by Shane Jesse Christmass


For as long as I care to remember, I have always wanted to kill myself. Alabama. Months back. Small rooms in the outer suburbs. Wood floors. You’re drinking from a carton of milk. Hot sun. Nothing to do here. You want to be moving on. Costume jewellery in a paper bag. Wine bottle in a recycling bin. Red wine. You’re naked in a colour photograph. Fashion magazines. Flesh beneath satin clothes. Fucking. Small filing cabinet full of pornography. Repetition of highway noises. Antennae on your head. Radio sounds from your mouth. Petrol engulfing desert grass. Patrol car submerged in the Perdido River. Death scenes under the Barrineau Park Bridge. Interchangeable sexes. Tongues. Eye chart on sawdust floor. Lawn furniture outside a gas station. Grey-green radars. Yellow eyes in the twilight. Street lamp. Your long eyelashes. Soft warm scratches against my skin. UFO / space craft under observation. Dispassionate sleep. Razor over soap-lathered face. Young woman in a station wagon. Gas tank empty after long drive. Your nightgown in the bachelor apartment. White light over the pre-dawn sky. Small plane on the tarmac. A gas station in Pennsylvania. Coveralls on a stack of tyres. Your gold cap tooth. The house cleaners scratching the walls with their vacuum cleaners. Stenographer rubbing messages into marble. Square jaw under your eyeglasses. An empty room. Different body sizes and animal parts. Office buildings full of industrialists. Manservants in the drawing room. Glory through data collection. Blueprints for military devices. You’re not interested in social positions. Foreign agents involved in financial fraud. Horseshoes constructed in stone. Blue handkerchief on naked breast. Secret police in Panama hats. Burglary then murder. Small cyanide capsules. Secret rooms. Deep moonlight. Dark shadow. False microfilm. Mood rings exhibiting subnormal emotions. Reading a McDonalds employment contract. Buying airline tickets to Capri. Smoking cigarettes in Rome. Watching drugged America. Incompetent WI-FI. Dreary background of palm tree. Musty underwear and hot dogs. Washing your ballsack in syrupy detergent. Falling into the liquor cabinet at the convenience store. Suicide bomber uninvited to the supper party. Bullet hole in the motel room door. You were dating petite women before the bomb blast. Now you have no legs. Drinking beer in the water fountain. You wear red rubber to the job interview. You leather lash the middle management. You ask the pharmacist questions in your birthday suit. Animal reincarnations on the bus seat. Burnt bone hooks in the back room. Tiresome groups talking about literary movements. Heated spatula placed on inner thigh. Ghetto buildings. Medical rooms. You clean the toilet bowl inside the toilet cubicle. Prescription drugs (barbiturates) on sale at the pharmacy counter. Technical jargon required to destroy your childhood home. M&Ms in the medicine cabinet. Drinking Pepsi-Cola inside a trolley car. Discussing retail electronics while sipping instant coffee. Smoking marijuana in likely sandals. Car keys lost in the Jacuzzi. White towels from a porn movie. You laze around in riots, bed sheets and skin care. You wear a polyester shirt, no underwear. Bare feet of the factory workers. An unconventional laugh full of warm brandy. Bath towels cover filthy corpses. A piss-smeared midget offering afternoon injections. Air-conditioned sleep for useless animals. Hair in the medicine cabinet. Bus driver asleep at the wheel. Telephone rings. Champagne corks crack. Your thin waist at the cash register. Twenty dollar lap dances at train stations. You’re behind the shower door. Grenades and mustard gas under your reading glasses. Traffic accidents beside the ticket booth. Anatomical tests on hotel guests. I’m not interested in living. Your aftershave in the shower stall. Working out in the new gymnasium lounge at the local K-Mart. Your eyes dilate and your bones are hollow. Cranberry juice spilt over your business shirts. Playing a drum kit alongside the medical steward. Psychological tests included with birthday cards. A pop-up tent full of lifeless smoke. You notice the patterns in the newspaper print. Time travel allowed on train station platforms. Broomstick in the ass. Smoking menthol cigarettes in the bathroom. Mint aftershave in the basin. Room service calls the abattoir for fresh steaks. Kabul refuges huffing solvent. Number plates made from horse hair. You’re inserted into thick blue denim. Your rear end is ghastly. My rib cage in jean jacket. Protuberance of red lipstick on your face. New diets so prices soar. Rope tricks upon ochre dirt. Vegetable matter from Mars. Your hand scrapes across surgical instruments. Abscesses inside the bonfire. Hot Dogs dripping in Stetson grease. Never-ending space research programs. Mysterious police forces with indefinable jurisdictions. Black patent shoes and seven inch heels. Straight slicked ponytail. Leopard-print mini. The world involves interaction. I’d like to die.




Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novels, Napalm Recipe: Volume One (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017), Police Force As A Corrupt Breeze (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2016) and Acid Shottas (The Ledatape Organisation, 2014).