land/horses
Horses, horses, horses, horses,
Coming in in all directions,
White shining silver studs with their nose in flames.
Land – Patti Smith
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1
There’s a full moon in the sky and Tom’s entire street is lit up by it. He’s lying on the bit of roof that sticks out next to his bedroom window wearing only his underpants. It’s a little after midnight and the cool wind brushes over his body. Tom arches his back and rubs his hands up his torso. When he presses firmly against his skin, he can feel his bones, floating around just under the surface. He traces his ribs up his side, like piano keys, pressing on each of them, gently, in turn. He begins to hum softly, bringing the sound up from inside him, his entire body resonating against the cooling terracotta tiles.
Inside Tom’s bedroom, the needle on an old record player drops and the machine creaks into action. There’s the familiar sound of static before piano notes begin to spill out of the window. The tips of Tom’s fingers come alive.
Why you wanna fly, blackbird?
You ain't ever gonna fly.
No place big enough for holding
all the tears you're gonna cry.
When Tom’s grandmother died, his father was charged with the task of cleaning out her house. Tom found a crate of old Nina Simone records in the skip, which his father had tossed aside. He now keeps the records hidden in a box under his bed.
The wind has turned cold and Tom can feel his skin begin to tighten against it. By now his fingers and toes are like bits of porcelain, and each exhalation forms a little cloud in front of his face. He enjoys this, feeling the blood move from his extremities towards his middle, as if bit by bit his body is shutting itself down. The song floats over and around him, and he breathes it in with every breath.
The dog next door barks loudly into the night, staccato, and the sound echoes around the quiet street. When he was young he spent his afternoons at his grandmother’s house, spreadeagled on her living room floor, surrounded by records. He would lie there and study the pictures, tracing his fingers over the faces of artists long since dead. Nina Simone was his grandmother’s favourite, and she would play Tom her songs as he stared at her picture, her dark, dimpled cheeks wet with tears and sweat, her face and body contorted so she looked like a wounded animal.
Tom’s heart beats hard and fast in his chest as the song reaches its climax and his body writhes, illuminated by the moonlight. The song ends, and the needle lifts, settling back in its cradle. Tom’s heart rate slows and his breathing returns to normal.
After a time, he sits up, carefully peeling himself off the roof. His ample flesh has melted into the grooves of the tiles. Stepping through the open window and back into his room, Tom draws the curtains behind him. The smell of incense is heavy, and the only light in the room comes from the bedside lamp. It casts deep shadows across Tom’s face. His eyes retreat into their sockets and his cheeks are hollow.
Tom stands in front of his wardrobe mirror, naked, and stares at his white body. Running his fingers along his torso, he plays dot-to-dot with the moles that trace their way up his side, starting somewhere near his hip and ending in the tuft of hair under his arm. Long bony fingers pass over his ribs, visible when he sucks his stomach in, and when he presses down he can hear soft notes coming from somewhere inside of him. He hums while he examines his body, and a smile creeps across his lips.
He notices them when he puts on his t-shirt. They press out of his back on to the fabric. Two perfectly round lumps, no bigger than a coin, one on each shoulder blade. The skin is sensitive and tingles under the pressure of the thin cotton.
2
Blue
Songs are like tattoos
You know I’ve been to sea before
Crown and anchor me
Or let me sail away
The room is small, smells like cleaning fluid and ammonia, and is dully lit by fluorescent lights. The tattoo artist’s name is Helena. She is short and round, wearing a tight black singlet and pink lips. Inked on her chubby forearm is a black stallion, rearing up on its hind legs.
“Have you eaten anything today?”
Tom shakes his head.
“Good. It’s better if you do this on an empty stomach.”
Tom hears the buzz of the drill, and his heart catches in his throat. Helena works quickly and deftly, whistling as she goes. He stares up at the ceiling, his ears filled with the sound of the pin pressing against his flesh and the girl’s gentle refrain.
Hey Blue
Here is a song for you
Ink on a pin
Underneath the skin
An empty space to fill in
When she’s done, he glances down at his wrist. Snaking their way up from his hand towards his elbow are a string of words, lyrics to his grandmother’s favourite song, wrapped around his arm like vines. Tom flexes the muscles in his arm and the words move. The girl smiles at him.
“It looks like they’re dancing.”
