From where I'm sitting, in the 10:30 twilight,
palm fronds mock cathedral arches.
And cherry-chlorine vapours play like fireflies, 
beamed up an indifferent street light. 

Lindsay Taylor, in her one piece glory,
lies belly-down on blue mesh beside me.
Forearm pressed against warm Rothko makeup,
the bug eyes she never grew into,
the blue hair she’s growing out to black.
There’s mono pulsing on her lips 
like the speaker in my left ear,
playing some poor DJ's faint heartbeat.

And I'm entranced by the meth head opposite me. 
Is that starving torso ribbed for her pleasure?
Or maybe just by his. 
Best not to ask.

Now I poke Lindsay Taylor awake. 
I bought four backwoods, for four hours of fun,
though we’re both unemployed. 
And we both can’t drive,
so we walk to the party.
The house resembles Waco, Texas. 
We like watching the days lock lips and pass on. 
We’re gone with breaking light, walking barefoot.
Lindsay Taylor drags a toenail on cement, 
it makes blood. 

She curses in her first language, 
because it’s more visceral,
and that worries me. 
Has Lindsay ever really felt what she said,
in the language that I understand?

Angus is 17 years old and is a novice writer from Toronto.