3 Short Films About Roadhead & Shoplifting
i'm a transient anus
in the shape of a girl
coming up behind you.
I.
|pupa|
mitsubishi [hatchback];
[he had a] cleft lip like mudflaps
blowing raspberries,
hot spizzle spray [in lines],
[i] catch [them] in my teeth.
check myself in the [side] mirror;
trailer mouth all gooey.
he kisses [me] the way my
awkward cousin eyes a sausage
[i tell him this].
he smiles, places a hand on
my thigh and says;
"show me how to kiss
[like] your cousin."
the words seep from
his gullet, colloidal and lube-
like, form a pigskin over
my [still hard] lap
and lingers [like a womb].
i press [myself] into it
and pupate.
[in front of us],
the cobequid crests and plummets
down a jean fly
lined with bitumen
[it bursts]; wipe my
lip on his [shirt] sleeve.
bob ross has gone mad
in the irving gas bar convenience.
i pocket a [fridge] magnet off
the [carousel] display.
it's starting to rain
[no ono notices].
i go down on him [again],
halfway to moncton.
II.
|parthenogenesis|
sometimes i claim to know a guy
but, i can't tell you what his hands look like.
and this trips me up, because
hands should be more knowable.
it's a benzene embrace that
shakes me, you know
you always had better instincts for
these things; these things you
poke fun at me about.
i feel lonelier after we've talked.
i should have a better memory, but i don't.
i spend a lot of time in the fuzzy corridor
between my various old bedrooms and
that's made me unreliable.
i think of the third most recent, and i
step inside. everything's the same, only
someone else is sleeping next to you.
i cross into the ensuite and make a pledge;
sing yonic hymns on the floor in a soft,
effette voice and wait until morning.
when i wake, i smell like sour cherries,
hard plastic and dom perignon.
it's your birthday.
the other person is no longer there.
i cook you breakfast, and you go
to work and i wait and i pine all day
for you to come back. it's sobering,
like some archaic spell encircled,
in a stray patch of the yard guarded
by trees that have known me
since birth.
in the afternoon, you pick me up
at the house and we drive the 103
out to chester. you pull off and
park at the garden centre.
we compare the prices of pots and
indoor tropicals, and talk about the future.
the terms are loose and non-committal,
and i forgo my own conclusions.
near the checkout, i swap the
clearance label off the boot
soles of a glazed ceramic
gnome. i have no need for him,
but he reminds me of you.
we sit in the car for a long time,
not speaking. then i say;
isn't it obvious? it's why
the limoncello tastes that way
why you sound upset in your
last voicemail message,
and why there is no
intransigence under this
leaky roof.
i'm back in the fuzzy corridor,
only our door is locked
from the inside. i try the others,
but each room is stripped bare as
the days i moved out of them, save
only for the gnome, who greets me
like a friend.
i give up, and lay down on the floor.
i speak my little piece, rub
burn cream on my nipples
and whisper him good night.
III.
|penetralia|
diana ross has gone mad
in the safari park gift shop.
i pocket a small, plastic
rhinoceros.
the rain hasn't let up.
no one notices.
in an enormous bathroom
with jacuzzi jets, eating ribcake;
trout mouth, suckle up to
your chest, look you in the eyes and
picture myself genuflecting at
an altar draped in your skin. like hot
dogs in epoxy, we levitate.
in the morning, he licks post-ejaculate
from my navel and drives off in
his big, ugly truck.
i pretend to sleep.
a. deveaux is an interdisciplinary media artist and writer based in kjipuktuk (halifax, ns). he has shown work across canada and internationally. he can be found on instagram @hypnagogic_logic.