Synthetic wrapping around some tall kid found beside the Tujunga Wash. Paraffin wax burns inside a porcelain jar. A massive earthquake inside DonutBluntsx’s body. Beach sand in my mouth. The arrhythmic pulse of my body. DonutBluntsx’s current state of collapse ... his eyes ... his nostrils flare ... his legs tremble ... his fingers inside me. My hair unravels. I eat some seedless grapes. Certain motels are closed. Hash pipe beneath the motel sofa ... fierce smoke inside an oblique space. DonutBluntsx coughs then vomits. I drink a Pepsi-Cola.

My whole body shudders. Our sick stomachs ... copious amounts of sweat ... our hotel laundry stained ... dust. My stale breath. A stranger's chest hair. DonutBluntsx has a whole-body orgasm. He has the perfect arse. DonutBluntsx’s small skull ... his warm lips ... his eyes as poor witnesses ... the hardness of his touch ... the inexhaustible encirclement ... the embrace. Drugs ... delirious sex ... abrupt disappointments ... repetitive patterns. A close shot: my expression changes ... I now have a broad grin.

A panning shot: DonutBluntsx’s face all fire-lit. A tiny unidentifiable noise ... the wind hurries across the saltpan ... an almighty wail. Cough syrup wrapped in brown paper. The stickiness of tacky bodies ... DonutBluntsx cleans himself with white soap. Shadows loom across the Hollywood Hills. DonutBluntsx’s hot breath ... the humid undulations of sweat. My body palpitates. I have vague anxiety. I have terrible vision. DonutBluntsx and I drink enormous quantities of liquor. DonutBluntsx and I live in a suburban home. We are nervous people.

An eruption outside the Alhambra High School. I make eye contact with DonutBluntsx. My fingers swirl upon his body. He asks for my phone number. Beer cans litter San Bernardino. DonutBluntsx stabs me with a kitchen knife ... bodies in body bags. We meet in a private room ... no silent guilt here. DonutBluntsx is intoxicated. He is middle aged. Concertina wire throughout El Monte. Crime scene photos spread on the coffee table. Ordinary bodies ... people shot point-blank. The ceiling has mirrors on it. DonutBluntsx tells me about some redneck fuck he had last night. His dark eyes twinkle ... his small body ... his animal instinct ... the wet sheets.

DonutBluntsx’s knuckles into my head ... a bloody nose on the stairwell. Shit in the streets. DonutBluntsx’s ugly mouth. He is a brute with a long navel. The front seat of the Ford is forest green. DonutBluntsx gives off putrid body heat. My thighs ... I can’t breathe ... I can’t touch either. DonutBluntsx smiles ... his tiny teeth. DonutBluntsx has black hair. I swallow worm pills. DonutBluntsx blows bubble-gum. We fuck on the steel-cool table. I get the flu shot. We fuck inside the convenience store bathroom. We fuck inside the health clinic.

DonutBluntsx wears a feather boa ... some stiletto heels. We go for a walk through the public park. I have scrawny shoulders ... DonutBluntsx in the passenger seat ... his impish smile ... his high voice ... his bony ass. Countless love as the sun bleeds ... steam across Los Angeles ... spongy grey matter and electrical impulses ... night time activity. My eyes glaze over ... the air tastes like slow motion. Why do you love me? I can’t love you any longer.

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.

An archive of his writing/artwork/music can be found at

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