Click the Sponge

Score: 0

They remind me of a little bed I saw dead on the street today. Somehow I keep floating into others’ hands. The flocks of snow are still rushing to reach the ground. I am in between all I desire. I would like to stretch myself out and walk with loud steps to our living room where she is. I’d like to roll myself a cigarette. I see orange and the light is low. I am warm now with all the snow outside. We have bits and bobs strewn about. Flatmate and I switch something on, we are content with it and another. I want to step, sweetest when done together, only us. We go outside, throwing large coats, jackets and other strewn-about pieces onto the other. We look nothing alike but leave alike. I’d like to wade through to a cafe, open at all hours, with light. Smoking would be allowed and speckled about are persons, their noise creates a nook for us to settle into. We order coffee, she and I roll our cigarettes. Our tongues step along the paper. We look about, I to the left, she to the right, which is the same direction. He is stripes and ribbons, pulled over his red and purple muscles. He is wearing sun-gold pants, thin peach-pink lines run through towards a glistening yellow belt, cuts spelling letters, and down towards stone-weight leather boots. The boots are dark green, with brushing and rubbing making for patches and mounds of radium-dial green. These boots are the only non-striped or ribboned bit of him, I say, to stop his lines from running away. His hat is the first thing we see, it falls like an egg warmer over his pill-shaped head. The bottom of the hat reaches to and over and down his ears, the edge formed reminds me of the bodywork of a drift car. The hat is white with large black hoops. It reaches high up, thinning out, sharp, crooked, cracked about, behind him into the next booth. I'm sure underneath lies an all-American, all-gold, wheat-husk, flat- top cut. His face is Hollywood and Soviet posters, with lips cut from oil pipes and a jaw sharp as a sickle. He is missing a teeth-clenched, slobber, mandible mud-trodden cigar. As he chews, each string is plucked to and fro and out of his cheeks. Apple pie topped with sweated-through surrendered cheese, coffee, fries or chips and a plate brimful with gristle. His shirt is cut off, exposing the muscles I am currently following with my eyes. I think his arms look like our apartment building, all over little windows turn on and off, people and parts move over, an elevator runs up and stops below the arching roof. His muscles move to my scene. The shirt’s black beams start on his back, which is deeply pressed into the fat white leather, getting larger as they go round. The last largest black beam runs up to his shoulder and to his side. I go to ask him for his salt. I turn to my right, she turns to her left. There are two men, very much so. One speaks in the third person, and the other for the other. They are identical. Left can be told from right. Left’s golden teeth are matte through a thick film of clear bacon grease. Right’s shine, never not, as he smiles. The two are plump and half-withered blue. They linger under beer tents of trench Stone Island coats. Red specks, which are still round blood-laden drops, are at their cuffs. Their coffee stands high on a crown of crushed half-finished cigarettes. Both smile, but their eyes do not play, their faces are split in two. As we watch, the two lock hands over a bowl of brown sauce over bacon rashers. The steam writhes up into their palms and no further. We leave them in their locked embrace and shift our eyes one booth further. A woman is sitting there by her lonesome. She has been lonely for some sum of time before stepping in here and ordering. She attracts me with her red hair, the same red as the blood stuck to beige one booth away. Black rectangular glasses stand bow-legged on her nose, all square and rectangle throughout, cutting across her downward rushing face. Her lashes push against the glass, the pricking points dig in before snapping up and going over the frame on all fours. She moves only in snaps, parts of her crack over one another for her to move. She looks at us, first at her, then at me. I’m sure she sees nothing else. She snaps back to two little red leather-bound books of saints, held between the forefingers on and of each hand. On the right are men, and on the left are women. I can’t see more from here. Flatmate nudges me, she tells me that our red woman steals colours from before and afters. She takes and so her reds cut through. I hear, so what’s your story?, from the toilet. I stand and turn to my left. I jump over the two and sit down again on the last cup booth. I just missed them. A coffee standing at the brim looks over and falls. A page from the Sun holds on to our waitress's