She glitters. Out on the horizon. Set off by the sun sinking softly. Clouds spitting, a spray of tangelo, ruby-red, and crimson – all thick and fat and fighting; excited and busted, gushing, broken-open, lusting. Biting one another. All over that fuck-off smash of a sky. Ship of death, ship of doom, leaking shit. A lanolin smear. A urine cloud. Hanging hot. Hanging heavy. Smudge of stillness. In the port.
iii: You were so cold, he said, that day I saw you. I lay on a mattress on the floor, and watched him dance like a miracle. Taut black back, tattooed and twisting. Hips swiveling.
iv: Speeding through a morning’s dark, sharing sugary coffee. Toward the water we were always hurtling. Hurling ourselves. For waves. For fish. For life. For the stars. To the stars we span.
v. Surprise visits and soft-lipped kisses from another lautan asmara. Milky chance I stole her dance. Just a boy to go bump in the night with.
sunlight clicks through the gums that rattle in the wind, and the river shivers at the chill that turns and drops in the afternoon. And so, we run and we rush towards the sea, to the water, which, glinting like an over-exposed photo, too much light, too much light my friend, makes us wobble with joy. And the men glowing black and silhouetted in the sun pound the waves in the water there.
Caught up in your net, Mr. My hands on your hips as I scale you. My lips on your neck, and my thumbs in your gills as I kiss you. That day we ate the sunset light, and later one another. The ocean glowing silver. A hook through both our hearts. You reeled me in, all tangled up. Still got it for ya, Mr.
The swell is small and fat. No-one’s heading out except those who don’t know any better, yet. The rest of us lay low. Waiting. Itching. Villagers slake the dust on the road but it kicks up its heels in the back of our throats. And it dances. In the light. And settles on the skin of impossibly thinnnnn brown bodies jutting out of colourful sarongs. Bakso, martabak, terang bulan. Riding pillion up a mountain. A long-lost but welcome cold. Stopped by a downpour and a sore, numb butt. Soft kisses on my forehead. Chanting rises up, and floats over the village, as I sit on a porch in a blackout. Smothered by the heat and the stars that are prickling by the ripple of a waxing crescent moon. Mosquito fogging. Spicy corn on the cob. The swell kicks in as it does. And we dance. Along the waves. Under the sun. And they glisten. And they sparkle. All perfection.
Boat slides up on the sand (as it does); a smooth and slick fat tide, a knife through butter, a prow through water, sand crunching. Boards stacked, legs leap, bodies hunch. Eyes peer out into the night, as we fly under the sky, across the sea, through the stars, towards the waves, that will loom. And that will carry us, carry us, carry us to shore, in the dark of night. Into the warm, inky water we slither, quiet. All legs and arms a gangle. And hustle, muscle, tussle on our way, towards the waves, peeling through the night. Not a crowd, nor a light, save the moon, in sight.
Yesterday, I had one of the best surf sessions I’ve had since I’ve been here. It wasn’t the best quality wave; it was small, and the wind was nipping across the surface of the water, but only a few of us were out. And we surfed until after the sun set, and the purple and gold sheen of light that had spread out across the surface of the water, melted down and away and into night. We paddled back in through the channel, rocks looming spooky either side of us. And ran home, arms aching, in the dark.
Again, this morning; running down the road in the dark, towards the water. A wet rashie. The water biting. In the dark, glassy ocean, floating. Glowing pink at sunrise. A fisherman’s boat, sky-blue and racing, rides in on the calm to check pots, and back out to beat the sets, and over the lip of a wave prow upright, a salutation to the sky, white water crumbling all around us.