Excerpt: 'Myopic Acid' by Shane Jesse Christmass
Check the Swamp:
I’m in there. We might be idle machines of fretted-about signs, of the skull housing that of the head, rupturing the sensitive, what a fucking devil! I want to smash my skateboard among her clothes, her expression shows she or another. The strongest affinity, I take it into consideration and musical works. They use chords that are more complex. Ghetto buildings are moving blindly through sudden jets of steam. Hall musicians can’t derive their income from performing music, even present invention, that being Thenailomen will occur. I blank the gene expression, a movement to rectify the mistakes, to create a language so supreme it occurs with the elderly, the people that I usually bury into a business. I come through the door with Frances, holding a glass full of Dry Ale. Chester speaks through a rimy smirk.
“I’ll show you two the grovel of his fate. They must face their fears.” Chester tells us.
Anybody that they know will work against their interest, but this is in Chester’s head. I can’t blink at it. I stare, body could number 100. Thenailomen is the ambrosia to deliver it. Lowne is aware that my convictions are moving to be on edge. I fart in shower. Later, in the twilight I stroll, in myself from the blanket. I get by the supermarket; two looking black guys look back over their shoulder. Nothing behind them. I have an odorous tirade, a drama requiring the hour of away. The door remains closed, but inside,Frances, with arrows like a canine, but more with meaning. I snap at Chester. I step to the table that Chester is at.
“You’re a kid, the short kid. The tall kid who pipes up, aren’t ya.” I dig my finger into his breastplate.
“What’re doing?” He stammers.
I’m united expression with the early morning, one of happiness, a plate glass behind Frances, smiles state of mind. She even considers surrounding herself by some garbage cans.Chester’s fingers stick out of patent medicines, in uptake transporters. They’re a pure happening. The man remonstrates with his girl, she is trying man! He removes a lid of grass and some zigzag like being empowered. He loves the badness. Now I’m maligned, paranoid, listening to repeated songs in a Friday night. It is nightshift. I walk into tuning pitch, different musical instruments, styles or musical genres. The first submarines, in fact, they’re often just cigarette boats encased in tee shirt. Frances and I are in a lock, not such anti-theological power but there is the packed auditorium. His Holiness clay walls at the moon base, being eroded down my back, rubbing my tattoo. I watch Frances’ enjoyment. chilling my teeth, it is fantastic tasting. On my right, Frances’ eyes puff shut. Her hair slick with blood, inflaming my passions. Passions will appear with me before, from the patient’s toe. I undress.
“You could use a strongbox?” The Orderly tells me.
But a strongbox doesn’t contain ceaseless elation like this. There is nothing on the bus of art.
“I just ended up in a club.” Frances mentions.
All restaurant and I think of a reason not to carry a penknife. I’ve a magnificent temple; it’s as needful as East Asia. The hotel doesn’t have a pocket-load of Laos Kip as a bank roll, not from a medical text anyway. The sun effectively conveys me lying on the living room floor. Me, I’ve travelled from Luang Prabang in Laos, it has me concerned by this. Fascinated. Engrossed. Attracted perhaps. Involved in the blows, the back of my goddamned head. A handful of physicians have begun to encourage such behaviour. Do I give the source of the body’s innate heat? The heavy backpack, every muscle from my lower back to me is now this. The sun crests in the sky, muscle vivified and nourished by an artery and a vein. The place I am sleeping in has its own driver. I stroll across the tarmac, banging my head and heart, underscoring the relationship between heat and the taxi driver who has just disappeared. I see him running in shops, the final jigsaw piece, all garbled arse, his back facing the oncoming traffic. His face, an inquisitive source of the Mekong in Laos, here the Siem Riep of idleness. It seems Frances is trying to my lower back. Her shoulders rise, repeated dissections of the heart while demonstrating its cultural significance. What for a cool beer, a cool breeze, so I check mistresses, their histories. One can neither buy it. Ten minutes after dinner, crow’s footed and fibrous from the brash sand. Frances walks up to me. I notice a tourist. I’m really looking to grab the occult. The tourist argues that the expansion and contraction of the heart doesn’t do it, it desires to attract what is useful, clasping its contents like a cracked table where I’d eaten breakfast earlier.
“Goddamned head out and do the job right!” my driver tells me.
Every single currency exchange in the airport. There isn’t much in the airport, just wings of darkness. It freezes me, all in this image to your left from the mid-seventeenth century, but you look a hundred and forty-seven. Your animal is governed. He also observes a shower. The shower is strange. I guess we will be all right. Black Kampot pepper, oyster sauce, garlic, metaphorically describing the heart as the “king”, against an earlier image of the heart To what extent does them die. The wine is all drunk, and the left air to a life which is a lesser desire. I challenge the metaphysical interpretation, the right to daub it an atrocity, which is mainly at the other end of the airport, an oddity of commerce arising from a dustbowl, a little gift shop, some shop selling lacquer-ware, some other right ventricle with the lower, for whenever dark threads are needed, where one can be the sunbeam. Wanting to hug Chester, but that is unnecessary. The three rooms on the floor, the area of urine within them. The wine is all drunk and despite my driver’s recommendation to pay more, the souvenir guy out-drips from the cardboard spindle. I pelt it in, as a medical instrument performs continuous, hard work around the heart. In the bathroom, the shower spray soaks the nerves. I’m hungry. I could use the acid or I could give it up. I try to lean in onFrances, as such, it is the seat of all emotions for family, but here’s the rub, do photograph observations of embryos. It is it, in two months, there it is…
“What’s that?” Lorne asks.
Taping my pores shut is calculated as a type of geologic porosities, a top hat from within the group. It is the power that the grave puffing gave as he spoke. The doe-eyed and crestfallen features on the Orderly. He thinks better of wearing his new hat. In colour infertile crabs. The girl knocks again.
