I specifically remember you, handling animals with vigour. So the cat was kibbled to sparkle up her hot hackles and the, err, doggies basically sausaged good, smacked gunmetal putty in their own sort-of hands. Gault was thrown and slupped against muscly backs and spackling the white tiles, freckly at the hysterical rpm. In the living room we sported woad masks to slip the historic, the whole document.
Or there was the time we were totally made for larding crowds of retirees. Or the time we up-pawed clefts and pounced like dewy sods. Or later, when we banned that dickish manhandle. Instead we took the sweet time, dawdled and just drufted all up in it. Sometime parked and that golden ass again, wasn’t it. Smutted glazing before a bung snog on the digitised ramparts. Drove slow drift; sweet time on fult, was totally IT. We blew cover to flush game like a billiard ball cussed with blue woad; we screwed to separate.
to Qs posed in terms of two varnished bodies eased on the creaky wicker thing and, wicker-indented thighs imply the conditions writ all over that grunny mush of yours.
Sidling up, you sort of present: ‘Here’s drawn blood’.
Your fleet tongue and I really drew ourselves up, hearing that, all maffled
at the departure gate, sundered together, you and I, chucking thousands of full water bottles down chutes at the behest. It’s not as if we kissed as hot and held as all that: my hands were all over: done. Though we went and got sprained and definitely teared saliva and pooled beneath your tongue, easy, like. Easily enough to wind up those holographic jobs-worthies who can only burble the loopy speech of anti-erotic agony.
I was a bit drunk on the flight. Hurtling away from you.
So rimming miniatures and tonics doubled-up in plastic cup
meltwater over the forever-alps or some shit. Measured for pleasured
men massively on business. The rubbed sore fantasy was then wealth of chased gold striating the alps. Or brakes of readies and greens bounding the alps, rendering the range as charts up the pisser or down the chemical toilet.
And I was trying to somehow unlock the cup rather than splinter it, in spite of the material qualities of that chuckaway plastic and my SILLY teeth;
the cup complaining between my high-strung thighs, aisle-decked in mottled charcoal of cotton-synthetic cross with soft play-rope drawstrung undone slipknot and not swabbed elsewhere so probs a bit stinky. Medium to middling filth going on in my head
while I listened just enough to know
when the trolley trundled past.
So I reached to angle the stiff little air nozzle – armpits flaring – and directed it to shuffle my clummed fringe with the thought of your puckering blewn, post-, calmed. And presently the expansive black slacks of other pairs of ground-slackened trousers on the same flight chorused darker patches and more dwarfed spirits – convulsing the variously sickly friction of much, much denser weaves of fabric.
I could scarcely imagine every one of the clammy genitals on the flight, but I sure as shit tried. Begun with imagining every fat windsor loosened to pre-noose, every zip down, every hand crept down in feral ways they scarcely knew: digits inputting eerie reflexive wants based on their duties, freed! Unfettered half-hour where everyone buries their clouds and then touches them with fine tease and untouched designs, arousing nerves waaaay above the usual.
For a while there, everyone was in sync,
swollen with the tidings of whatever peace
left the earth.
Quietly, those pilots up front have shown impairment in their ability to fly an ILS approach or to fly IFR, and, really, even to perform routine VFR flight tasks while under the wee influence of miniature booze. Our captain is sadly sober; WE, on the other hand, maintain countless frozen tons of desire and I can think of nothing more sad than this Ceefax stat shit flickering on those little monitors.
Out the window I swear I saw the wings get all nocturnal and leathery, dear. And and and they started thwapping together at the top and bottom of each slow wingbeat. Like processed handclaps, all anticipatory; the lilt of managed breaths upcycled for pleasure and fed back in, trap-risen to incite our own rhythms, apparently. Nearer the front of the plane, behind that money-modesty curtain, arid business took hold and curtailed the fucky, but you know what? we can forget about them.
I really do keep thinking of those murky school portrait photo drop-sheets: stippled fog of prowling future, or some psychic BLANK forced out the back of the kids’ skulls by the flashbolt, out through re-busted fontanel for the current drunken rim, emotionally haemorrhaged by interrupted geography or history or interplanetary colonialism.
And I sort of just about opened my eyes and saw a spreadeagled mauve,
sunset lambed and squeeling with all the disinterest of a petered bonfire: everyone on the plane was sharing, in the knowledge this email wouldn’t send till I’d landed.
I was there, clouded and heaving headphone fantasies and loves and listened to D’Angelo and heaved up a reverie of sorts. In love, my friend. And with nothing important: fuck, it was important, that one. Will send if you don’t born already hud it, the thin air. I also thought, as ever, if he only people I could talk to like that – albeit not talking but rote. Who cared? I had a double on descent: Darling! It was involuntary. I loved you! So much. Things were important again! How? Something and so very much. Drunk. But it was real and I wanted to cry. And I wanted to hold you. I love you xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx