Zero point four miles

-

Four hundred and twenty-three steps past the bars from which I steal glasses

past the bars in which I spit bile upon their glittered floors

whilst intoxicated

and not

leaving traces to be trampled on

much like the histories vanished the lovers disappeared the memories skewed

a place where shuffling always precedes the intrusive questioning by invasive bodies

in regards to mine

what do I have why do I have it will I show it

as they search for confirmations or denials like a sadistic midwife and

this

is

freedom

the joke spectacle of a state-approved homosexuality performed for 1000 hen nights

we divert around corners to a supposed safety and enter

door after door after door after door

we close

we breathe

we touch

an undercurrent of aggression turned sex

with fingertips following soft intricacies

cheeks against splintered peeling paint fingers that wipe and cut and penetrate forming fists

pool cue as erotic apparatus bangs on door a soundtrack to climax

breath in ear amplified to one hundred and fifty decibels to rupture

permanently

beer garden gravel imbedded in knees

whilst between yours

these juxtapositions are arousing

and there is safety in the touch of a woman

but

I am one hundred and sixty-seven steps

from an honest desire

disallowed with this body

a patronising paternal protection

telling me anonymity is not for me when I am always anonymous and

wanting

wanting

wanting to bathe in warm yellow with a heart rate heightened muscles loosened

willing

eager

able to lift by throats an all rounder break in let me enter married holes grappling grunting but

all

too

feminine

my presence disrupts your evenings

just as yours disrupts the evenings of scared heterosexuals

that's the company you keep

when all I want

is a hand on my jaw

and a steady stream of sweat

as particles fall

[Written for Sean BurnsIn The Pink, 2018]

oliviasparrow.co.uk 

[Photo by Jack Spicer Adams]