The house stretched like a big turd that’s been freshly shitted from a gigantic brick
beetle and was almost 9351 km from Tibet. You were really into Buddhism, so much
so you ate dahl and planned to travel back to Tibet. One end of the house was where
your mother lived, and you were at the other. You worked for Brisbane City Council
and had just broken up with your girlfriend, her name was a ribbon-like body of
water, but it may well have been Ravine. We swallowed the dust together from
Mongolian riders, and the shape of your dick close-up made me think of these same
riders trampled underfoot in a marble frieze. I travelled far back into the past, with
the shaft of your dick in my mouth, a puppet master pivoting before your petite mort,
adopting an expression of horror as our borrowed bodies laboured in our separate
solitudes. In the night a ribbon-like body of water called you and I realised from the
tone that there was now a ravine between us. I zipped myself up, as you lied to my
face, 4am in the middle of Boondal where you told me it all ends. You had claimed so
much land already with your adventuring that I felt devastated for Tibet even more
so. I imagined a giant, but kind, dung beetle coming to roll me up. I thought about
your colony of settlers, civilisations dying on the bedsheets,
horsemen underfoot wanting a quick death, the pockets of Tibetan green obsidian
visible in my mouth, and the Yarlung Zangbo river between my legs.

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