coattails and flicks itself over, time for another line. We scoot from the leather- padded, cup-bottomed booths out over the brim towards the toilet. We went halves, so we split apart. I choose one further down, the third out of five, and lock the door behind me. I sit down and breathe in. We had fallen asleep. The waitress, changing in front of the mirror, opens my door and leads me by her hand. The sun is out, and snow too. I pay for us, throwing coins and lint into the register. New folk are stuffing themselves for their toil. I turn my eyes to the clear window panes. We meet each other outside. The air is sweet so I gulp down lots for later. She pulls her feet through the snow to make scraped trenches for our mice. She stops at a payphone and digs in my pocket. She steps in, and I watch her mime. I use the moment to roll myself another, this one I make thicker than my last. I am greedy to smoke, as the cigarette is brown butter to sharp, cold marmalade. I pull and lean on the pink telecom box. My back is pushed off as she kicks her sides. I open the door and pass her the lit cigarette for her to make full stops. I need to borrow a filter. The passers-by don’t seem to smoke. I see a young boy come round the furthest corner I can see from here. He springs out and around like a tap dancer changing his line, before he skips and treads past the shops. His nose pulls across windows while his feet move straight on. His hands and face are dirty, his eyes are clean. He clenches his fist and rubs his eyes at the doors between shops. Once brick and wood give way to glass, he doesn’t blink. I see a stubbed cigarette on his left ear. The ear makes for a nose, the cigarette for a furrowed brow, and hurried razor-cut-made patches of hair for eyes. If he did not turn ever so often, I'd see him so. He runs into me before I can run into him. He doesn’t take his eyes off the windowpane in front of us. We're looking at a family of sets, making a picture of a woman’s soft, arching back covered in black lace. The two of us stand there. A bang comes from the pink booth, I snap back. She has finished the cigarette. The boy is still glued to the woman, his feet don’t move, the guidance counsellor they were to his eyes had thrown up paper and stormed out. I blame myself for knocking him off his path. I take his string-thin arms into my hands. He jumps and turns with annoyance. I ask him for a filter, he pulls his brows together, and then breaks them apart with a big, great smile. He reaches into his mouth, seizing his two front black teeth. He screws them loose and pours a filter into my palm. The teeth go back on, and he goes. After walking over cobblestones, I now sit very contented in a bus, shoulder to shoulder with snubbed noses. To my left sits a young girl, her name is Primrose. We had a lovely, short talk about her, I am still smiling from it. Both of us are looking out. She and I arrive, she is lifted and held between two and carried off to her house, which is pink and white and wood and chipped and quite big. I start and walk on the mud path starting at the bus’s door. I wade through a meadow. Stones start to shoulder away the soft mud, the yellow pub is still far and the meadow is still parting. Gold grass falls on grey and black, standing thick through split stone. My hoping steps are clutter to the brushing tips and tops of the meadow. I have been walking for time, still hoping for the grass to part. And so it does, a house stands alone, peering on tiptoes over the meadow, made of yellow tiles. Right in front, in the middle of a small half-circle of cobblestone road, stands a yellow car. The trunk of the car is open, and two men are heaving out a blue enamel box towards the pub door. I rush to help. The moist colour sticks to my hand, the thick layer of blue covers the wooden edges below, we carry the box in. As a thank-you, I am handed a cigarette from one man and met with a lighter from the other. I'm without you here. I am falling back on the memory of P.E. on a hot summer's day. Sweat laminates our plastic wood floor. I asked the coach to put me in as you're playing on the other side. I want to face you, and so I do. You let a thatched red fat ball go, my glasses jump and slide in between girls’ crossed legs. You rush over in a blur, your red face melts into my eyes. I change into my white shirt, my nose is plump and red. I leave the locker room with hanging shoulders, hoping that you’ve been carried away. I feel two fingers prick my neck, sorry, and you ask to take me home. We walk from school surrounded by green eyes gazing. We stop in front of the shop and each buy a beer, yours is blue and mine is red. We sit down, and the warm curb holds what lies under your skirt. In front of my door, you gave me treats, you had taken them