By Scott Treleaven
Last night I dreamt of the three boys that were born against this age. The eldest sees only in varying shades of red, and uses the word ‘fuck’ like a spice. His aggression is the same that shakes the rabbit till it’s back breaks in the dog’s jaws; not hate, just a malicious instinct to put things out of their misery. He is unfolding, ambitious flower smelling sweet and acrid, the odour of gardenia and sweat, the meat of youth. He will have more words as his worth becomes apparent. We teach each other charmingly awful habits. Next is the boy they call Misquito ‘cos as a young Romantic he once asked an older boy to give him a few drops of his blood. Refused and heart-broken, he at least knows his name. He is resurrecting the romance of thievery, Mercury bless him, finally realizing that the thief’s trick is not to trade, but to take things away. He learns to starve people of his beauty. Maybe one day he wraps his lips around cold steel. Lastly, there is a body who is caught up in neither cause, just his love for the other two. He thinks that he is safely married into his third of the clock face (tik, tok, & boom). He cares for both his brothers, he braves being torn apart. If that happens, the boys, in bed, will split the mourning; one will wonder after him, the other will compose a requiem mass. The lights will fade. It will rain for days. the Salivation Army eats the roses, thorns and all.
the Salivation Army