The Sour Milk Suck Experience


Toilet cubicle, stolen mobile phone. I gotta remember her number 798237523785786 . Nah that’s not it. What was the first digital? It was 0. Then 4. That’s what they all are. Then it was 2. Yeah 2. Then 4. Yeah 4 for fucks sake. A song asks me if that makes me feel better. And yeah it does. O424. Then what was it. Write that down. 0424. Then it was…Turn the metal cubicle latch. Pocket reaching. Feel the lifted can of Smashface Male B’O Dorant. Pull out the sandwich bag. Shake shake shake spray in. Then more. Fill it with chemical fog. Put this over my facial orifices and innnnhale, quick then slow. Colour veins fizz behind my eyelids. Head and neck floating. Sit back on the shut seat. The main steel wood door whines open. Slipped into bastard fucked up fantasies straight from devil’s brain and Sehgoh’s great lips. Trounced and trawling the floors of massive messy inner red hive skull. Wish I could escape. Wish I could scream away all the panic. Wish I could be gone. Back in flesh again. Back in the eyes again. Echoing boot step. That must have been a real big smell in there. I try to tell him to shut the fuck up but my vocal box has gone seizey and dry. Twist the metal cubicle latch. But he has gone. Either in or away. Listen to a sad blues solo play up and down my arms. Drag sloshing feet over sloosh and slagging spit. Out into the fresh non smell and heat of sunshine. Smatter smuck smash the door down drunk. Pearl colour clothes line raided shirt stained by a violent stomach fight. Nauseous wing headed stare into the sun, which is dying slow and open mouthed in the sky.  It’s too late to wish upon a star. To late mish upon a plar. Felling the sky fill up with slashed up little promises for better. Where is she? Could be looking up at the same stars? Or just looking at the neon picture glow. Metal meets sulphur taste in my frothing mouth. Something destructive snuck in today. When I was sitting by the drunks in the old park one asked me for a suck. I told him no. Started thinking about the diseases crawling his body. Moved away. Sat next to some chess players. One had a bright coloured orange hat on. The other a dripping grey beard. What’s the time I asked. Didn’t answer, kept slapping clocks. You like music I asked. But they slammed their clocks even harder. Forget this I thought. Kept swilling from the brown bag that I got from the shop filled with vinegar wines and beautiful spirits. The man asked if I had money. He pushed the bottle forwards and I took it. Dropped a five on the counter. It’s seven! So took out a coupla bucks I begged for from this girl with a nice dog and barking open umbrella. Yep, that’ll do it. Take the whiney wine and start sip sip sip sipping it. Then skull it. Fuck em! An old Aboriginal elder asks if I wanna donate to the cause. I got nothing. Move on then. So I end up the paved barbeque pit next to these chess rummies. Bottle of wine later, asking for harder. Smack? Nah. Go away, we don’t want no druggies, druggos, here. Alright. Where is she? So bored. One bests the other then the other threatens a beating to the death. Black meets eats white. So back to the road wander. Want to hold her from behind. Want to say I’m sorry. Want to sleep. Power. There’s nothing like it. Not here. Not in space. Anywhere. Gods. Aliens. They all wish for it. Power. Man what a fuckin’ trip. He’s been drinking next to me for an hour or so. Just sloshing it down. No care for liver or lover. Splash fucking it past teeth. Decay. You got any power bruvver? Nah, I got none, can’t you tell. Nah, ‘cause it feels like you got some, but not sure what yet. We keep pump slumping the wine into us. You ever felt God? What? Ya know, felt him crawlin’ round ya bones? I’m not sure? Man, he’s in me, right now. Sure it’s God or the wine, both are powerful, if the exist in your system. Nah, bruvver, it’s the – . But he falls asleep into his elbow. Snores canoe slapping water like. He mumbles I’ve created my own universe you’re not allowed in, not as shallow as this, not as deep as that, so fuck off! Wander the park, shaking from some three dollar wine I stole from a wiped out wino. Sick. Wishing I was here, there or anywhere but in this flesh. They’re gathering around now. Looking for rape and stealing opportunities. It’s gettin late boyo, and I ain’t eaten since this morning, ya know, helps ya get drunk quicker. Staring at the stars next to a shattered silhouette with barbed bearded bag wine breath. Ya not shayin much. Sit silent. Ya know, we all got dem little ghosts floating in our heads, you thinking bout a girl? Yeah. She screwin someone else? I don’t know. Anyone ever tell you the story of the little emerald jelly? – Nah. You probably don’t want to hear it, but, there’s this little jelly, he’s just a harmless little fella, made of gelatine, clear like glass, so he just sits there all day wobbling. He’s looking down now. Using his slivered, dirty hands to shape the story. –cause he’s thinking of this thing he will never get, and everytime he does he turns green, and people love green jelly, ya know cause it’s lemon. Lime. Whatever. Yeah. And everytime he does, up comes one of the people that are around, who live in the house or castle whatever, own the fridge, whatever, and they get out their spoons, and dip in and take a big bite out of him, and the pain of being eaten distracts him for a while, and he goes back to being normal coloured, but it’s not enough, he starts thinking again, then he goes green and so on, so on, until he ain’t nothin’ but this little hunk of quivering bland tastlessness, and he realises that, well, ya know the moral, jealousy eats ya up and – . That’s when I decide to murder him. I understand the point of the story. Even appreciate him telling it. But I decide to kill him. He doesn’t know me. I just want her. Soon others move in and I never get him alone. They’re all laughing and letting red grape juice drool down beards into cloth. Slow sleep on an oval alone, shivering, hands hammer jammed into jacket.


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