Tom pauses at the front door of the shop, looking out at the overcast street. An old jacket of his father’s hangs from his frame, creating a huge mass inside of which his body disappears.
That night Tom lies in bed, a dull ache forming inside him, his breath shallow with anticipation. He can feel the empty space where food would usually sit, and, sucking in his stomach, he counts two extra ribs.
3
The hair doesn’t come off the way he expects it to. It collects in clumps and clogs the head of the electric shaver, which has never been cleaned. He starts at the back of his head and moves forward, trying to work in some sort of order, but soon he is running the clippers over his scalp in all directions, back and forth. Hair falls on his bare shoulders and carpets the tiles around his feet. He works quickly and methodically, the buzz of the shaver echoing around the small bathroom.
The yellow light picks up the tiny crucifix hanging around his neck. An unwanted birthday present from years before, it now sits over his chest, burning itself onto his skin. His grandmother had it engraved with a few small words from Psalm 30, words that come to him now as the tap in the sink drips, rhythmic and steady.
You have turned my mourning into dancing.
You have removed my sack cloth, and clothed me with gladness.
And now my heart, silent no longer, will play you music.
He clicks the shaver off and rubs his hand over the light fuzz that now covers his scalp. Craning his neck, he studies the new tattoos that now creep up from his torso. His diminutive frame gets lost in the huge mirror.
He presses his hand against his sternum and feels his heart beating inside his chest. The lumps on his back are throbbing, now, in time with his heartbeat. He wiggles his big toe and presses the ball of his left foot hard against the ground, pushing against the cool tiles. His body rises slowly and he hovers there, about four inches from the ground, for a matter of seconds, before he drops again and lands softly on a bed of his own hair.
4
The fifth time Tom visits the tattoo parlour, Helena asks him out for a drink.
Her room is messy, the carpet covered in clothes and dirty underpants. Old movie posters are falling off the walls and, by the desk, a pile of CDs is getting ready to collapse. A heavy silence hangs over the room as he slowly removes his clothes and settles onto her bed. His eyes are heavy and fingers cold.
Helena slips off her skirt, exposing leagues of alabaster skin and dimples over her knees. She moves onto the bed, the springs creaking under her, and sits astride Tom. His empty eyes look up at her full breasts. Tucking a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear, she settles into a gentle rocking, eyes closed tight. Tom watches her body move over him, the flesh on her belly clean and white. He presses his bony hands into her. The skin turns bright red where his fingers had just been. Helena shifts, uncomfortable, Tom’s hipbones like blunt weapons digging into her legs. She breathes heavily and little beads of sweat collect on her upper lip. Not a sound escapes Tom’s closed mouth.
After, when the room is quiet again, she leans over and fumbles in her bedside drawer and produces a poorly rolled joint. Tom watches her as she moves, the way her flesh collects on her round hips, settling under her breasts. She lights it with a match, and the acrid smell of sulphur burns Tom’s nostrils. She inhales deeply and clouds of smoke roll around them as they lie there.
“Some music?” It’s not really a question, and once again Helena leans over, pressing play on the stereo. George Harrison’s voice spills out from the speakers and fills the empty room.
Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
And I say it's all right
Tom stirs from his half-sleep. Lyrics dance in and out of his ears and his heart swells. The music notes tattooed on his chest begin to heave as his breathing picks up. Reaching for Helena with long hands, he moves on top of her, roughly pinning her arms above her head. She stares up at him with her pink lips, and his eyes sparkle as he pushes against her. Helena’s legs wrap around his waist, pinning her body to his. Her mouth tastes sweet and the air is thick with smoke, damp breath and music.
5
The bath fills slowly, steam clouding the small room. The air is thick and silky, and Tom can feel it pressing heavily against his lungs. Running his hands through the water, he creates waves and currents that rock his body from side to side like a tiny, weathered boat. He dips his head below the surface, the rush of water filling his ears. His heart leaps in to his throat. For a moment he’s lost, underwater. His skinny arms rest by his side, suspended, floating. All sounds are heightened. He can hear the dripping tap, the swell of the water, his heartbeat echoing in his ears.
He sits up again, pushing out of the water like molasses. There’s a knock at the door. Shakily, he steps from the bath and engulfs himself with a towel. He opens the creaky door and there, sitting on the carpeted floor, is a plate of chocolate biscuits. At the end of the corridor, his little sister sits, her hands pressed against her ears, quietly humming a song with her eyes clenched shut.
