Shane Jesse Christmass is a Perth-born, Melbourne-based writer. That’s in Australia by the way … In 2008 Paroxysm Press published an anthology of his short stories called Croak & Grist … He’s also published a number of stories including “Shut Down the Pick Up” (Waste, 2004, Paroxysm Press), “5”, (Shotgun, 2006, Paroxysm Press), “The Arvo & Early Evening of the Axe”, (10 Years that Didn’t Kill Us, 2008, Paroxysm Press), and “The Charnel Stink Within”, (Mini Shots, 2008, Vignette Press) … He’s also the editor of Queen Vic Knives … He likes drinking soda water …
You can find more of his work at these sites!
Where he edits!
Cold to the Point Past Death.
Cold, colder, warm, freezing, warm, warmer, hot, hot, cold, freezing. You … only … was in it for a minute, looking for you, you who in that minute was rearranging what love was and then writing down the corresponding cycle of death. You who breathed so until all elements of me were invented & comprehensible in terms of normal mental processes. You who had those secondary delusions which were never understood as being, influenced by your background or identified by a map, the map that lineates between me & you.
You walked onto the television … set & grabbed - a small handful of mints. They were spearmint, a quite odd choice for mints. You was in the Laotian Medicine shop, the permutations were out of order … the mania was palpable. You were okay with the inversions into overactivity. The police were making dioramas - participating in the mania.
The old Laos guy took you into the back room.
‘This isn’t a fucking brothel!’ he delectably winced.
You didn’t believe in positive physics, but you gathered he was inferring his daughter. Was it his daughter? - the woman standing over by the window, wearing a blue pencil skirt & a yellow t-shirt?
Heartbeats & ions sometimes knot & then generate values. Sometimes they also generate a distinct amorous feeling. The daughter was sultry, but you couldn’t see her face. She curled her hair around her finger & and stepped toe to toe in the midday sunlight. It poured into the medicine shop. The old Laos guy then started to unpack boxes of herbs, compost, plant-like and fibrous, gnarled root materials. He was going to affect and cure your disorder. You were now a terminally-ill individual. No hope, no sound for you!
The old Laos guy didn’t know - couldn’t quite work out what type of concoction would help you out. He was humming about … drifting through drawers of medicinal revenue. It looked like all dross to you. You were more interested in his daughter. You thought her permutations needed to be composed. You weren’t composed; you set off … to walk toward her, thinking what the definition of a one-to-one was. Was it sex itself?
Such a map associated itself to the rearrangement of sin – deadly integers to the majority much of people. You tapped her on the shoulder & she turned around like she was expecting to be picked, to be selected. It was like she was expecting you, but she hadn’t been waiting. You motioned with your hand for her to follow you, but she was all ready all over it. She nodded her head and did so.
What was your dysfunction? … bounded like a primary male? Is that what the old Laos guy was trying to cure, but how so, & for which many other names and notations are in use?
You closed the door on the old man. He was still pottering around out the back anyway, so he was unaware. You took his daughter downstairs, but downstairs were just the same as upstairs. She stood over by the window, wearing the blue pencil skirt & yellow t-shirt. Heartbeats & ions knotted & then generated values; sometimes they also generated a distinct amorous feeling. The daughter was still sultry; her face still couldn’t be seen. She curled her hair around her finger and stepped toe to toe in the mid-afternoon sunlight. With her arse facing you to slowly hitch up the pencil skirt. You were walking up to her door. The welcome light was on. Was it the same girl?
The door was open. You walked inside. A naked girl lying on an ottoman reading. It was another moment, very precise, horrible & weird activity; it was the old Laos guy’s daughter. She stilled contained what was once confused with love. There was a pewter tray of cocaine on the coffee table, sitting there like a secondary fragment.
Your doctor had once told you that you derived the sex from sex. Funny how it just felt like tired old amphetamines then. You placed your hands upon her forehead. If your hands hadn’t touched the matter on her forehead, it would’ve been just one meanwhile, one that was perfectly without a neutral, composite, language or brain-tonic, and is never expected.
You lent in & kissed her neck, there was happiness suffusing the predictable time of her.
“Where have you been?” you asked.
“Just a 3-4 day crack-binge, my nipples are sore, they’re sharp when the day begins.” she whispered
You lay down on the carpeted floor; the sense of it all was more. She was a model. She had cultural prejudices against interviews, most magazines. Cannot be as rapid hit as MDMA / mashed - however cocaine is better than language itself
You asked her if she had any movies to make, which partners the person of a human being move … a sudden to ignite. You wanted to desperately eat her out; hence she no longer bears the act introduced. She opened her thighs, performative is rare. The leaves fall through the open window. She strokes your groin. You ease within a personal faith of woman.
She walks to the bathroom … the destruction of the release.
“When it is unaware of woman what shall we do?” she yelled from the shower.
“I’d really like to catch that new movie?” but she couldn’t hear you over the showerhead. Is it distress? She wrapped a towel around her wet body … performative.
She was a rare extract of a transcendentally woman. You were out in the driveway … talking to your neighbour. She was asking about whether you had ever cried in extreme. You revealed to her that you had exceedingly done so. You’d once known this girl & you shed tears. They were a good use … big and wet. The tears had form … the daughter exclusively never stopped calling their drug-induced overstimulation.
She spoke to it every morning … woven from words without history … biography … full words from the book … her amorous ridiculousness indicates precisely.
You were walking up to her door. The welcome light was on. Was it the same girl? The door was open. You walked inside. A naked girl lying on an ottoman reading.
It was another moment … very precise, horrible & weird activity; it was the old Laos guy’s daughter. She stilled contained an intense craving. You let yourself be filled by her tiny arse … has always been God and his who produced it. You could barely work your cock out of your trousers, could barely work as never closer to the truth.
You were liking this & its delay delivers the great arse. None of them knew the pain of death. Every voice of prowess was intensified in her arse - intensified not dulled by passions. It stops ending up making humours … feelings … impressions.
The daughter’s nakedness felt fashioned by a Clinometric O. Crack-cocaine is sensible … by a crash called the well-being.
Enunciation is not accord for classicism
overlapping of pain … stuffed up.
Written in Fitzroy.
14 – 17th May 2010.