(cover art also by Shane Christmass)
Scott Disick met with his surgeon to discuss skin care. Lasers lit up the mushroom cloud. Scott Disick always felt that he was going to die from a massive stroke. He’s had too much of these nightclub evenings … these consumed bars … these delicatessen pickles … these luncheon meats. Disick was sweating in Cambodia. He was catching malaria under bridges … swallowing the remains of his saliva. Car parks full of tall phantoms. The mahogany skyline of NYC. Money packages left in the laundry trough. Disick smells like uptown Manhattan … sluggish shit. Disick moves his birth-hands … not his cybernetic ones. A grease gun rammed down Scott Disick’s throat. Sinking vessels in the East River. Radio lines with no response. Silence in the dusk. Hand sweat on rock walls. Disick asleep in a small boat. From his back muscles … sweat pours. Machine-like precision to destroy him. Magazine publishers talking to television stations. Cadillacs … Chevrolets and Chryslers appear from murky blackness. Disick wears high-tech surgical gloves. He smells like a burnt-out cigar … all black eyes … nervous movements. Spiral staircases throughout Chicago. A morgue team collecting cell organisms. Electronic diathermy in a large town’s orphanage. An insane gleam to Disick’s eyes. Stupid dreams from the morgue keeper. Special investigators with their high-octane corpuscles and black eyes. Disick draws a deep breath inside the subway. A 300 pound monster is up for execution. Bottle on Disick’s anus. He runs into lust. His eyesight … around my shoulder … embracing me. I got the job from Lisa. Disick can’t remember my name. Time on the clock in front of him. He’s paid up for four hours. An evil smile on his ass. He orders the others to beg. A flashlight beam on shoe leather. Upon the pavement a shrill whistle. The rough tug of a t-shirt from Disick’s shoulders. Disick has a coarse complexion … all auburn hair and brilliant smile. Children on the basketball court. Men without external sex organs. A sliced penis and scrotum in a coffee cup full of endocrine. Southern mansions repurposed into abortion clinics. A woman squats over the pavement. A hurt woman with sore breasts. Long black hair in sharp photographic images. Unforgettable moments from these distant years. Disick takes long absences to delve into deep thoughts. New machines on the Trans-Manhattan Expressway. Homosexual boys fuck the cruel bridegroom. Disick likes mischievous laughter. Disick undresses out of a black dinner dress. He wears your high heels. Light through the ventilating shaft. Scalpels into the skin. Destruction of the body with every body blow. Robots run for political office. Professional men tear down their immoral past. The possibility of fire hazards. An embankment of stones … almost a levee … holding back the seawater. Blood congealing in the bathtub. Foam and cotton towels. A skeleton of bones … yellow spots on Disick’s skin. Water against the embankment. Tall crests. Robust undertow. Health department rejecting discourse and intellectual atmosphere. University President has light-headedness. Anthropologist with a restless mind drinking a bitter espresso. The steady flow of sugar upon the riverbed. Empty chairs at the adjacent table. A vacant seat at the student hangout. A lean black man wearing a Soviet Army officer’s cap. California has a peaceable nature. Disick needs to fix his past mistakes. A snowbound car with crystalline feathers in the trunk. Imprisonment in part-time different jobs. The shower curtain in Disick’s fingers. He has spent multiple lifetimes in his complete image. Disick wears black stockings. Nail polish spilt on his lace brassiere. Disick will spend the summer months residing in official agencies that offer twenty-four-hour emergency services. UFOs now classified as ‘religious weapons’. Disick’s forehead … the thin straight lines … the smooth brow. Disick orders a coffee … then pulls out … spraying his half-aroused cock all over the bed sheets. I’ll drink it. All hot and sloppy. Lips from his lips. Cock wriggling out from my ass. I can feel it all over. He orders that I wear a short … yellow overcoat. The loose silver tresses of his haircut. Disick wearing glossy dress-boots. He is bloodthirsty … hungry … he lives within the perpetual debris of NYC. The night settles … Disick talks with certain phrases … his slender features smeared in motor oil. Cab drivers grabbing silly ideas from mop buckets. Disick is all tolerant smiles as he guzzles saloon drinks. Rodents inside his wardrobe. The dewy freshness of his psychic condition. Holograms … lubrications … cheap detergents … brandy. Future intimacy and potential marriage is discredited as something not suitable for Scott Disick. Draught beer that tastes acidic. Disick rolls around in cashmere and stock exchange products. It’s an ugly scene.
Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novels, Belfie Hell (Inside The Castle, 2018), Yeezus In Furs (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2018), Napalm Recipe: Volume One (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017), Police Force As A Corrupt Breeze (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2016) and Acid Shottas (The Ledatape Organisation, 2014).
He was a member of the band Mattress Grave, and is currently a member in Snake Milker.
An archive of his writing/artwork/music can be found at www.shanejessechristmass.tumblr.com