G. is scared of many things: he's afraid of planes, bees, roaches, spiderwebs more than spiders, of stepping on ants, of the absolute dark, of mirrors late at night, of packing bags, of what may be growing insuide his body night after night since night-time seems like the idyllic time for tumours to bloom, for cells to go bad, for diseases unseen and unheard of to fester under the unaware youth and suppleness of skin.
"Turn over now," the guy says after he's groped G. to his satisfaction, and G. thinks it all is like something out of a manual, do this, do that, imagination is dangerous in times and places like these -"where am I?" G. wonders, the ride to wherever they are now syncopated and blurred by drugs and drinks, turning over as ordered, there's order in being ordered around, and order is the opposite of chaos, and sometimes his mind needs to be commanded so that it can be free, and empty, and so that his body can be free too, and roll over, push his ass in the air, bring his hands to his butt so he can spread the cheeks and examine the corner of the bed or the wall as long as it takes for the poking, prodding, pushing, stabbing, grunting, twitching, ejaculating to end, and that is why he needs to not be scared of weird shadows that dance at the periphery of his eyesight or the possibility of HIV infection, or the runny cum that dribbles down his thighs with a tinge of blood and feces.
The first time he faced his fears was when he was twelve and realized he was a freak of nature, stuttering answers that made no sense to his schoolmates who soon started abusing him and calling him a retard. He went home and while his mom was cooking dinner downstairs, he stole a knife from the kitchen drawers and went to his room and slid down in the little nook his bed with a wall made and lifted his shirt and drew the blade across his stomach. Only the knife was blunted from the use and didn't cut as deep as G. meant to, it just hurt like hell because he had to slide the knife back and forth for any blood to come out, and when it did, it was only drops, like little blooming buds, coming out from the punctures in the flesh, and the next morning there was a bruise, black and yellow, along the cut, and next time he'd use a razor to cut across this line, this blue and black and green and yellow line, thinking
it seemed he could not do nothing right
how could anyone like him?
how could anyone love him?
how could anyone look at him?
at all that blue and black and green?
"Ass in air. Well done, boy. Now let us see that sweet pucker of yours."
Something cold and shiny and hard screwed up there. tastes, feels like green. Hard and glassy and round and smell of sour stale alcohol, yeast - beer. A bottle of beer...
Order is the opposite of chaos.
Twisted and twisted around, muscles spreading, muscles aching, muscles about to break.
Order is the opposite of chaos.
Blue and black and green, the opposite
Air inside, up shit chute, air around inglamed organs
Is there light at the end of this tunnel?
Order.The opposite.Of chaos.
Lights-blue and black and green-
at the end of this tunnel.
And in the quiet, in the dark, in the shadows after
a knife, bring out the knives and razors
Carve all that shit and pain and blood