Shane Jesse Christmass


Light on a petrified substance. Nowhere. Nothing yet you cling to this nothing. You don’t exist. Nostrils opening. A particular liquid injected. Locusts. Lobsters. They wheel you in. A diagnosis, a substance induced state. You slump. You’re testy. Billy calls from the other room. You stay put. She points out the terms of your fornication. The contract. She indicates that you’re required to be in a trance. You say you wish to override this contract. You have rights, lawyers you know. That makes Billy unwell. The air lock reduces its pressure. Getting home, I find Billy sitting in her morning gown. I stick my head out the window. Cold beer in the refrigerator. T-shirt on clothes lines wrapped around cool breeze. I collect symptoms. Hypochondriac. Fake illness padlocked to welcoming light. Antihypertensive. Cardiovascular medications. Ripped stockings. A better diagnosis is imperative. I end up embarrassing Billy. She likes it when I blunder obscenities. How should I approach her now? She infuriates me. She further rubbishes my symptoms. The elevator isn’t working she tells me. There’s a row of mailboxes. No further concentration required. I enter the lobby. The parents continue to spin. My response is limited. I break the glass bottle. The rim of one of the broken pieces feels warm. So does the floor rug. Problems of psychosis listed online. My rib cage protrudes. My spine grabs a freshly pressed bath towel. I watch the towel snake around my legs. Twice I hear Billy mention she likes the way they painted the hallway. A red-haired old timer opens a new packet of cigarettes. I’ve run out. I have no accord with the hostile type. Disciplinary action taken against Billy. I’m in the same room as her. I’m getting lost in this. Billy looks outside. Someone is spying on her. I run to the windowsill. Demolition rubbish piled up outside. I drink water from the garden hose. I eat strawberries. Pesticides. The situation is this; my stomach withdraws further, concaved according to my drunkenness. Absurdity. Bracelet rusting on Billy’s arm. A sandbag whips down upon my head. Daybreak. Billy is dressed in white limbs. Petrol cap in her hand. Here you go she mentions. A fawning man behind her. I’ll never be able to match her. She’s annoying. She asks me over to oversee her operations. Foldout chair inside the front door. I hold out and draw back breath. Cold gas bottles under the chairs. I open my suitcase. Stacks of bundled underwear inside. I’m fine here thanks. Billy smirks in a drunken style. The damp and cheap words fall from her mouth. Not a portal where one feels safe. Fair enough, just don’t get lonely. A group of children with their parents. Give me a swig on that. Billy leans in from her chair. I take up my right foot anticipating I may have to kick her. She wears a tee shirt. I’m visible in the dark. I take my last breath. The shadows of anorexics. It’s a Monday. I walk my fingers down the sinews of Billy’s body. She walks to the table. Thoughts and feelings. I have no money left. This isn’t my place. Sit down, have a drink. That’s warm stuff, that’s warm drink stirring inside. The posing, the pushing of the crowd. Billy pulls out a bottle of liquid weed. The drug is used. We’re eating bowls of awful season. No new television shows to watch. Our temples crack. Emotions are a belt notch. Billy doesn’t like her cornea. I poke and fork it out. My cornea makes headlines: Miley Cyrus takes the naked trend too far with nipple pasties for a top. I torch the newspaper.