“What happened?” Frances asks.
“Nothing, just my skull.” I tell her.
Turning my head to external and internal geometry, including voids. I have skulls with many more joints than those that remember pain. Foul-smelling, exceptionally hot, the beach holds interest, but then I just rummage in the pantry, but I know now, reaching across to the side ledge. Terrestrial. Aquatic. Sidewinding by gravity. Skeleton. Internal organs. Lowne is holding the kitchen shears. Frances looks at me perplexed. I shake my head.
“How about this?” I ask her.
“Nope.”
“What then?”
Lowne reads on. The Masonic Worshipful Master wears, and then burrows, his head like an aquatic lizards, all cretaceous and prepared. Chester eats the possessed remnants, kidneys appear in front of many species, and by their lack of eyelids, and this has possibly led to a decline through the clay soil at field moisture. I remain unchanged, displaced. Lowne walks behind the counter and pushes open the till. Groggy, I come awake.
“What’s the time?”
Recent molecular studies allow the top of the crown to form the elbow. Lift it at the wrist. The scientists run unnoticed through water. Smaller particles fill the gaps, the total volume of the material.
“Nope.” The girl leans in.
In the desert, NASA, ages ago, the girl walks into the kitchen, her precise placement within squamate is controversial. Lowne reaches into the haversack. He pulls something from the bottom. It disgusts me. The sitcom. Porosity in earth sciences and constructions. At home Frances sits in front of the kitchenette and reads. She is dismayed. I’ve been making me uptight. The arcade comes off/on. I have a blanket wrapped around me. Lowne has acquittal. I always wear gloves, they don’t unlock the ground. Chester wipes the saliva and dirt so Frances will go away. Anyway. Don’t.
“Just leave these here?” I question.
Nothing could be better than this parking lot. I strip properly out of these jeans now.
“Don’t rough him.” one of the Orderlies mentions. “He’s a nice guy.”
Chester comes slowly to his feet, much discrimination. I’m standing out in the smoking area. Lowne is standing sideways, he turns across to telephone, picks it up whistling. The Police are trimming another eyelid. Plane noise. A compliment. One of them an old-fashioned winking men is leaning against Frances. What a creep.
“My boyfriend is in the next bedroom, a brick wall and a mattress.” Frances tells him
So that’s how it is, Frances won’t even give me a flat voice. Her other hand is behind my head, pushing me apathetic, but I don’t know. Flashback. What they are. Lowne is wearing in her me, and he came in yesterday. Thenailomen is prescribed for prolonged headaches. It sounds disappointing. Messes of Lowne’s self are now set.
“Don’t go soft on me, fucking in there.” I tell him as they wheel him off for Electric Shock Treatment.
Frances’ face tells the story with her hands, just you know where.
“There’s a lot of water between those planets.” She tells me.
Down the short companion way, slowly across the street, my bringing starts to move from the seat towards where Frances works, but in the meantime, I move from my eyeball into my body, and then look down into the coffee table. Chester jumbles up, makes up, asks is it an implant, put here to be this fellow, to contained those, to paint the kitchen with a sense of charm. I slide open the hospital door. It’s extremely difficult to believe. Frances moves past me, turns and for the reckoning of somewhere, to get her out of the room, her eyes smile. Holding up Lowne over the wall, half on one, kind of not at all. If we believe the idea of an oncoming apocalypse, why then, running out faster than an avalanche, forth by my own god, do they keep bringing me back to the hospital? Turns out that Frances has been saving a stash of Thenailomen. The hospital owner walks out of the bathroom. He spreads himself on the chaise. The afternoon has rolled around. I’m sitting at the seaside, looking out towards the train station. I watch Frances. Lowne sits up, wiping up and cleaning the kitchen area, all bared teeth. I stand a moment with him.
“The acid could be stored in even larger amounts on her.” Lowne tells me.
People are walking up and down (very slowly). Room is dark.
“Take my jeans off.”Frances says.
“How?” I ask.
An ebbing bass-line runs up and down, no hi-hat. Frances well-dressed, a rather wise-looking female. Another one of those stinking hot summers, even though I only feel like drinking about half a metre in front of the suicide. Lowne pushes pages of elegies yet to be written. I march Frances toward the door because her body has become broken over. I walk backwards and a blurred sight comes.
Chester continues, “The nails got rusted.” He crosses himself, and then touches me up. I’m being harassed her, at bus stops. I hearFrances rustling ridiculous. She allows my body to continue to do, to breath. Smoking,Chesterpoints up with cigarette, over there looking at me. A cold right hand holding the gun. This bed, but also, at once, nowhere. I think nothing of sitting down, until their faces close towards another fog. In the hallway, listening indoors, to the cool climate of these earliest still here. The distance from the chaise up end is open. Lowne reacts, at each other.
A leading anti-pollution campaign, a use for hard power, mostlyChester’s preference for a low profile. It’s China’s debate within Hong Kong itself. On Monday afternoon, I go off the scale, streaking past the debate. My cooperation serves to promote deep ultraviolet rays has had been lost between Turkish naval aid, and Bangladeshi workers, off the Government list. Environmental issues and problems, like smog. Surveying the entrance, Lowne orders me another Brandy and Dry, he then turns.
Excerpt and image republished with permission of the Author
About the Author:
Shane Jesse Christmass is a Perth-born, Melbourne-based writer. He edits the journal Queen Vic Knives. He’s also a member of the band Mattress Grave. He firmly belives that the future of the word, the novel, will be in synthetic telepathy. Most of his writing is archived here.
Listen to Mattress Grave play Her Forearms As A Phantom:
