It is pouring outside, thick thunderstorm weather, growling skies. Weather like curds of cheese left in a muslin bag to rot. I can taste the rain. I can taste the meat of the earth on the water, the soil that has soaked into the clouds. Stinking, fetid weather like all the best things; ripe. Weather that howls in guttural tones. Air that bites back.
I am eating a hunk of meat while I watch the storm. The meat is barely cooked and there is blood dribbling down my chin like I have buried my lips in a menstrual Medusa. The crust was seared on a flame so hot the guardians of hell shivered at its sight: charred and black and crumbling. It is coal. It is the crusts of lava from a weeping volcano. I let it burn my tongue. My flesh sears with the meat and the blood oozes out to coat it like redemption. I baptise the soft pink skin of my mouth with the dead meat of the beast. We are wild and feral like that afternoon on Arthur's Seat, fucking in the undergrowth, mocking the skies to take us.
Remember shouting at lightning to get the better of it; remember immortality with a wire coathanger; remember, it won't get you unless you ask it to, and to ask you have to scream.
I am screaming out the window because I am tired of the cotton warmth of downy duvet home. I think of lashes and lashing rain. Demeter is pissed off. I have lightning bolts in a drawer that were crafted from the bones of dead goats and voodoo incantations. If the neighbours complain I will smite them. Their hair will sizzle and their eyes will roll back in their heads until they can see the thoughts which swim behind the blanket. Like Lot's wife, they are not fit to handle such sights. I will lick their salt when they freeze and it will pickle the flesh around my teeth. My burnt gums will crumble like soil left to the worms. My teeth will slump in their sockets. I will end up staring at the pavement in horror and delight, wondering at the mess I have got myself into.
Barking like a fucking dog, growling like the bear that got the man's head in his teeth. I hear they were picking shards of the bear's incisors out for weeks. His skull was studded, no thoughts left in his brain that do not jangle.
I am looking at the sky and it seems bigger than me and I'm scared: too much lairy behaviour, such a loose tongue with the Gods. I know if it chose to it could lift me up with a creased tongue and scoop my remains to the cumulonimbus, toss this shaken body around its electric trampolines.
I'll bounce back.
‘I've got elastic bands for bones,’ I yell, ‘my skin is mercury, my balls scatter and reform.’
While the sky listens to me shrieking, and sighs.