from the Pyrex bowl in front of the fat secretary. I count the days to think of you. We meet each other after three days, I had written to you on your BlackBerry. We tread through empty, empty, empty car parks before we reach the park. Two running dog walkers place ropes on us, the leash lets loose, we fall together. A flock of schoolchildren, sitting at the pond's edge, shoot us with whistles. Everybody knows about us, yes they do. Yes, they do. We pass into summer together, I want to sleep with you. I jump over you on the train, sweet, sweet sweat soaking your back. Your pink bikini makes my mouth froth. We have to go down, down the compartments, before we can have ourselves. This is our time forever, take me and place me into your soft hands. I’m without you here, I think it's just lust, not love, but it's so nice. I touched yours, and you touched mine. I hope you liked mine. I say you're my sweet, sweet crush, pillow-creased red lips press against mine. I think of you before and after and all the time. I built you a shrine in my heart, a small frame with pictures, nail clippings and your hair. I’ll set myself to writing words and sentences to pull from directly and indirectly once recording. A snow squall runs through grey-fur men and women, their shoulders are wound in circles. Large and broad swords pierce through the snow-heavy winds from time to time. Blood spatters bloom in the air before being swept away. The fighting is happening around a large tent, sewn from leather stretched between translucent tusks. The tusks are engraved with the faces of those fighting. At the tent’s entry lies a small girl. Blood runs from her head, dark over black ice. The death of a witch here is marked by grand lights in the sky, the squall does, however, not let up. A small, rounded-door-shaped tunnel forms through the white wind towards the struck girl. A red fox steps through, its hair is slicked back and sharp strands of glowing, pulsating embers run their course from nose to tail. With each wag of its black tail, plumes of charcoal are thrown off behind it. The fox draws near to the girl, moving towards her head and drinking from the wound at her temple. She had been hit by a bone mace. The fox drinks for a while. It was peculiar: upon startling awake, the girl asked the fox if he was satiated. The fox replied that he was not and that he will wait for her to become of fair age. The girl accepted. Three or four pass from left to right. I see a soft, blushed cheek and brown-cliff hair tucked under a white Nike windbreaker. The hood is white, dotted with grey swooshes and yellow watercolours. They go on, I see their faces, all have been cut in half by sport hoods. I am grabbed and hung by my feet. I get cold. They hold my tongue. I get shaken up and then down, out my bits drop. I grew up in a nice place. Father got us haircuts, used to be long and white, baby hair. Dad said, when you’re old there’s hair in all kinds of places. You look beautiful when your hair is long, I love the smell of beautiful haircuts. I love the smell of sweaty hair and when it burns, when it’s swept from barber’s floors, when it swept from behind your ears. I want love. I want your hair in my mouth. It feels so funny coming out the barbershop with your scalp in the wind. I’ve got a new haircut and every person I walk by is looking at it and I look so good. I feel so sexy with my new haircut, it always feels so good with the wind blowing by. Even when I was a kid I would come out the barbershop with my hair all short and my scalp showing in the wind. I like it short and when it’s long, I don’t care what you wear, wind blowing by, you’re the best hair wearing person I know. I switched to primary school. I went from being shut down in German to being propped up in English. I spoke English without knowing how to, and I felt proud when I said because. On my first day, we wrote our own story. I was amazed at my new class. I had to read my page out to my teacher to help her, as I did not know how to spell. I took to a classmate from Jamaica, he told me he plays on the same grass patch as I had started to. My parents told me I should meet with him to play. I was given some Kinder Mini Eggs for the both of us. He never showed. I sat next to the goalpost and waited for a while, not touching the sweets. I suddenly heard someone calling oi from far over the hedge and small gardens to my right. There was the playground. I ignored it because I thought it wasn’t meant for me. I didn’t know anyone yet. After a bit, a classmate came, I admired his story the most. He saw me from atop the play tower and thought he recognised me by my white- blond hair. He had freckles and buzzed hair with a cowlick forming an arrow at the front. He was still in our uniform, with dirt around the