6
Tom lies flat on his stomach and stares at the cracked green wall next to him. His body is shrunken and knobbly, his vertebrae running down his back like keys on a xylophone. Outside, a storm rages, and he can hear the rain hammering down on the roof. There’s the familiar smell of sweat and cleaning fluid and the fluorescent light above his head flickers.
Helena wipes Tom’s back with an antiseptic cloth, her chubby fingers lingering over the lumps on his protruding shoulder blades. The skin on her hand tingles, and she can feel the heat radiating from the strange growths. Snapping on a pair of cheap disposable gloves, she dips the head of the drill in a little palette of ink. Silently, she begins her work, filling up the last section of bare skin on Tom’s back. The buzz of the drill sliding quickly over his shoulders echoes around the parlour. He’s used to the feel of the pin against his body now, the way it scrapes into his flesh. She doesn’t work from a picture this time, or from the poor verbal instructions Tom has given her in the past. This time he just pointed at her arm and lay down.
She begins with the head, long and dark, crowned with a mane of thick hair like flames. Tom can feel her trace the outline of the horse’s thick legs, its powerful hooves pressing firmly against his back. This last piece of untouched skin is quickly filled, breathing black and heavy. The stallion rears up on its hind legs, nostrils flared, eyed white and wild, the image framed by the dull and exposed bones of Tom’s spine.
Tom stands and arches his back, straining his neck towards the sky. His breath is short, palms sweaty, his nervousness and anticipation barely contained. Now that the last piece of the jigsaw is complete, he’s ready.
7
With less flesh to cover, the skin on Tom’s body has begun to sag, his collection of tattoos warping their way around his body. They flow freely in and out of one another, music notes obscuring words obscuring treble clefs. His body has become a wonky maze of lines and words, quavers, semitones, every inch of his torso covered in dark ink.
The room is familiar. He’s been here before, many times. The smell of cleaning fluid lingers in his nostrils even between visits. It’s typically silent, the sounds of soft breathing coming from behind drawn curtains, of footsteps echoing down corridors, the only interruption. He has trouble moving now, and needs help getting to his feet. In the bed opposite him is a young girl with heavy eyes. She wears pyjamas, patterned with tiny green unicorns, and stares at her hands with anticipation.
Tom stares up at the ceiling, his eyes wide. The room is silent but his ears are full of music. He can see through the plaster and the bricks, through the fourth, fifth and sixth stories of the hospital, out into the city, up into the clouds.
The doctor said his heart was weak, but he can feel it now, buried his chest. From inside its cage, the beat begins, slowly gaining momentum. Tom starts to move again. His fingers dance along his chest, pressing against his ribs, notes of music spilling out of him. From behind, Tom can feel the lumps on his shoulder blades pressing against the bed, something inside clawing to get out. He stands, unaided, and pulls the standard issue blue robe from around his body. Reaching under his pillow for the mirror he’s not meant to have, it takes him a moment to locate his face. Seeing his reflection, his heart lurches. A smile creeps across his lips. Almost there. His eyes have sunk back into their sockets, his cheeks hollowed out.
Tom closes his eyes and breathes deeply, pressing his fingers against the keys on his chest, by now an entire orchestra of music emanating from his skinny white body. The pressure in his back continues to rise and he lifts his head toward the sky, mouth opening in pain as he feels the pressure on his spine build and build. Tears prick at his eyes and he tries to scream, but instead of cries of pain comes a chorus of music. His body twists and his face contorts, salty tears streaming down his cheeks. As if being pulled upward by strings, Tom’s body rises gently into the air, his toes hanging just above the sticky linoleum floor. Finally he feels the skin on his shoulder blades rip open, blood spilling down his back, and from inside him grows a pair of enormous white wings. Tom takes flight, moving up through the ceiling, through the different wards of the hospital, his eyes fixed above him, towards the sky. He squints into the sun, which beats down on him, bathing him in hot yellow light. His giant wings whip the afternoon into frenzy as the sound of music swells and grows and fills the silence around him.
Blue, here is a shell for you
Inside you’ll hear a sigh
A foggy lullaby
There is your song from me.
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