after copious amounts of cocaine tate was not feeling too good. clod kept laughing and lo was dancing. tate was drowning in sweat. clod kept laughing and lo was dancing. clod eyed lo and wished he could not see tate. clod kept laughing and lo was dancing. clod saw the legs of lo and frowned when he came upon the eyes of tate. lo was coquettish when she danced. she laughed and went round and round.
dance clod, said lo.
not tonight, said clod.
i'll dance, said tate.
i don't want to dance with you, said lo.
clod never left the hole. tate had been out and now was back. lo was pissing in the toilet. clod was not happy when lo pissed him out. tate was happy. clod was perplexed as to why tate was happy. tate was worried as to why lo was pissing. for lo always pissed after tate. lo came out of the toilet and smiled at seeing tate. clod disliked the smile upon lo's face. in tate's hand was a bag of cocaine.
i'm first, said lo.
after me, said tate.
after me, said clod.
fine after you clod but before tate, said lo.
clod said he could only snort the cocaine off lo's belly. tate cut the cocaine. lo lifted her top and laid upon the couch. tate ran a line down the scar upon lo's belly. clod sucked up the white powder and smiled. lo felt clod's head and sighed. tate was next but lo said that he couldn't follow clod. tate took his cocaine off the table. lo said the cocaine would burn her nose and so swallowed the cocaine.
it's no good like that, said tate.
it burns me nose, said lo.
the cocaine's wasted on her, said clod.
i agree, said tate.
you bastards, said lo.
lo was unhappy. clod was using her for a table and tate kept twisting her nipples. clod caught a whiff of himself and became erect. tate got bored with twisting lo's nipples. on the table was one last line for tate. clod was dreaming. lo was eyeing the cocaine upon the table. tate went for the cocaine but suddenly dropped to his knees. lo laughed and the laughter awoke clod. both eyed the dissipated tate upon the carpet.
is he breathing, asked lo.
i think so, said clod.
he's not dead, said lo.
he's not dead, said clod.
tate opened his eyes and saw the line of cocaine no longer upon the table. the room was empty. there was still a television. a couch. a table. a carpet. three used stained cups. tate was perplexed. tate needed to piss, so he stood up and jounced to the toilet. one of his shoes was missing a shoelace. this perplexed tate. over the toilet tate unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock. tate found his missing shoelace. It was tied around his penis.
the bastards, shouted tate.
who's a bastard, asked clod.
i'm no bastard, said lo.
where have you been, asked tate.
out walking, said clod.
move over i'm in need of a piss, said lo.
when a jumper lifts off from the tower block there's a fifty percent chance that upon landing the jumper could flatten an innocent. when a jumper hits the concrete, or asphalt the appendages are ejaculated in a cascade of blood, tissue and bits of bone and marrow. the police will come along and scrape the mess off the ground. only the rain could really remove the stain, but now and again a neighbor will bleach the stain.
paul kavanagh was born in 1971 this accounts for his perplexity with money. H. Langden says:" paul kavanagh cannot sit still, he drinks too much tea, he succumbs to Pascal's melancholy for he is unable to remain quietly in a room." he is happy. his wife is happy. paul kavanagh has been published in Thieves Jargon, Underground Voices, Milk Magazine, LauraHird, Cellar Door, The Layabout, Skive Magazine, Mad Swirl, Zygote in my Coffee, The Lampshade, Girls with Insurance, zafusy Poetry Journal and a few others.