The transparent eyelids of Los Angeles. The whole show of human sense … celestial mechanics suddenly unemployed … language makers with superior intellect … everyday sexual occurrences inside the supermarket … secret visions stymied by the cerebral systems … an endless sky … dead arms flay about in a great storm … the feint flash of a sticky … heavy rain. My ghastly face … these hots days … these telegraph wires … this troublesome illness … Barry from Kmart’s rough voice. Firebomb the automobiles. Run from your own enormous odour. Give it up for one ugly scowl. Partial paralysis as cold water is poured upon my face. I like to shoplift. I shoplifted this bus seat … this sensory disorientation … this sleep deprivation … these sand dunes … this sunken sea vessel. Paraffin wax that smells like great loneliness. It doesn’t take long for Barry from Kmart
to stop smiling.

The eyelid twitches amongst endless blisters. Fragrant … lovely perfumes in the back of a cab. Excessive cigarettes wrapped in newspaper … liquid in an elastic cup … we fuck on the inch-thick carpet … holes in the plasterboard. Distant police sirens. The dead trickle of coked-up psychiatrists. I lay on the cold linoleum. Barry from Kmart with rope binds … a strange mixture of cynical talk and shoulder blades that spasm. Banknotes sodden from chocolate milkshake. Suddenly it’s dinner time. I hide behind the bathroom door. Sulphur permeates the railyard. Endless orgasms in the toilet cubicle. The dark edges of the motel room. A vicious barrage of fingers.

An iridescent mass invades my body. My body blows apart. Dirty body in a steamy bath. The inspection of the body … the inspection of the subcutaneous tissue. The perpetual debris of Los Angeles. Prosthetics made from vodka bottle. A colour photograph of the ugliest man. I shoplift a cardboard box … the concrete floor. Mop buckets full of anti-matter. A nervous breakdown on the psychiatric floor of the medical centre. A pleasant
aroma smeared onto my hands. Rachet cogs of the skull. The body of the USA asleep in the bedroom. Bodies shudder from auditory hallucinations. A dark animal exhibits the paranoid.

A plastic bag stuffed down my neck. Certain motels … hash … motel … sofa. Fierce smoke pushed into an oblique space. US Air Force bathes in self-annihilation. The rotten rags of Barry from Kmart’s memory. Copious amounts of sweat stain the hotel laundry. The hotel manager takes a deep breath. The sensible diseases of Alabama. The plaster wall behind the reception counter. Filthy garments on sale at the department store. Radioactive vapours seep from nuclear weapons. The pelvic vertebrae of NYC. White trousers full of biological warfare. Animal gestures that smell like strange drugs. The body shudders and the stomach becomes sick.


Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novels, Xerox Over Manhattan (Apocalypse Party, 2019), Belfie Hell (Inside The Castle, 2018), Yeezus In Furs (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2018), Napalm Recipe: Volume One (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017), Police Force As A Corrupt Breeze (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2016) and Acid Shottas (The Ledatape Organisation, 2014).

He was a member of the band Mattress Grave and is currently a member in Snake Milker.
An archive of his writing/artwork/music can be found at www.shanejessechristmass.tumblr.com

Image banner: ღ ℂℏ℟ḯʂ ღ via Flickr Creative Commons

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