Ever space in the diary says your name,
A punched dent in every page.
Naked men cut out from magazines,a list of places to have sex, stuck
on the kitchen wall, are just distraction from what is beneath the layers of cracked paint. a group of sexual frustrated teens sit with constant questions.
‘who’s your type?’
‘what is the sexiest part of the body?’,
‘is he an extrovert or an introvert?’,
‘a hairy man or a boy with a skinny waste?’.
He’s not listening, his direction of thought faces east.
The pealing wall wrapped around his sight. The blueness of his eyes just outline the flicking pigments of old memories.
They’re looking for answers now, men with there soft insecurities and there tidy laid out weaknesses. There need for bodily affection and the time for listening, laying with there balls and waiting for him to licking there urethra. But theres no room for hearts that may shatter, in the shower, he wishes to share.
'What do you think? Do you prefer it without or does the piece need to be added?’
He’s in deep thought. It’s not clear what he may be thinking about. so the pause lays empty for a thew minutes, which pushes him up against time. He starts sifting through clever thoughts, as he knows that something clever needs to blanket his deeper repetitive memory.
‘Leave it. Let it stay. It adds another level of thought.’
Empty white space stands hungry for art. It’s now time to build again. Cracking his knuckles, he begins tracing out happy moments of loved ones. Wiping rust of the useless heart that is expected to be ready and used this coming weekend. A bit of hope and belief has given him the push to move around again like he once did. It haunts his friends that his lust for soft skin and his deadly need to poison the minds of dirty shadows, found in the spot light of dark homes, had now vanished, nowhere to be seen.
‘Is he ok?’
‘Whats the answer?’
A spliff passes around a circle with the echo of questions of love, once again.
‘What do you want Sam?’
‘What do you love?’
The multi coloured glow and gentle sway of smoke separates a few familiar faces, from her strong stare. The spliff carries on rotating until it reaches the last bud of weed. The music takes another turn at repeating a song, from the night before and that stare still stares. The pause gets too awkward so Tanya takes the last blink, brings the stare to the tip of her tongue and brakes the smoke with the answer. A name that is an answer to many questions.