Robbie was here ‘84 Flick of a thin folded foreskin, a ring of rubber peeled, turning, curving, splaying and spraying a stream of steaming urine to splash like flax against the foothills of grimy snow, stacked and compacted along the long sides of the never ending highway to nowhere, as ‘Jesus, kid! Hurry up and get back in the fuckin’ truck!; the pinching smell of rubber catching gravel, flecks flying from spinning wheels, pea-sized stones spattering the snow like bullets from a semi, obliterating the painstaking whorls and curls of ‘Robbie’ etched in one long arc of piss; it is the finest work you’ve ever done, your reach increased, a tiddler’s cock no longer now you are finally breaking voice, dropping balls, spouting and sprouting and almost big enough to smack back, brothers, bullies, older boys and all the other ball-bearing bastards that roll through, roll over, roll round and round, a merry-go-round of fiddlers shaking dicks like magic sticks, backs bent, groins out, worshippers of their own erections. Robbie was here ‘21 Dick pale and limp as a dead fish, squeezing out with bloody piss, gritting, grinding pain, the vexatious cry of ‘Robert, not again!’ – but you can’t bend down to clean the floor through the scald of snaking pain, although God knows you have tried and it seems a foreign thing to you now, a prehistoric invertebrate, all grey flesh and no backbone and it galls to think of all the early morning stiffies, the wild, unchecked rush of semen exploding in single beds, on girls’ legs, thudding into hot sand, hot sheets, dark streets, the dozen willing, wilful wombs you’ve worked your wayward youth through, not to mention two wives, three children and one miscarriage. You still sign the floor with piss, but now it’s by accident.
Adele Rickerby lives and writes in Heidelberg, Germany. She is currently studying an MSt in Creative Writing at Cambridge University.