i’m sitting in her truck as she drives through an expanse and i’m hopelessly stuck, watching for the tells on her face. my love is late. my dreams always end this way.
tick tock anticipating, still staring at a big stupid screen with Sinéad stuck in the CD player that needs to be replaced but these days there isn’t anywhere else for me to be.
cant get away, rolling over myself again,
relentless, blistering, reddening – an early Spring and long-passed petaling, her ride, her music i’m listening,
lording how many times before have i fallen on my sword because i was bored? how many afternoons past with plans on plans to get on track only to find my way back? more than the fingers and toes and Geppetto’s nose & cock can count.
life wears its hair how one likes just to spite with a perfect white smile which bites.
“Two people confront one-another about their feelings, at the wrong place, at the wrong time, in the wrong way – and possibly, to the wrong person.”
THE SCENE A party in a suburban home. Nighttime.
THE CAST Kristan,she/her, 30s, standoffish, with coloured hair. Kevin,he/him, 30s, brazen.
Graeme,30s, a smoking guest. Tommy,30s, his friend. A Man in a Suit,30s, a silent weirdo.
Karl,a drunk partygoer, adult-aged. Holly,a curious partygoer, adult-aged. A Goof,30s, an idiot.
*
As the audience enters the theatre, the CURTAIN is CLOSED and the HOUSE LIGHTS are ON. In front of the curtain at STAGE-LEFT, under a spotlight, is a patio chair and an outdoor table with an ashtray on it. On STAGE-RIGHT, on a bench, sits A MAN IN A SUIT – looking forlorn, “smoking” a cigarette, ashing on the ground. Behind the curtain, you can hear bass-heavy background music, played at a minimal volume.
Five-minutes before the start of show, GRAEME enters STAGE-LEFT. He “lights” a cigarette and stares out into the crowd like he’s looking-out from a porch. Occasionally, GRAEME will look at the MAN IN A SUIT, but the MAN IN A SUIT does not look back, nor do they share any pleasantries.
HOUSE LIGHTS FADE. TOMMY enters STAGE-LEFT, also “lighting” a cigarette.
TOMMY Hey Graeme!
GRAEME Tommy! What’s shaking?
TOMMY & GRAEME “pound” fists.
TOMMY Not a whole Hell of a lot. I thought I’d never run into someone I know here.
GRAEME Yeah, me neither. The wife dragged me. But it’s nice to see you!
TOMMY You too! Are you coming with us next weekend?
GRAEME To do what?
TOMMY The guys didn’t tell you?
GRAEME No…
TOMMY Oh. Well we’re all going hunting.
GRAEME (apprehensive) Hunting, huh?
TOMMY Yeah. Don’t take it too personal. If anyone asks just say I invited you.
GRAEME No, it’s not that. I’m just not sure how comfortable I’d be with going hunting.
TOMMY If you’re sad for the deer, it’s an annual cull.
GRAEME Yeah, there’s that. But it’s mostly just all the random shootings going on everywhere. I don’t know how cool I am going shooting for fun when kids are getting killed for no reason.
ready to use be used and abused in return – yes just like the Eurythmics sung – ready to run, like the Energizer bunny pre-Pandemic before he looked so spun, finally and without any more ado, here come the silly boys through the exit postern looking like idiots and still trying to have fun.
guess who just got back today! and they would’ve been back earlier if their plane weren’t delayed by silly boys and silly men playing the grown-ups on a downward trend
and the laughter they receive is the attention they seek because without it they’re doomed to be seen as prosaic & weak, allegedly, blowing their vape cloud toward a future that’s bleak like they’re already willing to die at 16, living tracks by old idols like Biggie and Mobb Deep because that’s so super retro, you see, and you never saw Tupac in any ads for acne cream
“A Filipino student overthinks taking her life back from her borderline-abusive boyfriend.”
“Put it down, put it DOWN!” Samuel screamed, and Camilla dropped her corner of the set onto the soft, damp grass. It didn’t even make a sound, immediately sinking more than an inch into the front lawn. The look he gave her was homicidal, “I said PUT it down, not DROP it!” “I DID put it down, fucker!” “Look at what you did! You probably damaged it!” “It was FREE, Sam! Why are you making such a big deal about this?” She wiped her sticky, chest-length black hair with faded pink tips away from the sweaty, exposed skin of her neck & bosom, “I just don’t GET it.” “You don’t have to GET it. It’s not FOR you.” “Yes, but it’s in OUR space. THAT’S what you don’t get.” She pulled a crushed, almost-empty pack of cheap cigarettes out of her jacket pocket with a lighter, and sparked up. Between her & her boyfriend, the laminate wood-paneled television sat wedged in the ground like a cheap student sculpture. “Give me one of those.” She reluctantly handed him the pack & lighter, and he pocketed them himself in the back of his pants after he lit one, “You know I love you, but fuck.” “At least it’s not raining anymore.” He rasped at her. He thought his behavior was completely justifiable. He wanted to point out all the furniture Camilla had been buying lately from strangers off social, and exactly how many of his items graced each: none. Not a single one of his possessions lined the shelves of what she so adamantly insisted were their recent acquisitions. He never expected them to – since the sum total of her things compared to his was astronomically larger – but with all her talk of “them” & “ours'”, he guessed he thought he wouldn’t have to fight so hard to bring anything he wanted into the house anymore. That’s how he thought he was justified, as Camilla understood him. And she understood him well.
She couldn’t hear him now from the front yard, but she was sure the couple who owned the house could hear him from upstairs: whimpering from behind his duct-taped mouth, slamming each corner of the bedframe against the ground over-and-over. What did he think? No, what did he really think of her? The clear, full moon beamed bright as she opened the damaged, brittle cigarette packaging: there were only three smokes left, and two were mangled from being in Samuel’s back pocket. Those could be his later. While she smoked, she thought. She couldn’t help herself. She thought about Samuel & her. She thought about what was going to happen when she went back inside. Would she torture him a bit more? Probably not: the thrill was gone now. The tingling she felt was just an aftershock – she’d probably just untie him and put up with his hostile stoicism. She thought about class on Monday – but only for a moment. She really didn’t have to put up with Samuel anymore if she didn’t want to, did she? She felt the onus was on her this time. She took a nice, big drag, that filled her bare, goose-pimpled chest with the chemical relief she so desperately believed she needed, to help her take the next step. She was inhaling filter. She coughed, and flicked the butt to the curb. She was prepared to light one of the broken ones too, when a light came on in the upstairs curtain wall. She was cold anyway. Of that, she could decide on.
spending money spending money all i want to do is spend my money not save it all miserly or donate it to the deaf just spend it on myself again and again
big ticket purchase? spend my money eating out gorgeous? spend my money! another selection in the library of things? ring the drawstring on the ATM machine! take it, it’s yours’ and all the misery a zero-balance brings! ting ting a-ling!
theory of a daskeman 