The swab isn’t sublingual after-all so for now my secret cure remains safe. He counted to three and went up my nose with a stick longer than the smallest dildo that my Montreal landlord stole. Great. Now I have a nasal fetish. Dare you to dig deeper than him and risk reaching the brain quadrant in charge of [controlling] my lesser-known appetites. Don’t poke a bear’s brain unless you’re ready to roar with cigarettes and chocolate milk.
These are just a couple of my ravings.
Too used to tracing my own slug trail in imperfect circles. The elliptical tells me I’ve grafted well to World. Forty-eight minutes takes you nowhere fast but six hundred seconds staring out the window is a gondola up my own craggy face. In fits of pique, leave yourself. If you find me dead-hungry on a trail, bury me in the bones of the fanciest Catalan restaurant. Ebullition is next to effervescence and our boiling point suggests we are too far from the sea. My inner children sparkle at petulant degrees when the sky is red in morning.
We lived just feet from the flood plain. You can lead a child accustomed to alcoholic domiciles to water himself at noon with a congregation who speaks in soft salted tones but you can’t make him drink from your favourite mug shot of you if he’s seen the portrait in the crawlspace. I know it depicts me too. I can’t lie through my nose. I’ve blown it again.
Lucas Crawford wrote Belated Bris of the Brainsick (Nightwood 2019), currently shortlisted for a NB Book Award, as well as 2015’s Sideshow Concessions and 2018’s The High Line Scavenger Hunt. Lucas’s writing, which combines queer/trans/disabled vernaculars with maritime histories, also appeared on Plenitude in 2016 (http://plenitudemagazine.ca/i-lie-on-the-high-line/). Lucas teaches English at UNB.
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