by Shane Jesse Christmass

The early morning … we’re on muddy ground … electrical energy all around us. A car door slams. I’m smoking some sooty tobacco. Lecherous asps upon 7JohnnyJolt’s neck. A cowboy hat symbol on a car bumper sticker. The camera flashes. I now have a full picture of my imperfect senses. This is now some galactic event. Soviet space relics found in the Sonoran Desert. The gamma-ray intensity … the seismic activity … the cosmic mystery.

7JohnnyJolt tells me that our sex is now an abrupt disappointment. I tell him it is a delight. My cell phone has a sad look. Crimson stains melting by the smokestacks. 7JohnnyJolt scares me. Diarrhea belches from his ass. Corporeal beings claw on the universe’s ear. 7JohnnyJolt has a heart disease … he offers me his sincere apologies. 7JohnnyJolt makes false passports these days. He’s very good.

Double foetus as some intrinsic abstraction. 7JohnnyJolt doesn’t believe in pleasure-giving archetypes … his essence rejects it … he is full of toil and weariness. Green algae in the bathtub. 7JohnnyJolt wears see-through clothes … his mouth full of pine needles. Some mordant stench rising … toenails that are constructed from grey fur … diesel engines compress creamy bodies. 7JohnnyJolt and I sleep in the central stairwell … pillows with sharp edges … red spots on our eyes.

Paraffin wax burnt to 7JohnnyJolt’s earlobe. 7JohnnyJolt suffers a great loneliness … his front yard is full of weeds. A doorway shuts and I didn’t smile.  My swollen legs … the solar system of Los Angeles. Clean hands cleaned with blood. Ice cream in a ceramic bowl. Marble monuments erected inside the Mare Island shipyard.

Cellophane covers my mouth. A deep sigh. Someone smells like cold linoleum and the smog collapse. Soft welts across my body. Long wooden tables coated with a metallic typeface. Sun setting amongst mosquitoes. 7JohnnyJolt makes tiny mistakes … he keeps repeating these mistakes. I take numerous deep breaths. A milky fungus between my fingers. Metal scraps on my inside … other scraps of no particular substance. 7JohnnyJolt’s hair is a grey colour … his aftershave smells like stake bread. My backbone snaps … it is made of plastic.


About the Author:

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.

Image by Matt Reinbold via Flickr (cc).