ankles and light-grey worn patches on his knees. I gave him the sweets I had pocketed and kept waiting for a playmate. He asked what I was doing, if I was waiting for someone, I lied. We went on to play football on a cut-out, groomed cricket pitch. The weather was grey. It was muddy where people walked. He asked if I wanted to be his friend, I said yes and played on. Four larger older boys came and started talking to him, I wasn’t comfortable and pulled away from it. It turned, and suddenly he was on the floor, in mud. A boy in a red jacket kicked his face, blood came from his mouth. I felt very scared and ran all the way home. The door rang. Through the swirl-glass front door, I saw blue on top of grey. I opened the door to him, he apologised for what had happened, he was sorry that I saw it, he promised nothing like it would happen again, he saw that I was shocked. Hot, sweet, good summer came. We knocked on one another’s doors. 1 to 2 pounds in our football shorts’ netting. We popped to Tesco’s, scrounging under the shelves for coins and bits, and played one-touch on the wall in front. We went with the ball passing between us. One side had public tennis courts. Some goalposts were sprayed about. Best of all were the soft-trimmed cricket pitches. We laughed about the pampered pale, white- dressed children who stepped off with their bats when we came. My unluckiest day happened around then. We played football on our school's blond pitch. I laughed so much. I shot and missed but didn’t care. I fell on the split, dried grass and laughed like I was in a state. I was happy and warm. I said the day was unlucky. I left school with my friend and we walked on, maybe to go to the shops. We stopped at a wall over a row of bins. He dared me to jump, I said today was unlucky. The bin lid snapped, and I cracked through. He started laughing and I joined him. We went on through the two towers, over the pitch, past the playground behind blue-bow ankle-high fencing, over the thin road. No one was at the open-air fitness park. I got on the rowing machine and my leg got caught under me. My skin got pinked, I wasn’t bleeding lots. Frayed, thin bits of skin fell on the blue-green EPDM rubber floor. I had enough, salt-sweat drops burnt my leg. We went towards ours. He lived a road away. In front of his building there was a high wall with a patch of still-green grass underneath. He cheered me up with a jump. He beckoned me to try. I jumped, my knee snapped back into my mouth and nose, it went from sharp to prickly to heavy numb. He got scared and took me into his. I drank and spat out blood and water. We sat in front of the church on a little mound below. Underneath the arches of glass was red brick. There hung a street sign. I shot for it, the glass shattered, and the ball dropped to our side to our delight. We wanted to run and split up. I got us to play it the other way, which was really silly. Doing the opposite felt smart then. We parted ways after an hour of lying on the grass. I walked on to the willow on Willow Bank and sat. I writhed through the hot grass with guilt, will they take me back again? I had to tell. My brother told me to tell the priest, who was a very sweet. He fed his West Highland White Terrier vanilla creams and cheese crackers. I went to his house that day. The West Highland White Terrier, maybe named Lucy, craned and tilted her neck through the priest’s legs. I'm in front of the screen with real colours, standing with crossed arms while walking down a street in north. I'm following two red stripes laid on the road to my right, someone's talking in my ear about burglary. I've made it to the balcony, I’m in a shirt because it's warm. There are large pine trees in the courtyard, all lights are out in the windows across. The sky is O₂ blue, getting headbutted down by BlackBerry night. I feel like I’ve heard my words before. I heard from someone that it has to do with appetite. I love when I have pictures behind my eyes, which touch others in the run for a story. I take such joy in myself when I hear my voice being honest and true. I think Justin Bieber lives in my building. It started the other day. The four of us went and drank cans. We got lost and ended up in a Lebanese restaurant, seated around white tables with thin paper tablecloths. I got up and walked to the white-cold drink box. An ice-blue light shone once I opened the door, and I got all of us blue-capped water. The owner and waiter were very kind, very much so. I laughed at everything he said. We ate something, I can't remember what, and after clearing the table, the owner opened two small silver-capped grills. He took out some brown-cooked poultry and offered us the two. We thanked him after he demanded we eat. We paid for what we had ordered and left, the poultry