Up From The Carpet In K-Mart Hard-Press Me With Evil.

Shane Jesse Christmass

 

The I.M.F. giving out hand guns by the soup kitchen.

Cross-dressing armed robber jailed because he needed PCP to ease the pain of a workplace injury.

All told he gets jailed for nine years.

No charge account granted for lacey dresses and pencil skirts, penny loafers.

“Put all the notes in the bag or you’ll die.”

A tree branch in a sock to give the impression he had a gun.

In the dock the Judge prescribes a shot of penicillin and emptiness, it lives inside him like a hollow tar brush.

A woman on a table top.

A negligee, all skin above breasts sunburnt.

You flip her over, thumb in arse.

Joy that’s etched in like tattoo.

All worldly cataracts shrivelling away.

Transistor radio turned on.

Overnight radio documenting news report on culture-bound syndrome.

A newly crowned tennis sensation discussing medicine and medical anthropology.

By this time a smallish crowd has gathered around 5th Avenue.

Wholly a combination of psychiatric and somatic symptoms, hence they only considered it, or found it recognisable to be a disease in certain specific societies or cultures.

Her boyfriend enters, a look of charcoal artwork on the wall.

The principal parts of the artwork get served into eyeballs / cranium.

You open a photo album, look at photos for more good-looking women.

None found.

Out near Laguna, washing windscreens for poor tips.

These roads are not new roads.

Airports again.

Scars on my lower forearm.

Skolling aperitifs of Pastis before I board the flight.

Hostess gnawing on my ankle.

Not very humbling, the heat is blinding.

I’m outside my body again.

Eyeballs dilate.

Don’t count on me.

Spending U.S currency in K-Mart.

Shitty jeans that balloon like calottes.

A driver sent to collect me.

A trusting, foggy confusion.

“So what happened to them?”

My lover left on the wharf.