Wet Christchurch chins, boots scraped off on Canterbury doorframes
Pop the buttons on her Glassons jeans
collapse into crinkled laundry
she’s Canterbury fourth generation white girl pussy.
You’re seventeen, thirty-seven in your head. Indestructible in the 0-3.
Fish a Durex from your best bro’s bedside stash.
Rasping crotch forests, legs mixed, hashed. Panting.
In its cot her toddler bleats
Its mum – ya bro’s missus – agonised, impaled, your bones jumbled.
Her bleached braids stretched around your fists
like shopping bag handles.
Tongue stud magnet tang.
The neighbour thumps the gib.
The wee one screams; she stops jiggling.
His future ex, his seconds, is slathered with your spit
You grunt and shudder
Ya bro texts: He’s chuckin the forks away,
clocks off at eight.
Mate: bring my wheel brace.
You stuff the gooey Durex in ya pocket, pull ya Dickies up.
Christchurch, five weekdays down. Time to go out and self-destruct.
He’s havin’ a sad, he’s called the 2IC a faggot, packed it in.
Stares you out until you light him a ciggie.
Reckon some cunt’s been rooting my bitch…
Pink neon ripples in black carpark puddles.
Your white shirts. Your town shoes black as crude.
He’s a grumpy cheerleader, twirlin that wheel brace.
In the Burger King illuminating puddles in the potholes of Psycho City streets
you each lick the Woodstock off ya toffee-sticky knuckles.
The bite-mark on your shoulder itches. Ringworm alarm.
Text from Mum: Key in mailbox.
Bro, she’s rootin round on me.
Help me catch the cunt.
Drops you off on Manchester, goes to find a park,
The Shooters queue is all broken bottle gravel.
Lakes of bourbon & coke
Elbow your way through the losers.
Your eyes bump against a bouncer’s gums.
Interrupted by a text. Just Dad. Fuck crashing at his pad. Delete.
Shoulder clamped. A wall of black t-shirt pecs
Who shamed the shit outta you at Les Mills,
One’s touching his earpiece, leaning in like he wants to pash
It ain’t you, he goes, and gives ya licence back
A headbutt explodes ya nose, or his –
pulsing jawbone. Hot, numb tongue.
A mob of moaning yawns and eye-whites,
Skinners and fobs swap teeth–headlocks – jeans –dropped phones stomped
25 Rothmans snapped in their packs.
Black leather dress shoe soles, tae kwon do poses, slow-motion strobe
Walkie talkie static crackle, boots, belts, red, blue, sirens –
you bolt, lose one of ya town shoes –
He wakes you with a slap –
The trees full of screaming starlings
Crystalline windscreen – frost –Port Hills sparkling – bouncers sweeping sidewalks
He slaps the jiggling condom against your face
Straight up, he goes, ghost-breath. The fuck, bro?
Your seatbelt won’t undo –
The wheel brace makes your eye black and hot and fizzy.
It’s a baton, a jamboree of smashed teeth, your head lolls.
Railway bells. As BK kids in visors heat bagels
You crack the door and flop onto the blacktop
Try to crawl under the Falcon, spotting rust on the muffler.
He drags your ankles
Knocks the last of ya fillings out.
those cubes of windscreen and loose teeth
look like white dice on casino mats
that time nothing else was open at 7 a.m.
so yous went to the casino for the breakfast buffet
sprinted out without payin’
could hardly run from the belly-laughs, hid behind a dumpster
giggled till you pissed yourselves.
Texted Mum, she picked yous up on Moorhouse Ave
At home, you watched Spongebob and
slurped Cocoa Puffs
with the pretty Alps in the background
(but it woulda made you gay if you’d pointed that out)