was a gift. We walked back to mine. It was hot and all the buildings were red brick. I saw a shirtless man rubbing his hands together in my doorway. His blonde hair fell in an arc, lion and crown tattoos wrapped around his pointing shoulders, white boxers peeked over dark grey deep-groin drop-crotch joggers. I felt queasy then and got all others to turn around. It was all red, green and grey. We got more cans and ended up crouching around one table. The owner came without a smile, he was being mean with his arms pressed to his sides. I kissed my teeth and spat in front of his shop and turned to see him pressed against the glass, his fists sinking into his dumb hips. I met him that Saturday. It was still grey, wet and warm. I was walking on cobblestones in the middle of the road. He was in the doorway again, leaning forward and poking out his ridgeback spine, biting his lips at the birch in front and rubbing his hands. I got to talking to him. It was him. I don’t know how he got there. He stopped rubbing his hands and straightened a little bit while grabbing the lowest part of his drop-crotch joggers. He took me to his. We went up two floors and then a short way down steps leading to his door, set like a Minecraft strip mine. He said he had a shoe collection to show me. I was expecting to see all matters of Supra and other high-end high-tops on clear singular shelves. But the room was painted galaxy in rainbow colours, and all I saw were Nike 2012 Free Runs. I took a pair in my hands, in a children’s size. They were tie-dyed in the colours of the room. I left after 20 minutes of stooping through the low room. Justin and I are walking through buildings, and I’m enjoying all I see. They’re all beige and sand-washed, with light cement lining the windows and doors. All of them are unfitted and unfinished, with building dust drifting out the top. I stop in a break between housing blocks. A little further on down, there is a big white billowing canvas cloth wrapped in plumbing tape, twisting through scaffolding. The cloth bulges like a muffin top between the tefillin black and grey lines. I am so happy while watching, the cloth moves like pleased sails and is alive. Coach, will you put me in? I am part of your roster, which number are you giving me? I can’t believe you have a game plan. I thought we all liked to play and let the play play on. I’m so glad we’re not on the same pitch anymore, but your tactics did work. I couldn’t shake you off. I would have been at your side, but then I didn’t make the team. I’ve left the sport behind. I’ll have an occasional match but no weekly games. It’s all been postponed. Coach, you showed me how wonderful being on the pitch for 90 short minutes can be, but the floodlights went on and off and were sharp in my eyes. It wasn’t like playing in the sun. I am off to look for stones to skip. I look down, and in front of my small flip-flops, I like flat ones the most. I stuff the most handsome into my hoodie pouch and skip back between big stones. I take my flip-flops off so my toes can grab and I roll up my right sleeve. I scrunch and pull my arm back. I bend my knees, turn my hip and follow forward with my arm hurtling. My stone rolls along my first big finger to the end, which is where I pull away. I do so really well, the stone jumps lots, skidding and turning. There’s an ant on my white plastic chair, a ladybird bouncing for the spider, a ladybug I pee on, a thousand- footed centipede sideways on my chimney, the lizard couple snapping for my white butterfly, a rose beetle, a grasshopper and an ant-fly on my yellow rose, an ant family behind the water dial, the edible dormice in the rain gutter, the big black beetle in my shower drain and the moth in my doorway. I left my hamster with her and got an empty cage back. We built a string pulley system from balcony to balcony in our courtyard. We then got colours to mean letters and waved small flags, coloured-out papers and plush toys. After a short while, I could guess the letters and word before she was done. She could too. Then we had our first cigarette, I walked behind people and picked up their stumps. We’re going across water, along a thin, perfect asphalt bike path, while waves lap at the thin, trimmed grass running alongside us. We are going to Denmark, I see the bike path run into a hole in the woods on the small island in front of us. I forget where we’re going but I remember it’s Denmark. The green beside us becomes a forest, the bike path winds left past brambles and split boats. We come out at the beach. The ocean is like a lake and to our right. There are too many people there in solid-colour bathing suits, I think we could go left. It doesn’t feel like there’s any best place to sit, maybe we’ll try further down past the bathing suit lot.