even my throat is a room. but dreaming dreaming dreaming of my father’s hands again spreads the shame a little. guess my childhood is my oldest, best friend - but I text him and got no reply.
it’s been a bad year (forget about it). no. after my mother left, there was a dark room to fill. dad try it with pizza; please try for my birthday meal. but food seems ridiculous when you’re alone, single father, you’ve fallen. he doesn’t know what he’s doing…this fridge-freezer his rostrum…
put on a show
just put on a show
defend us both
dad, put on a show
but my dad can’t control his, his face in public. play your role, man - I just wanna slap him, into happiness. and all my friends have eaten better pizza: safe dough, kneaded by a mother’s safe hands, in those safe houses.
just squeeze it squeeze it squeeze it, around the throat, don’t let go. just feel it, the only breath left deep inside the chest. like treasure I lift and heave it - my cheeks are gold, cannot let go, of this real scent of consummated desire on my hands, like, ‘who’s the birthday boy now?’
do I know you? your history?
turns out he had a key too - my strange neighbour. landlord had known him well, when they were boys. ‘OK, but what’s this man doing in my room?!’…who reminds me of Christian Bale in The Machinist, without the roll of celluloid protection, and without the good reviews.
do I know you? your own history?
you grow to look like your lovers, so they say…well this man looks like a stalagmite. what? just drip drip drip, in his place. I can feel him standing in the kitchen, his cave. ‘leave me to undress in peace, and watch tv!’…but instead - like a boy, or like a caveman - I found myself drawing on the walls, and sitting in the hallway trying to cry, a rare treat. no. forget I ever said that. forget I ever said that. I weep at one line in one movie - never in my own life…but tonight I feel different…