The chalky ragged flesh of The Cannibal. The Cannibal casts roving eyes over his prey. The boy is almost a corpse. The Cannibal's fingers dance like eager spider legs over the boy's visceral architecture and he doesn't cry out.

The Boy:

I grin into the window of the bus, reading the lyrics you wrote down "back in the city, the sun bakes the trash on the curbs, men are pissing in doorways rats running in herds"…It is raining outside the bus I'm in and I'm grinning into the window….Was that an Ani DiFranco song?

The Cannibal has an urge; an urge to bisect the boy at the waist and dance with his torso.

The Boy:

I stay in my room. I dreamt of his cock again last night, of throwing my head back over my shoulder when he leaned into me…

The Cannibal glares out at filthy streets. Distant hills fringed with the fire of another vicious winter sunset.  He buries his face in translucent flesh; cut from the boy's stomach. In the pale gloam of evening light, The Cannibal is grateful that Dead Boys Don't Tell.

The Boy:

We are hurtling down a dusty lane, I'm somewhere between waking and dreaming….I tell him I need to be in college the next day, his smile shuts my mouth.

The Cannibal teases the eye of his corpses cock with his tongue, masturbating, warm cum spilling, dripping into its open chest.

The Boy:

I remember that time my brother took me to see a sundial motif on the headstone of a dead couple's grave in a churchyard in Newcastle. It showed the gnomon shadow falling past midnight. I wanted to fall….

The Cannibal goes back to the window, dusk approaching, his naked body lit by the petrol blue light of a streetlamp outside.

The Boy:

I once knew a boy who had a mutilated eye. We watched Eraserhead together and laughed through the meal of uncooperative chicken and the guy sitting beside me sighed at the lady in the radiator singing her plaintive little song (in heaven everything is fine) when I looked over at him he looked puzzled. Like heaven was something that had never crossed his mind.

The Cannibal flips the corpse onto its stomach. He smiles at the noise of the dead flesh, like a wet bloody whisper.

The Boy:

I look at my reflection, which looks like it wants to look away from me. The Boy is young in the reflection and though he tries hard, desperately to hide it, emotionally affected. Cracks in the mirror look like mini crescent moons on the reflection.  There isn't a single message on my phone.

The Cannibal plays music for the corpse.

The Boy:

There are men in the alley outside my bedsit; a legion of fiends gathering together in shadow. I'll go out, it isn't that late. I could meet someone, anyone, yeah I think I will…Just for an hour…

END