hobart logo

June 15, 2018 Fiction

WEED MILEY

Shane Jesse Christmass

WEED MILEY photo

WEED MILEY. Come back to us Weed Miley. I plonk down on the water sofa. Weed Miley screams into the mirror. She had invited me to join them. Weed Miley talks here, I then talk. Weed Miley enters wearing a cloth nightgown. Weed Miley is panic-stricken. Weed Miley asks me my age. Weed Miley understands nothing. The atmosphere in the Gramercy Park Hotel is tomblike. Weed Miley is dressed in all-seeing silk. Weed Miley rings on the telephone. I kiss Weed Miley in the other night. Weed Miley is asleep on the sofa. Weed Miley asks me my favourite strain. I miss Weed Miley. Weed Miley shuffles the tarot cards. Weed Miley rumbles from under the bed sheets. MED. CLOSE SHOT – Weed Miley’s face light and dry, undistinguished from anxiety. Weed Miley is getting desperate. A car door slams. The Gramercy Park Hotel. CAMERA in my hand. My name is Weed Miley. I just saw 5-6 men walking as groggy toes to a chain, optic implants fall. I’m 20 floors up in the city. It’s nearly lunchtime. I perspire in the night, heavy shipping on the big seas, sexual denouement, the finale of ejaculation by drag queens, ballsacks in manicured hands, somatic sex near a repaired fence across the street from a tavern, horror out with a mouthful of grass. One may realise in a dim way that we’re no longer on the floor during the religious service. The Brandy drives with the clearness of ice, the ice drowns in the eddy of the East River Weed Miley holds an old man’s shotgun bag. Twenty people approach the entrance to the Gramercy Park Hotel. Weed Miley appears in front of me. Weed Miley walks in. Weed Miley touches her skin, her tongue hanging out. Weed Miley gurgles. The ends of Weed Miley’s hair thoroughly frightened. I think Weed Miley is losing her mind. Weed Miley and I exchange cold, black looks. I’m thinking of living at the Gramercy Park Hotel for good. I walk through St. Nicholas Park. Inside a public city toilet. Small rooms, but room after room. Weed Miley is down at the loading dock. Weed Miley dealing in body parts and ESP. My eyes upon the decaying bed sheets. Weed Miley drives around in her limousine. Weed Miley stands up, presses against brutal ideas. I push the door open. Weed Miley’s legs. Weed Miley and the passers-by. Weed Miley parodies the metal and machines. Weed Miley pounds on my wall. I head for the ground floor. Weed Miley’s voice fills the stairwell. Weed Miley moves slow. Lights a cigarette. I spread my hands across the table. I crack my neck. Joy drains from Weed Miley’s face. Relics of my mistrust for Weed Miley. Weed Miley shrugs. Her face frozen. The porter washes the hotel’s laundry in the river as well. Weed Miley shuts her suitcase. Weed Miley looks grateful. Weed Miley leaves her umbrella behind. Weed Miley thrusts two telegrams toward me. Weed Miley is behind the desk. Weed Miley snatches the motherboard. Weed Miley wears a Wonderbra and some Wranglers. The patient is Weed Miley. Weed Miley has stolen a fortune from the basement vault of The Gramercy Park Hotel. Weed Miley rocks her head, back and forth, back and forth. I never understood Weed Miley. Weed Miley communicates with mirrors and daylight. Wounds designed by Louis Vuitton fester upon Weed Miley’s body. Weed Miley is in her hotel room. Weed Miley sips on her Nescafe. I watch Weed Miley through the balcony railing. DISSOLVE TO: Old man’s legs. More men in perfume. Weed Miley rises from her chair. Weed Miley’s fingertips, her cigarettes lift above her knees. Joralemon Street Tunnel as a portal for time travel. Weed Miley seeks out coveralls in my wardrobe. Weed Miley carries a basket of fresh-cut intestines. Spinach with a peppery flavour. The girl speaks Latin. Braised meats for the poorer people. Mild forms of natural selection. Meat from animals slaughtered in the autumn. They found me behind the Burger King hunched, draped in newspaper, sunburnt. I needed a hospital. Never-ending space research programs with unattainable targets lumber on. Disarmament programs corrupted so they never succeed. Social