“Are you there, my friend? Are you around the place, sitting?”
Benbo growls, all caustic off his face.
Hungry and willing.
A wasted guy, a desperate cause.
Catch him. Keep him.
Despite his obvious flaws.
“Are you there? Is there a signal? Do you love me?”
“Is there a signal?”
The names are the same, remain so, despite the distance.
A million kilometres and what names?
The singular, his name for her, his name for him, his name by them.
His name by her.
“Do you love me? Like I love you? Is there a signal?”
He felt like a goalkeeper by trade,
A division above the workers.
Is there a signal?
Boy Benbo growls, all caustic and fierce fit for grace.
Off his face, barred away, like a summer nun sinner bricked up.
Attached like a stamp to his envelope of hope, the signal.
The phone is bleeding internally.
His friend was going to play cards.
But the party moved away and now she’s got nothing left to do.
“Fuck it, this is dull as Benbo in his self-sorrow
“I’ll deal with it all tomorrow.”
She looks at the view and thinks of Benbo’s predictability.
Needy and urgent, like a modern myth of politeness gone mad.
Now, lying in his wheelhouse, B…Benbo stakes his need.
He wins! Galore! Galore! Glue all in all the victory rolls.
Love’s stinking bathos is forgotten!
This signal, his weed.
But real Benbo floats inside, the calculus of cancer sticks deep,
Red and white inside his pocket as the cash stacks and attacks.
Revolting revelator revealing loss.
I love you. Take a leap.
Fuzzy fuck-fuck music resolves his stagger home.
He leans, with the winnings against a lit lampost.
“This is mine!” he screams, lost.
“This is mine!”, a ghost.
“I’ll get to it tomorrow, maybe, after walking with breakfast inside.”
She’s going to be at his side,
As the catheters slide down, dripping.
The cardboard, their beds on the beach,
Will never be retrieved.
“It’s mine. Where’s the signal?
“This remote, remote control switching galorious twitching.
“I’ll deal with it tomorrow”.
She brushes her teeth and chooses a book,
Descending the stairs, she saves Benbo by a look
At the picture she kept of the cardboard, framed, like the signal.