Face / Trains / Mythology / Flaneur 𝑏𝑦 Brandon Freels

Face / Trains / Mythology / Flaneur 𝑏𝑦 Brandon Freels

Face

For you, I googled how to write a eulogy. I never sleep anymore. At night, I hang out at rock piles and train yards. I piss in gravel. Under streetlights, the urine resembles your silhouette. Can a face just be a face? I got my first hemorrhoid in this town. When I wiped my ass it felt like a tiny blood balloon. Have you ever seen this movie? We watched a VHS copy of Face/Off. You hit pause when John Travolta said, “What a predicament.” Now that I’m living alone, I worry that I’ll die in my sleep (like you). Every morning I rip the sheets off my mattress to avoid going back to bed. Self-defense is self-love. I try to write nice things but the words come out wrong. We walk to the black house. Instead of a doorbell, it has an anal star.

 

Trains

A dude on the platform farts and it echoes throughout the entire subway station. Two trains collide like hard drives syncing. I suppose I was dead for a minute. True or false? I can’t relate to these markers. Stop or go? Is this train moving at all? I love those moments when the lights flicker off and you can only see darkness outside the window. I think an albino boy is floating above the train. He’s wearing a conductor’s hat and his body glows. I watch the boy touch the third rail and his body goes up in smoke (a witch on a pyre). Does the afterlife leave an aftertaste? This train moves vertically. It goes up. Plastic bags lurch down the subway platform like black cats. I can’t seem to wash this glitter off my skin.

 

Mythology

I’m intolerant to god’s milk. I like to think it has another purpose. If I shove my head in his holes will I find out what it is? To make the myths you have to leave your house, but what if all your nice clothes are covered in mold? Despite the odds, I’m still alive. Despite the odds, I’m still alive (inside). On my gravestone it will read: the vacation is over. This milk is god’s last desperate act.

 

Flaneur

A baby is born in a coffin. The first thing I say to it: give up. I’ve walked various streets for six hundred years and never asked anyone to smile. At midnight I forget where I am. In my backpack there are six-hundred stick of dynamites. I can only sleep when my body blows up and brains stick to the ceiling. One way to heal is to hurt. I try to see myself in the mirror but can’t.