Boy I
Through humid summer nights that follow long summer days, he lies with open eyes. The velvet air of the city creeps through the half-shut windows of this house. His breathing, short gasps that rush to embrace the city air. The clock ticks on but has given up trying to speak with him. They have not spoken since he learnt how to walk.
He does not occupy much space on the bed – the smooth sheet longs for him to throw his hands over it. He stands, walks to the window, fingers touch the curtains but he feels nothing as he looks upon a street flooded with light that the man on the moon bought from the sun. In the distance, neon lights blind strangers who walk incessantly, waiting for a night that never ends. He is too far away to hear the sound that well-polished shoes make on smooth concrete sidewalks; he knows it well, however – once he walked with them, on a dark night when the neon lights burned brightest; they penetrated his skull, effortlessly passing through eyes they had blinded. He hadn’t left his room for days, weakened by the vulgar attack of well-polished shoes and neon lights on his boyish senses. He sits in the chair by the window, rubber-boned arms wrapping around bloody knees.
The floor of the roof is still cold when he lies down. His bare body can feel the crimson hues of the yet youthful sun rush across the barren sky. The birds know he is there. Outstretched arms shoot out from his torso, chiselled by a sculptor with a strange sense of humour. He waits with a bowl held in each palm. Food. Water.
The sun crawls along the blue dome above his home while its rays pierce the air and caress his darkened skin. The birds descend from the sky and the rays of the sun lose sight of him. The birds walk over his hardened skin and their beaks travel along the ridges that they created long ago.
When they leave him to the sun’s mercy he shuts his eyes to sleep for a while. Drops of sweat appear along his temples, flow through the etchings on his skin; his naked limbs glow in the daylight. When the birds return, they cluster around his knees, freshly stained red.
He does not occupy much space on the bed – the smooth sheet longs for him to throw his hands over it. He stands, walks to the window, fingers touch the curtains but he feels nothing as he looks upon a street flooded with light that the man on the moon bought from the sun. In the distance, neon lights blind strangers who walk incessantly, waiting for a night that never ends. He is too far away to hear the sound that well-polished shoes make on smooth concrete sidewalks; he knows it well, however – once he walked with them, on a dark night when the neon lights burned brightest; they penetrated his skull, effortlessly passing through eyes they had blinded. He hadn’t left his room for days, weakened by the vulgar attack of well-polished shoes and neon lights on his boyish senses. He sits in the chair by the window, rubber-boned arms wrapping around bloody knees.
The floor of the roof is still cold when he lies down. His bare body can feel the crimson hues of the yet youthful sun rush across the barren sky. The birds know he is there. Outstretched arms shoot out from his torso, chiselled by a sculptor with a strange sense of humour. He waits with a bowl held in each palm. Food. Water.
The sun crawls along the blue dome above his home while its rays pierce the air and caress his darkened skin. The birds descend from the sky and the rays of the sun lose sight of him. The birds walk over his hardened skin and their beaks travel along the ridges that they created long ago.
When they leave him to the sun’s mercy he shuts his eyes to sleep for a while. Drops of sweat appear along his temples, flow through the etchings on his skin; his naked limbs glow in the daylight. When the birds return, they cluster around his knees, freshly stained red.
posted by peter pan at 6:35 pm
1 Comments:
im too stoned to read. but i like whats written.
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