Tagged: sweat

AGOSTO

written august 2017
ibiza, spain

it is august and the air is thick with dust and sweat of all the neighbors packed like sardines in their salt and oils, the workers’ anguish, backs bent and throbbing, tourists’ money and cocaine in their pumps and their cocktails and their jewelry. august and my skin is full of holes and i have itches i can’t name and i sleep on a bare mattress in the corner of a two-bed room beside an argentinian dancer who’s gotten tendinitis in both hands from serving too many bevies at the disco. she’s not allowed vacation and could in theory provoke permanent tendon damage or lose small motor control in her hands thanks to working too much and being too sober and possibly due to not fucking enough (an argentine theory.) sometimes as she sleeps a perfect boob slips out from the sheets and stares me in the face and i am forced to consider for the trillionth time the magnitude of my mediocrity. i go to the gym and i train in the flood of moisture that is my own and everyone else’s and i step outside and the air’s even wetter. it’s become a fight to reach the oxygen.

juan said in june the island is “shiny” and fresh and clean and beautiful but august is the month that she begins to rumble like some angry dancing goddess bleeding down her thighs ready to shake the clinging bodies off of hers,

only the desperately stubborn hang on

Advertisements

UNHINGED 

spit them out, these wasted days and wet-green nights rising up from your esophagus to greet against anyone’s will your
lovers and your sisters and your friends and your parents make them
worry for you but never too much just enough to catch a whiff of the smoldering
human brains on stone tiled floors where
the
cold gets in so easy feel it creeping up the carnage contaminated by the time
it grabs your feet and legs to drag you under
i’m okay, i’m okay — you’re shoveling shouting reaching out to grab hold of whatever’s in reach
creamy rose pink with green sparkles dribbles thick makes you feel
safe watching feel the grip slip this is how we
fight our wars with pink with glitter with ooze like
crying all that bile from your eyes the sticky
worms running playground drills up and down your throat
red rover, red rover, why don’t you come over?
red used to scare you always creeping in or up
more often out
that drip drip down your shaking knees that
seeping out the gashes in your stomach like a watermelon past its prime now just remember– don’t eat the seeds, you can’t afford for anything to grow inside you, and neither can the anything– that environment is uninhabitable
for living things

MISTS

you are
nobody
you are
nothing
you are the
absence
of bodies
and things

you are gone
from my skin
like a mist
or a phantom
you rose out
left some stains
nothing more

the clouds are red-black
and the wind
cools me down
i haven’t felt
the wind
in ages

NACHO

hey nacho
send some more pics of your
stumpy pink dick while you
hold it at the base with your
unwashed sheets and empty
walls in the background and
the the tv tuned to some
sports channel that
shit gets me so
wet i just
can’t
even

SWEATY BALLS

i think
the most pain i felt
through all of that
were those two nights
where you slept
fully clothed,
in your sticky t-shirt and your
nylon shorts all clinging
to your hairy thighs and your
sweaty balls in the
sweltering heat

you laid face down with
your head turned away and
for those two days you didn’t
shower

you slept
with your arms wrapped
tight around your
chest and you wouldn’t
come closer to
me so I laid there
near but not too near
staring at the
ceiling terrified
i’d bother you
terrified
i’d lose you
knowing
you were already
lost.

CASSÉE PT. 2: NEUROLOGIQUE

Continued

After several more hours bedridden in the ER hallway I set into a panic attack, not unaided by the realization that a bout of bloody screaming might get me some information and/or a room with walls. This suspicion turned out to be true – and I received not only these things but also a young swoopy-haired boy who tilted me haphazardly around in the hospital bed, wrestled a bedpan under my naked ass and skedaddled with naught but an awkward murmur of “good day”. The next nurse that walked in asked me urgently “Qui a fait ça??” “Who did this?” but appeared unamused when I told her it was the lead singer of One Direction. She ran back out and was promptly followed by a male nurse, whose only addition was the classic English “Shit shit shit” – never trust Harry Styles types when there are bedpans involved, folks. You’ve been warned. I soon got my Elaine back and more information than anyone could ever want – namely that the L1 and L2 vertebrae of my spine were broken and that I might need back surgery. Then, as punishment for the hallway screamfest, I was taken off pain medication for three hours to reflect on my discretions in hot raw hell, where I half-died.

My shattered half-corpse and broken spirit were together transferred to a neurological hospital and remained there for six days, a constant flurry of morphine, sweat, sponge baths, catheters, really engrossing drug-induced dreams and one stupidly sexy cleaning guy named Armande (like actually), whom I consistently flirted with but faltered mostly due to catheter-based self-consciousness. You know what they say, it’s not easy to woo the cleaning guy when you’ve got a sack of hot urine dangling off your waist. I spent most of my time otherwise arguing with a particular male nurse who was always on me about not shitting enough, probably because I wasn’t shitting at all. But he vanquished me when, on The Eighth Shitless Day In A Row, as it is written, this happened.

image

Two nursey types pinned my sweaty shelled lobster body against the tiled bathroom wall while a third (pictured) ceremoniously injected The Mega Enema. The Mega consists of no lube, a type of plastic tampon plunger up the ass and three (3) repeated helpings of mysterious butt sauce, each providing prime graphic audio and a very curious sensation of being anally injected with mayonnaise. I remember screaming the words “What fresh hell is this,” which of course nobody understood.

I was released yesterday and will not have to undergo surgery. I will wear my corset brace (soon to be painted as battle armor) for three months, during which time I am strictly prohibited from commuting any way but on foot, including metro, tram, bus, car, bike, and even wheelchair. I can currently walk about thirty feet providing I can sleep for 20 hours immediately afterwards, and will be bed-bathed daily by a home nurse as I am forbidden to take showers.

In short: life of luxury.

image