three cheers
November 7, 2012

by Elexa Rose

 

three cheers for the individual
that spray painted giant genitalia
on the side of the bus shelter
that i stand underneath every single day.
never before have i seen a pair of bollocks
not only large than my head
but also at the same height.
i can peek through their outline
like a porthole
or a frame for the rest of the world.

three cheers for the individual
that smoked a blunt behind the lecture block.
that small space near the bins
that i use as a short-cut to keep on time.
now everyone can do the same.
i couldn’t have hoped to spread the word
more thoroughly.

and three cheers for the kid who first yelled
FUCK IT.
and we did.
because without that kid i guess i would care more
about every ball sack i see
and every red-eyed stoner
and every walk of shame through the corridor.
fuck it, none of us care any more.

Golden Syrup
May 3, 2012

by Elexa Rose

my chest is lined with golden syrup
turned pink by the touch of my blood
i breathe in hard
the walls of my lungs
stick together
wrapped around my heart and
the veins going in and going out
it's solidifying
grabbing
a rich golden fist
it trickles out of my ears and nose
clogs my tear ducts
there are lumps in my throat
you can feel them if you press
on my neck
my sweat gets stuck
my voice is a thin husk
as i heave and swell
and burst slowly
still slowing.

Helmet
November 23, 2011

Flash fiction, because people don’t accept it as a concept.

When my Father died he left me his helmet. It sits on the top shelf in my wardrobe, snug in between a box of newspaper clippings and some shoes that I only wear on special occasions, over the slightly diagonal pole that my clothes hung from, sliding slightly to the left. To be honest, I’d forgotten about it for a good few years until today. It was only because my friend – boyfriend – had asked me about it today.

“I wouldn’t have you put down as a motorcycle kind of girl,” he said curiously. I’m not a motorcycle kind of girl. Mostly, I ignored his comment. We were in a rush anyway, and I couldn’t find my new fur coat, I got it half price.

We left once the taxi arrived, tonight he was taking me to see Phantom of the Opera; he’d surprised me with the theatre tickets about a month ago, though I’d been dropping hints for a while. Still, it was a nice gesture, comparably. On our way he continued to question me of the apparently strange contents of my wardrobe.

“What were all those bits of newspaper for?” He asked in a more interrogatory manner. I lied and said that they were food articles, fancy deserts, decorations ideas for cupcakes, strangest ice cream flavours from around the world. I knew this would start him off on another speech about how good food is like ‘great sex’ and the way it can really ‘change the world’, how great cooking can make you a ‘better person’. He was too zealous to realise that I was interesting in the blurred lights of the traffic.

Once we arrived I lit up a cigarette, he sighed,

“We’ll miss the beginning.” His voice had gone stern now. I took a long drag. He knew we weren’t going to miss anything. It was just one of those things that he said. Like when I order rump steak at a restaurant instead of the chicken salad, he’ll always say something along the lines of,

“You won’t regret it if you order the healthier option.” Though we both knew that the piles of crisp cut vegetables was not going to make me ‘feel as good inside’ (as he would put it) as the medium rare slab of meat would.

As we stood in the cold air outside the theatre entrance, I watch the road. A few black cabs rolled up that dropped off more attractive couples than us. The men with more expensive, fitted suits and carefully groomed stubble. The women more curvaceous, doing a marvellous balancing act on glamorous stilettos. Though, just before we went inside, to take our seats, a roaring motorcycle parked up front. A slightly larger, middle aged man unmounted the bike, and pulled off a helmet that was identical to the one in my wardrobe. As he walked past I said to him,

“I like your helmet.” He smiled and nodded in acknowledgement before disappearing through misted glasses doors.

Ever since then, that helmet has been in all of my thoughts, and I can’t put my finger onto why.

Fall
October 23, 2011

by Elexa Rose
 
Greens and burnt oranges
Are counting the gasps
Of air we take
In this cold, bitter hour.
 
Cracks from all the trees
And broken branches
Crisp and crunch
Beneath our steps.
 
Your pace is slowing
Looking out to sea
Though we’re far, so far
From the comfort of the harbour.
 
The crackle of the radio
Buzzes out.
Your eyes are deft and slight
In the diminishing light.
 
The end of the road
Is in sight, finally.
We’re all concentrating on it,
Even these dying trees.
 
Even these dying trees
Can feel the tension
Can feel my thoughts
And you look at me like fresh meat.