For Oliver: Lain and Obi
this post must be read while listening to The Heinrich Maneuver by Interpol. or it just won't be anywhere near as good]
He licked his teeth, but not his lips, tasting the air as it flowed under his tongue and soothed the new 8 gauge in the thick muscle, heavy black boots covered in buttons, studs, and splashes of pink glitter, taking him places.
Taking him places? Well when he thought of it, there was nowhere specific he wanted to be, though that was often the case. Chinatown was a default, but hardly ever in a way that bothered him at all. Here he stood out little, the tiny body of semipunkbutwhoreallyknows clothing dodging cars and tourists on Bowery and Canal, ducking umbrella awnings of fruit and goods stands, and halting everywhere he could for a handful of barrettes and charms. A dollar for stars to clip into his hair, twenty five cents for another little bit of color to clip to his worn leather jacket.
When he would be caused to come to a stop, he would find himself moving left and then right via resting his weight on his toes and then his heels, shimmying back and forth. It was the weather, the spring coming out and giving it's own flu shots. The pollen electrified him, all the spores of plant fucking riding the air and itching everyone else's eyes. He inhaled deeply, fingering at the little surgical mask around his neck, thankful he was out of the fish market district and instead taking in the dollar cakes with the spring air. Cakes that he bought and ate with abandon, the entire dozen bag of quarter sized hot cakes gone from hand to hungry mouth in an instant, a smile given to the prune-like asian vending woman that caused her to nod and return a smile of her own.
His season. His hands itched to help nature along in reminding everyone of their biological clocks and their organic needs. Procreation in it's most vulgar, heaving, sweating forms. He almost considered hopping the Q train to 34th and wandering around a few porno shops, thrilling inside at the idea of another day of worship in one of the many seamen covered booths. Meditation to the fornication of all forms. The appraising, hungry eyes of the patrons of the shops as they thanked god for having fed their habit for the day, because today their fantasies became a step closer to true. It was the greatest gift, seeing their faces as he wandered giddy and blushing from a 25cent booth, only fifteen and never once ID'd.
Sighing, he wandered into a less crowded street and sat on the curb, opening one of the pockets to his red, plaid bondage shorts and taking out a bag of lychee's, began a early noon snack. With each shell that broke in his white teeth he would tilt his head back, taking the round, sweet fruit into his mouth, licking the juice away as he sucked off the meat and then spat the large seeds into the gutter.
Taking him places?
He was in no rush.
He licked his teeth, but not his lips, tasting the air as it flowed under his tongue and soothed the new 8 gauge in the thick muscle, heavy black boots covered in buttons, studs, and splashes of pink glitter, taking him places.
Taking him places? Well when he thought of it, there was nowhere specific he wanted to be, though that was often the case. Chinatown was a default, but hardly ever in a way that bothered him at all. Here he stood out little, the tiny body of semipunkbutwhoreallyknows clothing dodging cars and tourists on Bowery and Canal, ducking umbrella awnings of fruit and goods stands, and halting everywhere he could for a handful of barrettes and charms. A dollar for stars to clip into his hair, twenty five cents for another little bit of color to clip to his worn leather jacket.
When he would be caused to come to a stop, he would find himself moving left and then right via resting his weight on his toes and then his heels, shimmying back and forth. It was the weather, the spring coming out and giving it's own flu shots. The pollen electrified him, all the spores of plant fucking riding the air and itching everyone else's eyes. He inhaled deeply, fingering at the little surgical mask around his neck, thankful he was out of the fish market district and instead taking in the dollar cakes with the spring air. Cakes that he bought and ate with abandon, the entire dozen bag of quarter sized hot cakes gone from hand to hungry mouth in an instant, a smile given to the prune-like asian vending woman that caused her to nod and return a smile of her own.
His season. His hands itched to help nature along in reminding everyone of their biological clocks and their organic needs. Procreation in it's most vulgar, heaving, sweating forms. He almost considered hopping the Q train to 34th and wandering around a few porno shops, thrilling inside at the idea of another day of worship in one of the many seamen covered booths. Meditation to the fornication of all forms. The appraising, hungry eyes of the patrons of the shops as they thanked god for having fed their habit for the day, because today their fantasies became a step closer to true. It was the greatest gift, seeing their faces as he wandered giddy and blushing from a 25cent booth, only fifteen and never once ID'd.
Sighing, he wandered into a less crowded street and sat on the curb, opening one of the pockets to his red, plaid bondage shorts and taking out a bag of lychee's, began a early noon snack. With each shell that broke in his white teeth he would tilt his head back, taking the round, sweet fruit into his mouth, licking the juice away as he sucked off the meat and then spat the large seeds into the gutter.
Taking him places?
He was in no rush.