welfare programs take the form of a military draft. Mysterious police forces that have indefinable jurisdictions and sovereignty. Plants and factory lines that produce technological advancements. Modern slavery. Viperous enemies, also fictitious enemies. Military enabled to tackle environmental calamity. Weed Miley stands up, sticks cigarettes into her belt. Weed Miley drowns in clammy bathwater. Weed Miley makes a note to remove her personal calls from my final bill. Weed Miley pushes the beds into the street. Hotel guests orders white wine and seltzer on room service. Porters drop carafes of water. Weed Miley climbs the staircase. Next stop is Battery Park. Weed Miley’s mouth is clay. Weed Miley feels around in the dark. Porters case the lobby. I limp across the lobby. Weed Miley inhales solvents. I have a three-day beard. Weed Miley is slippery. Membranes and arteries picked from Weed Miley’s bladebone. Weed Miley’s hands are flimsy, burnt and blistered. Weed Miley stands out of her chair. She picks me up. Weed Miley yells at Canal Street.  person buckle-fucking like a rodeo horse. Hot Dogs look greasy. Plus they’re too expensive. Surprises in the Bratwurst. Milk bottles by the gas canisters next to the food cart. A tow bar stuck in the mud. Porcelain jugs on a wooden trestle table. Gingham tablecloth beneath the porcelain jugs. Enriching, yet expensive alcohol, imported from Portugal. Apple bobbing in a mixture of barley and sleet. I drink a cup, the worst cider ever, however a rich source of nourishment for the cattle hands. Per year, how many deaths from car accidents are acceptable within a society? Lambs put to death in the slaughterhouse. Slow-moving, yet fresh fish pulled from the East River. Food prices soar. Food shortages spark new diets. People come to the rodeo to salivate, not to watch prize-winning rope tricks. Red face paint smudged in the ochre dirt. Weed Miley sits on a stack of People magazines. Changes in people’s anatomy. NASA studies food products. Amoebas from Mars found in vegetable matter. The future will have visual differences from what we currently see. Bonfires heaving into the twilight air. The warmth from the snapping flames. Complex global supply chains. Vegetable dishes raw or cooked. Stetson hats. Grease traps passing through the New York Post. Existence alternating as alien. I can’t work anymore. Footsore. Hungry. Thirsty. I shake my head. Weed Miley smiles. She takes out a pocket book. A gang of children in East River Park. I would love this. I wave my cigar to the bookcase. Medical condition that makes me bad at work. I can’t work. Can’t breathe. Ecstatic. Anxiety rising. Weed Miley always talks about ESP. I have no interest in utilising my total experience. Abnormalities washed upon the shore at Fukishima. The person has parapsychology (PSI) effects. Scientists in laboratory provide the flowers in your dustbin.  Person dissects entire populations from her birthplace.  Person at the Hollywood Star Walk. First star goes out to the LAPD Hollywood Division. A statue on the dashboard of the Virgin Mary. Weed Miley tosses the statue onto the Trans-Manhattan Expressway. A South African Airways flights ascends through cloud and lands at Newark. The person has come to pick up the passengers. Airplane wings and sunbeams glaring. Eclipse. Hudson River. Clouds stained with MAC Lipstick – colour classified as ‘Velvet Teddy’. Silence today. East River on the waters of the sky. Starlight. Luggage buried 15000 feet under the cement of the FDR Drive. Roofs over Little Italy. Other cities. Passport stamps. Custom officers with handguns.  