Status: nano warm up eeee
Gardenhead
***
Fire escapes are a real work of God, real gift to the average man. Someone said that once, probably at least (and never once to him). When they threw themselves across the rusty steel, each step launching each poor hinge into pre-orgasm tremors, maybe clutching a barely singed baby in their arms or maybe the memory of one forgotten overhead. When a sleight of hand is the same as the ping of a bolt a million miles below and your escape becomes yours alone when the stairwell flies from above your head into the moon. The blast in the eleventh floor reverberates through your skull, your ribcage, and the sinews gripping the detonator.
His bare feet drum against the bricks, spine arching forward and arching back like he’s daring gravity to do its job. The asphalt is so inviting, and from so high (high high high) up.
It’s thick and full in his mouth and hot in his hands. Inch after inch disappears where hollowed cheeks begin and lips a rosy, rosy pucker (Gabriel always swallows.)
He downs the rest of the noodles, tips the broth back, and parts the mouth, welcoming the heat of the too salty too rancid liquid dribbling down over the curve of his chin. Blows bubbles under his breath and then some and wonders how sick this’ll make him. Wonders how long till the stomach acid makes him feel a better, porous kind of flesh.
He could ask one hundred people to topple this wall with him, and he could ask the same hundred people to topple headfirst off the top of the bricks. And they’d do it. He knows this like he knows the sun will set in the evening and he knows this like he knows who’ll be on their knees before dawn.
He’s a brave, brave knight around these parts, his heroics as widespread as they are nonexistent. He’s King Jim Jones and the Kool Aid’s marinating around back. Through winding cobblestone and past the always brimming halfway house, into the home nearly as empty as its occupants, up the stairs and tucked in bed lies the oh, so necessary cyanide. A nasty case of bedhead holds tight reigns upon his rust and freckles and his pajamas may be Dayglo bright, but these things always take time.
Gabriel, mighty archangel of no one in particular, you’ve got the words all on the tip of your tongue. Beware of how you use them.
His bare feet drum against the bricks, spine arching forward and arching back like he’s daring gravity to do its job. The asphalt is so inviting, and from so high (high high high) up.
It’s thick and full in his mouth and hot in his hands. Inch after inch disappears where hollowed cheeks begin and lips a rosy, rosy pucker (Gabriel always swallows.)
He downs the rest of the noodles, tips the broth back, and parts the mouth, welcoming the heat of the too salty too rancid liquid dribbling down over the curve of his chin. Blows bubbles under his breath and then some and wonders how sick this’ll make him. Wonders how long till the stomach acid makes him feel a better, porous kind of flesh.
He could ask one hundred people to topple this wall with him, and he could ask the same hundred people to topple headfirst off the top of the bricks. And they’d do it. He knows this like he knows the sun will set in the evening and he knows this like he knows who’ll be on their knees before dawn.
He’s a brave, brave knight around these parts, his heroics as widespread as they are nonexistent. He’s King Jim Jones and the Kool Aid’s marinating around back. Through winding cobblestone and past the always brimming halfway house, into the home nearly as empty as its occupants, up the stairs and tucked in bed lies the oh, so necessary cyanide. A nasty case of bedhead holds tight reigns upon his rust and freckles and his pajamas may be Dayglo bright, but these things always take time.
Gabriel, mighty archangel of no one in particular, you’ve got the words all on the tip of your tongue. Beware of how you use them.
♠ ♠ ♠
ok these are my nano boys cool cooli did not proofread hee hee
i carved pumpkins 2day hee hee hee