Thursday, 6 April 2017


Bad Girl’s got a dick silhouette in tight white jeans. Bad Girl don’t care. We take a trip to the lake out of town, sticking dinosaurs in all the subway doors. U8 gets the T Rex, U7 the Steg, but it’s the Ring that really wins: Velociraptors all the way down.

This started out as a love story. This started out about the twitch of flesh in denim, have you ever seen anything so magnificent? It is a million snowglobes stuffed with damp pink rose petals, a leopard in flames, tiaras in the oilslick at dusk.

I would sink a machete in the shagflesh of mammoths, I would slay the meteor with one flat palm, if it meant a replay of the dicktwitch before dinner. Before we suck out garlic snails and dunk into the lake’s popsicle blue.

In the subway car, I whisper smutfilth in Bad Girl’s ear. I am a bad influence and a hot commodity and a witch with puppeteer’s spells. I say things that make the dinosaurs blush—even Clever Girl, even after all that she’s done.

The meteor misses earth by less than the width of Glasgow. They say the mammoths will be resuscitated, but that’s not my concern. I am practicing tongue magic on Bad Girl’s neck. Bruises bloom like flowers in my mouth.

Bad Girl won’t stand up in the station. Bad Girl squirms, says her shirt’s too short, she shouldn’t have worn these jeans. I am triumphant. We keep riding, throats thick with giggles. Sooner or later, the Ring’ll take us back where we belong.

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