Person talks at length. Paralysis. Dewdrops. Far edges of the horizon. I’m in seat 7D. Slugging backpack into the duty-free. Bitter oxygen in the airport lounge. A man screaming. His lungs imploding. A dismal day. Nothing behind the automatic doors. Wealth and alchemy. Cave dwellers prickling on The East River has burst its banks. A perpetual war on the streets of Manhattan. Weed Miley is our narrator. It is unclear the reasons why Weed Miley is present as this unfolds. Weed Miley works in an office cubicle, but continually blacks out when her manager walks past. People holed up in the Gramercy Park Hotel. Hollywood celebrities check in to survive. Weed Miley runs the hotel’s operation. Weed Miley stumbles around 14th Street. CLOSE SHOT OF WEED MILEY’S FACE. I am in the lobby bar. Weed Miley spies me as she walks across the lobby toward the elevators. Weed Miley does not smile. Weed Miley has another question. Broken windows in the lobby bar. Weed Miley refuses to offer any assistance. I walk into the living room. Weed Miley must make it to her room. I curse Weed Miley. On my side, curled up with stomach cramps. Weed Miley wouldn’t leave me like this. Coveralls shining. Grease smeared on leg. Arms grey with dirt. Sleet rain outside. I pause. Morningside Heights. A blur of grey/orange. Toxic urine splashed against the urinal. Cab drivers in the taxi rank on 96th Street. They sit quietly, thinking of nothing. A wardrobe of women’s clothes. The afternoon. Weed Miley leaves me. Weed Miley beside the wooden kitchenette. Weed Miley behind glass doors. Weed Miley wearing a thin leather belt. Weed Miley drinking instant coffee. Weed Miley eating toast. Weed Miley drains the milk pot. Weed Miley as body welts on my back. Weed Miley as deep fury. Weed Miley as silent stares. Weed Miley as the convenience store worker. Weed Miley as inarticulate mistakes. Weed Miley as America. Weed Miley as mouth. Weed Miley as strange technical jargon. Weed Miley as childhood home. Weed Miley creeps by the chewing gum rack. Weed Miley as a taxi driver. Weed Miley driving the plumber’s van. Weed Miley as the cops. Weed Miley in the medicine cabinet. Weed Miley as someone. Weed Miley as the landlord’s moustache. Weed Miley as the car doors. Weed Miley as the house keys. Weed Miley in the back room. Weed Miley as my tiresome voice. Weed Miley behind movable sun. She realises she must’ve started rearranging the chairs somewhere. A dog barks. Weed Miley seems strangely unable to continue. I fall on my knees. Shudders and convulsions. From the taxi driver assures me, he can guarantee my escape from LAX. I flew. the different parts face of Weed Miley’s body. Bones as sleep, air-conditioned sleep, interrupted by mosquitoes. Soldiers drag the dead over smouldering newspapers. I finish four beers in the lobby bar. It’s two in the morning. Weed Miley shrugs. Weed Miley freezes. Bomb through the plate-glass window. Weed Miley’s hand in her coat. She spits out compliments / cranberry juice. I am look at my watch. I look mammal. I bleed in my gloves. Each individual from a trace of hesitation. The night’s a single grain of sand. Weed Miley is next to us now. She wears newly-purchased clothes. She snaps at me. Pictures. Weed Miley looks at the drawings I assemble on the staircase. Weed Miley standing curious in a Yeezus negligee. I’m in a silk dressing gown. My body since antiquity, my fingers. Pressed hair parts. Door knobs in an envelope. Blood over woollen gloves. Hollow genitals and ginseng. Drug substance into semen residue. New York streets. Weed Miley chuckles. Points a finger is. Life stubbed out by revolvers. The buildings outside. It’s day. Weed Miley’s chest. A peculiar silence hangs over car. Weed Miley smiles. Her body into the twilight. Her body to attract warmer temperatures. I gather shade at the back clouds. Shade-covered pornographic pictures sticky-taped to Weed Miley’s chin.  From the fourth floor, I the wallpaper. Sleeping, but then staying outside. Weed Miley’s body. Garage beneath gymnasium. Five separate people within my body. Upper eye dilates. K-Mart in body bags. U.S. currency on the motorway. Weed Miley in shitty denim. I'm undressing. I am to collect me. Hearing is dead inside. Money exchange at LAX. Weed Miley leans out the window. The roads. Weed Miley arrives in a limousine. A shopping bag full of handwritten notes. Tonnes of ideas and patents. I trust no one. Surface noise. Weed Miley ordered to repay me. She wipes her mouth with my shirt collar. Pictographs under the overpass. Letterings androgynous and slapstick. A grove full of abandoned buildings. A