List of the Lost by Morrissey Read Free Book Online

sexual enlightenment, it does not. The glare could burn a hole in wood, and touch is transmitted optically. The eyes are there for a reason, and the aim is to use whatever it is one has, otherwise why have them? Sexual success is a logically given reality, and it simply becomes a question of weighing a sexual force that races ahead of rationale against the great poetry and drama of thought, whilst checking on the time minute-by-minute as if it were ticking towards death (which it is). A new greeter stares firstly into the eyes and then automatically at the mouth, and we all read the entire expanse of each other’s faces as we speak. It is never merely a matter of just listening; the face is a page, and the voice might sing as it speaks. Tracey tests Harri teasingly by using her playful instinct of disagreeing with everything that he says so that an explosively defensive passion might burst as eyes of anger at least and at last show resolute intent. Often this backfires, but it is all that she can do, and it is the only way that she can signal to a man that she actually likes him. When he reacts with attack, she knows she has won, for her softening smile will calm crashing currents. In her search for a life that is whole, Tracey would, she freely admits, like a trophy man, and let history judge her otherwise and for other reasons in its due course, but let it also be known that she did, at the very, very least, have her trophy man at some stage. It must be that one man whose name becomes synonymous with her own, and a man whose name alone sums up everything, and whose vomit in the shower would not disgust her. Proust and Chagall were all very well, but it is quite something to release the sex imposed on the mind, and to release it with someone of equal will. Meaningless is the act of kindness from strangers, and hurtful is the sighing one-sided obligation as one watches the clock whilst the other is lost in panic and rush, unable to enjoy the living world now that it finally lands with evangelists’ patience. Suddenly a flesh-and-blood figure lies down with you, he of dusky complexion, she free of her very last growing pains whilst knowing each of his eyelashes by heart. This moment shakes the faith of many souls, yet it mostly introduces you to someone you have never before conclusively encountered, and that is: someone like you who likes someone like you.
    We do not invent it ourselves, and nor do we ask for it, yet it is our job to find the hour when needs might erupt, as salmons defiantly and insanely jump against the tide for … who knows what reason? It is sex that binds us to life, for it is sex that gave us life, and our four athletes are safe nowhere since their imposing physicality says Yes even when saying No. It’s the No that means Yes. Urgings of want – you feel it if you’ve hiked this far to this very bar – conclude this day with Tracey and Harri predictably under shared sheets, and with Ezra and Eliza coiled atop discarded throws. Nails and Justy are left behind and go their own way; Nails flopped on the bedroom floor with jaggedly soothing music swirling in the background, and Justy pleasing himself by pleasuring himself in ways that predate religion, and no explanations required. We all do whatever we must. In the bed of Tracey and Harri the physical rush is a floodgate – too fast to mean anything, too many court-jester ouches … with their minds already wandering towards whatever will save them in order to make their exit seem polite and timely. In their secrecy, Harri does not like Tracey’s knotted banana toes, and Tracey finds the manly central issue too slight to grip, and although such things ought not to count in the adult mind, somehow they do yet they don’t yet they do yet they don’t.
    Mr Rims once grabbed life and then let it go, having no idea that there would be no second chances. “You’ll nail anything that moves,” they had