skater

He wants cat girls. Impractical.
It’s not even Halloween. But, well, everything’s just an excuse for minimal clothing. Or excess, like, of everything.
But cat girls. Hell yeah.
There’s no such thing as a girl who can keep up with him, so why not just use up a million, cozy, girls and pretend they’re one? I mean they’re all superheated and congeal into one superhot girl, at least in his head. She isn’t that thin. She’s totally magic, glitter paws, tiara.
Yeah. A cat girl.

He found a shirt on the internet.
Premium. Gold foil, brown, premium.
He doesn’t know how much 60 euros is.

Skate war.
Their tall tees are like sails. They sync to totally raw beats.
Outside feels good, though. A small star heats them up. They holster the breeze between their legs.
When he jumps, it’s grace. His bangs rivet, his arms spread so far. His feet leave the board. He could have hover boots. A flash flood of dreaminess.
This, to girls, is why he can tuck so much bread away. They’re totally robbed, obsessed. His two front teeth brush his bottom lip.
Where are his parents?

They climb into his bed. He’s shirtless, lips tucked into a bong.
Their shirts: volleyball team sweater, a piece of fruit saying something ironic, Hello Kitty pawing at nothing, and a cracked plate. He breathes on their cheeks, and they fog up like windows.
His room is a golden rectangle. His sheets smell like a boy who doesn’t take enough showers. They tug on his hair. He lays back and is undressed.
There’s no sound except a small rustling, and a fan which doesn’t cool anything but makes a very convincing fan-like noise.

He jumps on his bed while smoking a grape Phillie.
He is naked, sans socks, been up all night drinking. God peers into his window via moonlight. God gives him a dream that’s a signal. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t care. He punches a hole in the wall. He dances by himself and cuts his wrist barely. He kicks a TV in and chews the calluses off of his fingers. He throws water on the ceiling of his shower and pretends he’s in a cave. He throws his head into the tile. His blood enters the grout. He throws his cellphone and doesn’t care where it lands. He wants to buy a gun. He wants hire a writer to say the things he’s too sloshed to organize. He points his finger at himself in the mirror. He intimidates himself. He disgusts himself.
He screams and rolls over.
He has a stenographic consciousness.

He sits down with a strange cat, calls it a name and throws money at it.
This is a vacation.

He’s out by the park, Newport in a familiar niche, friends.
They watch Mexican boys practice a dance routine. It’s decidedly lame. The song would be half-alright if it was in English. It’s about respect. He can’t tell.
They skate back and forth across the pavilion. They puff trees until the blue sky is a pale rotoscope of the blue sky. Christmas trees, they say, laughing. It’s so fucking summer.
He tries to do something complicated with his feet in the air. It’s all wrong.
He has an idea for a party. They mull it over. They can’t decide on any specifics, sans cat girls.

People look at him,want to know why he smokes and looks at everything that resembles a wall like it deserves to be stripped and punctured. He can't say, but it's so obvious.
One-hundred million kids are waking up each day to realize that true love didn't spawn them. He flips a trashcan on its back.

Don't try to relate.