woman runs through the traffic lights. Sine waves and sawtooth buzzes at immeasurable levels. Weed Miley outside the restaurant. Freeways all abandoned, rusted. Restaurant menus littered on the bathroom floor. Off-ramps, overgrowths and alleyway. The stench of tenements all firebombed. Windows propelled, streaming shards. The deep fury of psychic smells. Weed Miley covered in wet shroud. The bus door opens. The bus lurches into the partial world. Rasping noises from within Weed Miley. Her photo identification. Her cell phone. Sex and she is at it. Graffiti written on toilet stall. Her body and bus stop. A hidden supermarket. Broken pylons and skateboarding. Automobiles and golf carts. Canned fish. Police officers against streetlamp. Weed Miley gulps. Her wristwatch ticks. The woods are water-logged, sodden, rotting. Nose and mouth. The street like a hallway. Cars speeding without headlights. Decomposition swelling inside Weed Miley’s body. She feels like a pest. She spends my money. Sweat pores and geometry. At the back of the bus. Weed Miley in a putrescent jacket, her limp and grease-affected hair peak. The flopping smell of the street. Apparitions and water-logged skin. Tanned feet. Urine-neglected constructions. Tiny locusts buzz the sunrise. The scabby bone of Weed Miley. Thick mud on her pants. She sits in an unsound chair. A Mickey Mouse cartoon on the television set. Hepatitis C injected into my forehead. CUT TO: INTERIOR: the cracked window. Not much left of Weed Miley’s time on this planet. Bruises on her wrists. Her pupils pushed back into her brain. Dirt on a hard-boiled beach. Lightning burst. Smoke hollering. Dead to Weed Miley’s walk. Smoke. Fires smouldering. I’m standing in the gutter. Bouncing up in NYC. Eternally rundown. Redecorating from a magazine. Sneaking to the southern side of the hospital. Unfurled phone conversations. Weed Miley looks at the window. I’m in the gutter that’s closer to her apartment. A car on the sidewalk. Sun lamps for sale on the street. Scabby and Weed Miley means no harm. North America exhales. Cool water underfoot. A door opens. The transplanted organs inside Weed Miley. Levitation as a Disney art. Hypnotic Braille. Downtown smells like a wet canine. Weed Miley’s grubby ankles. Cigarettes and desirous shit. The afternoon commuter service. Spires waxed with a wet appraisal. Weed Miley pats a baby. She scratches her coatings. She is never chubby. She is cigarette-chomping. She sizes me up. She is poured-out and she brings the sun. Weed Miley is barefoot. She stands on lightbulbs. I stay late into the bottomless night. Tobacco on my lips. Intermission. Advertisements in time. Sun-starched to speech. Perfume around Weed Miley’s neck. I am buried alive. Car stereo bought for a $1.50. Weed Miley is now one of those left behind. Shoes sidestep sludge and dank puddles. The sea is wild. A chair next to an eyeball full of answers. A bunch of flowers Pharmacist catalogues on the back seat. Glitz, glint, glistening on one leg, lifting her pant leg. Weed Miley right behind against me. Someone grabs someone and sneezes. Liquor in her gut. Bottles travel through paste. Spit balls in my smile. People drowning. Weed Miley rests in cabs, trucks, lonely little vessels. Her fingertips. Weed Miley has to catch a bus. Legs soiled from dirt sidesteps. Light years pass. I’m at a weight-loss camp. Centuries forgotten. Weed Miley has decayed. Fat men make observations about the weight of other fat men. Tinnitus in my ear. The helmet hair, the blonde hair of Weed Miley. Ocean breeze on her long face. Grubby sidewalk. I look through the basement windows. My hands in a plastic bag. Weed Miley smells of sick dreams. Nerve-endings choked in hen shit. Evening mantled in magnificent sunset.  Inside the upper floor of the motel. Weed Miley and I hanging out on 7th Avenue. Dark brown meat within a global dust storm. Dental implants removed from my throat with forceps. Weed Miley’s cocaine addiction. Weed Miley wears green leather. She reclines on an armless chair. Budweiser stored in the water fountain.

image: Carabella Sands


SHARE