Punches

Strange things struck Sean with punches from unknown corners when his mind was numbed and at the same time excited through sleep deprivation and intoxication. It swallowed, spit and shit out  primitive insecurities strung on a wire, left to dry, and then forgotten. Now dry, hard and black hanging from rusty wires, they looked like chunks of hardened pitch scraped off from the roads and put up for exhibition under the sun. The colors of the plastic clips holding the clothes, have faded. Springs have emerged from the sides, distorting the plastic. The sun has not only stolen the clothes' water and then life but also turned them into something different. Alchemy it seems. When base metals turn into gold they discard their own peasant selves to become the best version of them they could be, something warm. But you see shiny metal, now you can be worn as ornaments, used as decoration or exchanged for money, you will never be useful again. But you can smell the perfumed sweat now instead of sweaty palms awkwardly moving along your spine and swinging you into a tree bark to come to a stop in its insides and jam the upward flow of earthly juices. You can glide over the moles of the neck now and not worry about the flakes of skin that come off of the corners of the fingers and the heart of the thighs when scratched vigorously, because of mosquitoes that got inside the pants through the space between the flesh and the fabric to leave bumps. Sean's left knee touched the cold floor left after the mattress claimed its space. Punches are made of fists, not knees, no cheating!