Wet Massage in Washington DC


by Shane Jesse Christmass

On Inauguration Day your lung collapsed because it had occasional moss growing on it. In Washington you caught certain vibrations coming from the 14th Street Bridges. Scientific healers appeared on CNN detailing how time was squeezing tighter and tighter. You were in a bed at the Georgetown University Hospital. An intravenous pole was pulsating dark reveries. Electronic misinformation was interrupting American lives. A fire raged in the Forest Glen subway station. A fire rages through the Metrorail system. My hotel room is a complex web of bench tops. A red frenzy of blood on the sidewalk. Sodden snow-driven ground. LSD sold by a Vietnam Vet in the Penn Quarter. Pegging and vaginal fingering of purgatorial souls. Strong democracies. The perfect arse. Blood. Frosting snow bed. My nipples. Freedom forgotten and the effect of torture. Orphans performing self-immolation on the steps of the US Congress. The abuse and soft voices of God. Hospitals constructed from wood. Lit bulbs full of great steam. Field conditions outside the beauty salon. The unspoken caress of anger. You’re asleep on the bathroom tiles. Pond scum on the surface of the Potomac. Medical journals displayed on your coffee table. Implants for a fresh victim. Plastic surgeon performing plastic surgery. You collect electrical impulses and place them in the kitchen drawer. Decrepit merchandise delivered in packages. Shit smoothed onto shoe leather. Falling asleep in the Gramercy Park Hotel. Complex organisms growing in asteroid belt. Medical researchers with shrewd eyes. Blood drizzles over slaves. Captives in a sweat form. You miss an appointment for an EEG test and brain treatments. Subdermal implants and miscellaneous items wrapped in a woollen shawl. A red moustache tickling your bare breasts. Hurricanes reviewed in homosexual publications. Drug addiction as giant women wander. Lasers light up the dark evening. More hurricanes. An engine up on cinder blocks. Motor oil smeared on the television. Plastic outdoor furniture purchased in Indianapolis. You can’t stomach fruit. Campfires as coyotes drag human bones around Massachusetts Avenue. A wooden box that contains rotten bottles. Condoms and rats litter the White House lawn. Cigarette puffs leave an unpleasant taste in your mouth. Sex acts during salmonella poisoning. Seroquel during a summer afternoon. Evil smile on the bed sheets. Large brains beneath blow-dryers. Tourists take a horse and cart down Wisconsin Avenue. Torturous corpses and HIV bodies litter 14th Street NW. The back door of a big room. Riverside Park. Front page of The New York Post. Morningside Heights. Outbreak of civil disobedience in NYC. Special orders from the War Department. A yellow overcoat with cum on it. Saliva in the rice wine. Income tax fraud and atom bombs. A homeless woman with cold skin. Radioactivity detected in insect experiments. The human nervous system is half-aroused. Cocaine on the bed sheets. A bell rings for the luncheon service. Close shot of your face. K-Mart sells cigarettes. River streams of black. Lottery tickets under fluorescent lights. Service elevator to the cancer ward. Surgical cream on your skin.

About the Author:

Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novels, 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 +