CREATIVES

RITUALS OF THE REAL

They approach and they retreat. Here and in the distance. On this hill, the enduring pattern Can be witnessed… The sights and sounds of those Preceding and ensuing.

There is the lament that right here I am unable to remain. Duty taps gently, I cannot ignore. Yet fortune lies in the Prospect of a return.

Those existing in eons before, Could seldom gaze in awe. Or sometimes even reach this site, Where I now shiver and Reflect in twilight.

Arising now, do I, Taking one last look. Aware that I am not Departing for good.

Walking away, I am but A small figure. I reflect on rituals that Both frighten and nurture.

by Stephen Bavaro

FLIGHT FROM FANTASY

To the outdoor dance floor they proceed. The veneer of its surface. The lights hover And watch intently. Two, five, ten and more, They gravitate towards the music, Entranced… dancing, Their eyes cast at each other.

There is the temptation to Join the gathering. The music does not excite, Yet their manner of encircling Does allure.

My eyes, however, veer away. Ahead, lies the vastness. No presence of others, No music, no lights. Ambling, then shuffling Towards that empty darkness…

The sounds of those behind me fade. Isolated am I, Yet excitement also greets. Others will announce their presence, And what draws us will be real.

by Stephen Bavaro

SPAGHETTI DINNER

Come into my kitchen I have much to show you

For your excited inexperience

Is exactly what I need

I’ll teach you what I know

We will take all the ingredients

You and I And we shall make it a little saucy What do you think? I have just what we need For our hungry hearts Chop cut dice Vibrant voluptuous vegetables Stir and simmer

Add a splash of red for richness

And a splash of red for our love

Fetch a pot of water

Bubbling boiling burning yearning Stiff spaghetti submerged softens We shall wait in embrace For all the flavours to become one Try it on your tongue How does it taste? May I taste it on your lips? You taste delicious We made this You and I Let’s enjoy it together Our spaghetti dinner

by Anthea Wilson

CORRUPTION!

I.

Will you look at him, his face discernible through both windows of his car and my kitchen and coming to see me, coming to see me come, coming to come to me. Not handsome and not ugly and not particularly big or small-dicked either, yet right there, beautiful, getting out the driver door. A faint close and the headlights fade, leaving the night tangible for a moment, the summer wisp enshrouding his body for six entire seconds.

Then my house security lights him up again, beaming volatile white on his face. He smiles at the intercom camera, not knowing I’m watching from my little window stool in my oversized tee and the rippable lingerie, head on fists and smiling back.

I open the door to an embrace so tight it hurts.

“Guess who.”

“Who else could it be?”

We squeeze as if trying to take each other down: the door closes itself and the sensor lights click off again. For a moment, there’s near silence – I close my eyes to nothing but the rustling of clothes in a vulnerable backrub, sharp sips of little kisses on my neck.

Tearing myself from him, we head upstairs, legs frantic in movement; and will you look at him, it’s like he’s chasing me down in one of those pornos that cross the line. We dive into bed, get our pocket fillings and clothes asprawl on the carpet then ourselves asprawl over the sheets.

It’s not been five minutes!

The tumbling and the yanking and the giggling and the creaking and the kissing and the feeling and the fucking.

You know how it goes.

Though he never does rip the lingerie apart, and when he knocks my head on the bedframe he kisses me and apologises. In that violent dark we can’t see each other but we smile and we have fun and we get louder, and cars go by and the world turns round and the night goes on. I dab the sweat off his nose with the edge of a pillow, and we go, and go, and will you look at us – we are primitive. As life gets.

And as our energy surges upward amid our clammy flesh melded together, I have a shrieking orgasm and he climaxes like a head throb, and we fall over and pin each other down and groan and go limp.

We don’t mind the cum and sweat slicking up our bodies. We lay there in a rhythmic pant, faces indiscernible in the dark, thumbing each other’s chins and getting drowsier by the minute. We flit between the fantasy worlds of tonight’s dreams and that wisp in the summer night - outside, the world turns round, cars go by, other people have sex, the night goes on.

II.

And why can’t that be it? Why can’t it be as it could, bodies merging into one like whoever’s gods intended? Why can’t we come and go and come and go, and see each other, and fall asleep in our arms, and feel each other’s faces, swallow each other whole?

Perhaps the breaking of a hymen, innocence unwillingly lost. Perhaps sex without love, or a government dystopia, or a commentary on the patriarchy.

Maybe interracial taboo, or snarky jabs at caricature women. Maybe religious connotations. Biological essentialism. Purple prose. The contrast of lust and love.

Incest. Erectile dysfunction. Erectile dysfunction because of incest. Sex and isolation. Underage pregnancy. Subtle aggressiveness. Revenge sex.

Maybe the illegible signature of teetering disaster. Maybe symbolic links between dreary existence and the phantoms of perfect happiness. Maybe confessions of white widowed males.

Perhaps blood and broken skin and nerve-tearing agony.

by Clara Kristanda

Must it have something else?