The roads are new roads.
Kanye details his escape plan to me. He arrives in a limousine. He wears brain-tanned leathers. He carries a plastic shopping bag that has handwritten notes, tonnes of ideas and patents.
Worlds without any earth sit alone in my head, singeing my hair.
Kanye is an enthusiast of long voyages. I’m sick of his name though. I hit the Gramercy Park Hotel’s gymnasium. I scar myself in the shower stall. Exhilarating. In the gymnasium lounge the heat blinds, gnaws, humbles within my body. Upper eye dilates to accommodate the blood that has been put together by U.S. currency and Kmart. Kanye in shitty denim jeans. Kanye has sent a driver to collect me. A lover on the wharf. Hearing is dead inside me. Money exchange at LAX.
Kanye’s physical properties are unusual to me. Knotted days of a white sun. Kanye and I jump into a car. Kanye smiles. He turns his body over to attract warm temperatures. I gather shade at the back of the gymnasium.
“Go to the top of the stairs, yes…” Kanye says.
I pretend I haven’t heard him. From the fourth floor, I can see the horizon. Noses and mouths that perform tricks. Kanye’s body in a negligee. I’ve understood the body since antiquity, my fingers, a restless dream, something about wooded combs and pressed hair parts. Door knobs turn, special bullets for the occasion, hollow genitals and ginseng, a desire to expel semen residue.
“Why do you want to act all tough?” Kanye asks me.
“Because I want to.”
Kanye chuckles. Points a finger at the buildings outside. It’s day. The buildings look all right to him. He shrugs. Kanye freezes. He pauses before he stutters. His coat. His hand in his coat. His hand salutes me. He has a cranberry juice. He drinks it, then looks at his watch. I look away from him. Each individual from a single grain of sand. Kanye wears newly-purchased clothes.
“What more do you want?” he snaps at me.
I assemble on the staircase.
Kanye holds up one of the chairs from the lobby. He removes the labels from his business shirts. I catch his eyes. A dog barks. I fall on my knees. I roll notes from my bankroll. The taxi driver assures me, he can guarantee my escape from LAX. I examine him carefully, the different parts of his body, bones as sleep, air-conditioned sleep, interrupted by mosquitoes.
Soldiers drag the dead over smouldering newspapers. I finish four beers in the lobby bar. It’s two in the afternoon. Kanye leaves me. This in strict accordance with our differing temperaments. Kanye beside the wooden kitchenette. Kanye behind glass doors. Kanye wearing a thin leather belt. Kanye drinking instant coffee. Kanye eating toast. Kanye draining the milk pot. Kanye as an extraordinary man. Kanye as body welts on my back. Kanye as deep fury. Kanye as silent stares. Kanye as the convenience store man. Kanye as inarticulate mistakes.
Kanye as America.
Kanye as mouth.
Kanye as strange technical jargon.
Kanye as childhood home.
Kanye creeping by the chewing gum rack.
Kanye as a taxi driver.
Kanye driving the plumber’s van.
Kanye as the cops.
Kanye in the medicine cabinet.
Kanye as someone.
Kanye as the landlord’s moustache.
Kanye as the car doors.
Kanye as the house keys.
Kanye in the back room.
Kanye as my tiresome voice.
Kanye behind movable sun.
The roads are new roads.
Kanye details his escape plan to me. He arrives in a limousine. He wears brain-tanned leathers. He carries a plastic shopping bag that has handwritten notes, tonnes of ideas and patents.
Worlds without any earth sit alone in my head, singeing my hair.
Kanye is an enthusiast of long voyages. I’m sick of his name though. I hit the Gramercy Park Hotel’s gymnasium. I scar myself in the shower stall. Exhilarating. In the gymnasium lounge the heat blinds, gnaws, humbles within my body. Upper eye dilates to accommodate the blood that has been put together by U.S. currency and Kmart. Kanye in shitty denim jeans. Kanye has sent a driver to collect me. A lover on the wharf. Hearing is dead inside me. Money exchange at LAX.
Kanye’s physical properties are unusual to me. Knotted days of a white sun. Kanye and I jump into a car. Kanye smiles. He turns his body over to attract warm temperatures. I gather shade at the back of the gymnasium.
“Go to the top of the stairs, yes…” Kanye says.
I pretend I haven’t heard him. From the fourth floor, I can see the horizon. Noses and mouths that perform tricks. Kanye’s body in a negligee. I’ve understood the body since antiquity, my fingers, a restless dream, something about wooded combs and pressed hair parts. Door knobs turn, special bullets for the occasion, hollow genitals and ginseng, a desire to expel semen residue.
“Why do you want to act all tough?” Kanye asks me.
“Because I want to.”
Kanye chuckles. Points a finger at the buildings outside. It’s day. The buildings look all right to him. He shrugs. Kanye freezes. He pauses before he stutters. His coat. His hand in his coat. His hand salutes me. He has a cranberry juice. He drinks it, then looks at his watch. I look away from him. Each individual from a single grain of sand. Kanye wears newly-purchased clothes.
“What more do you want?” he snaps at me.
I assemble on the staircase.
Kanye holds up one of the chairs from the lobby. He removes the labels from his business shirts. I catch his eyes. A dog barks. I fall on my knees. I roll notes from my bankroll. The taxi driver assures me, he can guarantee my escape from LAX. I examine him carefully, the different parts of his body, bones as sleep, air-conditioned sleep, interrupted by mosquitoes.
Soldiers drag the dead over smouldering newspapers. I finish four beers in the lobby bar. It’s two in the afternoon. Kanye leaves me. This in strict accordance with our differing temperaments. Kanye beside the wooden kitchenette. Kanye behind glass doors. Kanye wearing a thin leather belt. Kanye drinking instant coffee. Kanye eating toast. Kanye draining the milk pot. Kanye as an extraordinary man. Kanye as body welts on my back. Kanye as deep fury. Kanye as silent stares. Kanye as the convenience store man. Kanye as inarticulate mistakes.
Kanye as America.
Kanye as mouth.
Kanye as strange technical jargon.
Kanye as childhood home.
Kanye creeping by the chewing gum rack.
Kanye as a taxi driver.
Kanye driving the plumber’s van.
Kanye as the cops.
Kanye in the medicine cabinet.
Kanye as someone.
Kanye as the landlord’s moustache.
Kanye as the car doors.
Kanye as the house keys.
Kanye in the back room.
Kanye as my tiresome voice.
Kanye behind movable sun.
Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novel Acid Shottas (The Ledatape Organisation, 2014). He was a member of the band Mattress Grave, and is currently a member in Snake Milker. He firmly believes that the future of the word, the novel, will be in synthetic telepathy.
