He took pride in being hideous, scarring his face and ruining his flesh until the moment he died.
He had realised at an early age that human flesh wasn’t sacred, more that it was a prison and felt forever trapped by the limits of muscle and bone.
He vowed to make a mockery of his wrongful
imprisonment, promised that he would only stop when our foul creator stopped laughing.
He believed that when he left behind a soiled, ruined corpse his soul would instantly dissipate into nothingness and he would finally know freedom. “Death is freedom.” He said often, “but I won’t let the fuckers win. I die when they stop laughing.” He’d laugh then, laugh and say “you’re a lucky cunt you know? You’re talking to an immortal.” He’d laugh even harder then, and I’d laugh with him.
Gripped tight in sweaty, well-kneaded palms,
I drink my drink and wait.
The Butcher Boys by Jane Alexander.
how t o kiss boy
- walk over to a boy
- extend your limb, caressing his cheeks tenderly
- without moving your head or body, extend your lips so they meet the edge of his ear
- sc rE AM NOOT NOOT
- NOOOT NOO Ot;
“We only sell sugared turnips.”