtub with flippers on. They are green or orange. 

Scene 17

A boy is sitting in a bath and he is eating Christmas oranges. He has four of them balancing on the side of the tub and is peeling another. One orange peel is floating in the water. He is very focused on the oranges. 

Scene 18

A young girl is lying on the bed stretching and is covered with small tattoos which resemble stitches. The shot is very close up on her body and the tattoos. She’s relaxed and comfortable, and you can hear the sound of the television talking in the background. The camera pans over her body as she moves around. Once she settles into a position we linger for a while, then stop.  

Scene 19

I fuck my boyfriend at his family's New Years Day party after drinking too much and telling him about how sometimes I sleep with my best friend which I know gets him hot and bothered and not jealous because girl bodies are so soft. I leave after he cums on my stomach and little in my mouth and I go to meet my other boyfriend. He is sleepy when I get to him and I undress in the dark and get in bed next to his warm boy body. He tells me about his day in a half dream voice and momentarily I feel like this is what it’s like to be married. I like both my boyfriends but I only admit this to myself and so everyone else just thinks I’m confused and filled with their gross residues. 

Inside of me the two of them don’t mix well. They congeal because they’re a little jealous of each other but mostly just shy. 

Neither go up inside me or down and out. They stay sticky in the middle. 

After a few weeks I get sick, from the rotton cum stuck to the walls of my cervix. Half hardened, half oozing. I don’t taste good anymore - they tell me. 

My body skips ripeness and goes straight to another kind of sweetness which is best spat out immediately. 

When I open my legs it smells kindof like a wet basement and I have this desire to be able to reach up inside of myself to pull out the stink. It’s hard though, getting you’re wrist in there - the angle isn’t right. 

I decide that maybe I’m pregnant and the baby is mad because it’s confused. I sit in the bath which is the only place I smell good anymore. I cover myself in soap and lay my hands gently across my belly. There are bubbles on my face and when they get in my eyes they sting. I think I can feel the baby kicking even though he would only be the size of a kidney bean at this point. I say “shhhh” calmly, like a good mother and he screams “fuck off!” from inside of me which is a funny thing to hear from a tiny kidney bean baby voice. 


now she’s embarrassed and full, lying on her back and digesting badly.

a lover she doesn’t like very much offers to digest it for her.

she calls him and idiot and shoos him away.

Drag Mama

I dress mama up in drag and put her hair in a wrap. She looks beautiful smoking her marlborough gold backwards in the garden. A real vision. I tape the skin on her forehead back, tightening up her face. She looks 24, max. Earlier in the day she says she is jealous of my relationship with sex. How casually I have it. How little I mind when I am not in love. I nod and tell her sometimes I feel sneaky, getting so close to people when maybe I don’t deserve it. She laughs. We are taking a road trip together to an empty town, to find a very special face cream.

Back home we make dinner. A raw chicken placed on each of our plates, a twig of rosemary set atop. A cup of tea. A glass of cranberry juice. Mints and another marlborough gold smoked backwards to finish the meal. Mama and I are the best cooks in the town and everyone agrees.

Mama’s been alone since Papa and her split. I remember it still, the year of mangoe eating in the orange room. She says I lived mostly off of fish sticks when I was 3 because she wasn’t sure how to cook for me yet. It’s easy to hate the father but we did not. I told her : 6 weeks and they’d be back in love! He came over weekly to kill the centipedes in my bedroom and to flush them down the toilet. Can’t hate anyone when they still do that for you. I was wrong about the 6 weeks though. Sometimes after dinners together they kiss goodbye on the lips and my father smiles in a way which makes me happy. Soft.

Mama’s head wrap is a thin veil with purple polka dots on it. Her lips are drawn on small but they smudge bigger as she eats her dinner. By the time there are only chicken bones on her plate her mouth takes up most of her face. A real vision! 
We eat by purple candlelight. My nails looks like thinly sliced radishes. On the television behind us plays a documentary about 9/11. We all sing along to the commercial jingles when they come on. A small comfort.