Show Me the Sky - Nicholas Hogg [52]
GJ – Keep talking …
BK – Who’s not afraid of the fact she loves to fuck?
GJ – Especially you.
BK – Come here.
GJ – I’m coming.
BK – Crawl to me.
GJ – I’m crawling … Now let’s get these trousers out the way. You gonna put that guitar down?
BK – I’m gonna play while you sing.
GJ – This is singing.
BK – Fuck.
GJ – This how you like it, Barry? How you want it? Tell me, Barry. I’ll do it for you Barry … You say it I’ll do it … Believe me.
BK – Fuck … This is it. Nowhere else.
GJ – Right now.
BK – Come here. Kiss me. Take your pants off … Sit on me … Fuck… Kiss me … Fuck. You’re so fucking wet …
GJ – Oh shit … I’m staying here … for ever. You want to try and fuck me off you? Think you can?
BK – Listen.
GJ – I’m listening.
BK – No talking, just you, your body, my body, the music of sex, of us … fucking away the world.
GJ – Whatever you say, handsome.
BK – Shhhh …
GJ – Fuck … you nearly lost me there. Thought I was gonna faint … Hey …
BK – I fucking have.
GJ – Where are we?
BK – Not here … Not yet … Pass me the bottle. Fuck …
GJ – Here … Shit, that tastes good.
BK – Only this and music. Two places where it all makes sense.
GJ – Sex and singing. Could be worse… Hey, why the ban on my dirty talk? Thought you liked me getting filthy with you? Worried I was gonna get too crude? Finally shock you with something you wouldn’t do?
BK– Impossible. Anyway, you know it drives me crazy… hearing your carnal poetry. But just for once I wanted it pure and ancient, pre-language, the body-to-body slap of Mr and Mrs Stone Age going at it in a fireless cave. Her screaming orgasm no different to yours.
GJ – We got some furs on the floor, I hope?
BK – Sure, a woolly mammoth bed and some funky cave paintings.
GJ – I can see me in mammoth fur.
BK – Before language, before names for things, what’d you be wearing? Not mammoth … maybe a grunt … Music is the oldest art, the original call from soul to soul. Language dies as quickly as it’s born. New words push out the old. This recording might last thousands of years, burnt on to a disc, saved from format to format. But the language? Dying as we speak. They’ll need some professor of late twentieth-century slang to decipher this pillow talk.
GJ – Not the fucking, though?
BK – Not the fucking, the music of sex. The screaming orgasm spans time, eons. Especially the volume of yours, echoing across the millennia.
GJ – Supersonic sex.
BK – Supersonic sex … I like that. Sounds like a song, but would have to be without lyrics, nothing mortal … In Nevada, the eternally fucked desert of radiation, sculptors chisel and hammer out warning symbols, weld spikes and barbs because the word ‘Warning’ will expire … But the danger of growing a third eye, of melting into the sand, is for ever. Beyond any language of the moment …
GJ – Fuck the signs and spikes. They should pipe some ear-bursting thrash metal from the cacti … Who the fuck would get past that?
BK – Ha. The pen is mightier than the sword, but music is mightier than the pen … cool … You ever see the front row at gigs? Kids hugging the amps, bodies throbbing with the sound.
GJ – You know they’re hugging you, Billy K, not the band, not the songs … as fucking great as they are.
BK – Thought it was just Barry tonight … and anyway, his real name was something else.
GJ – Who?
BK – Who? Billy the fucking Kid, that’s who. Except he was William Bonney, they named him Billy the Kid, the lawmen and the sheriffs. If he’d hitched up his horse and walked into a saloon and introduced himself as Mr William Bonney, he’d have been lucky if the cowboys even looked up.
GJ – Nothing you can do about it. You’re the man they want, Billy K.
BK – The man? The man is here, now. They want this impossible being, beyond frailty, beyond hangovers and paranoia and puking blood, beyond mortality, taking a crap in the morning … I had some fucked-up