Water waste hiss against porcelain, a wooden fence,
a statue’s foot, an office pot plant, a stranger’s mouth.
I’m not here to kink shame, only to reimagine
small town trauma as camp southern gothic theatre.
With my thick stream, I am the last authentic foley artist.
I fry bacon to mimic rain, I rattle sheet metal
and conjure thunder, I bang coconuts
as our protagonists trot into this two-horse town,
two boys for the horses, pigweed streets, bacon swells,
it’s pissing down, but dry inside the country pub,
wine barrel tables, bare-knuckle stools, some stormy lads
at the bar, sinking piss, crushing cans in cyclone fists,
they make eyes at our boys: broke, no pot to piss in,
unlike these meaty good-time jackals, they chuckle,
call the boys lovers, call them broken, tell them
to piss off, get on their way, the boys stay, getting pissed
off. Cut to later, in the bathroom, our boy finds a jackal
alone now, jeans unzipped, holding his
weight, shifting against the urinal wall. I prepare
the props for the confrontation, pre-shattered
glass bottles, records to scratch, but there is nothing,
and more nothing. I have nothing to mimic
body tremors and averted eye contact, gaze locked
on a steady flow, rancid mist on a grate, the nothing
before a wet paw slaps the boy’s back
and says, relax mate, I was just taking the piss.
Our boy clenches. I panic, drop everything,
break a plate for the shattered face, sheet metal burns,
bacon rattles, horses clap in the distance.