This Darkness Mine by G.R. Yeates Read Free Book Online

meat left of her but it was famished, stringy stuff. Best smoke it until it’s jerky. I hang it out in strips to dry.
    Feeling brittle and wild, I go outside to take the night air.
     
    We are the photographs of our disguises; suits concealing astronauts, train drivers, fire women and exotic dancers. We talk and type in a language that masks itself in a scrambled verse of tedious objective transience. The worlds we saw as children are failing. Give them room. Undo their priestly starched collars. Give them some air. The ambulance will be here soon.
    Outside, the world is not burning.
    Not just yet.
     
    My room is invaded by dreams denied. Orphan imaginings leave their tacky footprints over me, slipping me spoiled sweet meats, cavorting from one end of the spectrum of fucking to the other making me feel under-aged and obscene. Marbled wounds break out, swine-flu snorts and whines grabbing for the lining of my nostrils and stomach. Wet dream tattoos trace themselves out in blood, shit and soft ejaculate. Anointed and shattered, I count the bruises left on me, one crowning my cock where the foreskin is cracked and weeping. A thousand cunts assail me, puckering and suckling, growing teeth so they can bite me. Re-open old hurts. They sprout tongues for the somnambulant tradition of aftersex conversation. I find penis after penis slithering through my palms. Their empty Japanese eyes begging for masturbation; I oblige, I tickle them, twist, twist them, beat them hard and stroke them soft. Hot white marble rains down on me stinging my eyes, salting my tongue. Overheated, overdone, my brain cums until empty then crumbles.
    What a way to go.
    Outside, Soho Ghetto hums herself to sleep, a hive of agitating wasps, a dying whore, naked and beaten on a pimp’s piss-stained floor.
    ****** 
    The garden was nothing special but to me it was a small earthbound paradise. Things grew there. They don’t grow here, not in the same way, that is. Buildings are built on the concrete, they don’t grow out of it, I think. It makes me wonder as you always see buildings as materials then half-done then finished.
    I’ve never seen a single worker working on them.
    I’m told they exist. They must do. But what if they don’t? The bricks, the mortar and the concrete - conscious? Could that be?
    I wonder, I do.
    Could they put themselves together? Is that why building takes so long? Why we do not see the workers? Perhaps it is.
    But yes, the garden, my garden. It was not mine but it felt that way. A small open space in which I could be outside, breathe open air, see open sky, feel open inside.
    I had not felt that way in years.
    Years and years…
     
    In the garden, she watched him, sitting and thinking. Her little denim soldier, by his side was the stack of newspapers he asked her to keep for him. Now, he was going through them, slow and methodical, too carefully for a child his age. Tearing off tiny pieces then putting them to his mouth, licking them until they were spitballs, affixing them to the ground. He spent all morning doing that whilst she finished the spring-cleaning.
    After she was done, she went outside, to see what he was making.
    There was no other reason for the way he was behaving, repetitive habit and motions always signal a creative pulse at work. It was a circle of spitballs sitting in the grass. All packed together, making a firm, damp ring of grey in the soil. She looked at him quizzically and he looked back at her calmly.
    She’d leave him to it until it got dark.
    At least, he was enjoying himself, staying out of trouble.
    The circles of spitballs had become a short cylinder by the end of the week. She watched him at work, eating normally, sleeping normally, not changing in any way but there was just this sudden fixation on the task he was about.
    Grey days came and went by.
    Nothing much in life changed.
    The same tedious progressions of seconds into minutes into hours into days into nights playing over and over again. A bad