No. 223

LIN Zhi-Peng

Cold in my upper body, me as a living object is exhausting something, when I am exhausting something, I become a powerful something. But I am soft, even the dinosauric penis won’t be able to get hard. What I was thinking about is the morning hangover, didn’t know why but I was expressing caressing someone’s short hair. Over the humid dyke, there’s a smear of subtle blue, with old microphones screaming high notes. I stayed within the 3 to 5 hours between late night and dawn, wandering like, respectively, little Mark and old Henry, wandering among a flock of not-quite-familiar and complete strangers. I was aroused, until I was let down.
The boys with smooth skin got drunk, one after another; I almost remember that I was never like myself in another date, another time, where I embraced and kissed deeply one boy after another when they are someone else. Until the birthday song was sung in the wrong key, the pee marks that failed to aim in the toilet and the ambiguous thoughts of the boys with their hairs and skin tangled will never reach the loving-each-other conclusion. All the get-together’s have become good-bye’s.

-Excerpt from foreward.

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