Shed Of Dignity
Sweat-rumpled walls rained down around him, flaccid body un-hungry and twined up in melancholy drink. She, of the killer pick-up line and she, of the killer tits and she, of the soft and wet: she had his money and she said she would be back, with a flirty kiss blown over her sick white shoulder. The door swallows her.
Panic scrabbles up, his old dinner swings, lands a meaty punch to the ribs. The sin blows white noise through his wiring and he turns his face to the burred meadow carpet too late. Most of the filth gouts on to his chest and neck.
A voice completely shed of dignity. The very last moments.
Now the alarm rips, calling the cops, the fucking cops. Nate’s revolver lets go square into a nametag, sending mee-maw through a rack of potato chips.
Her margarita-iced lips tracing hot shivers. Bad thoughts race, rage and explode against the roof of his skull, acid peaks. She pulls away and her face splits apart as her teeth droop and sway like a handful of worms. Her face is a breathing quilt of brushstrokes and she is beautiful.
“I’ll give you anything, ” he says quietly. In his ears, though, it is Doppler trains moaning and thundering to the red clouds.
Text and Images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved