Boyfriend Takes Boyfriend to a Metal Show, Limbs Falling from the Sky
I mean, for real, Gill, do you really want to get a concussion? If you get dropped on the monitors, I’m going to save you, duh, but I might kill you, which totally isn’t my fault.
Midge would also be upset, because she’s the calmest and takes her anxiety meds straight from your hand when you fill her bowl with kibble. Does tinnitus scare you, does the idea that you could never hear her paws waddling on the laundry room tile put a twinge in your brain stem. It does for me, and I can’t even hear the vocalist, let alone you, next to me, the crowd a corduroy caldera behind us. Horns sprout from their arms, little antlers, plastic cups like torn IVs on the venue floor.
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What band is this, can we be a band, Gill, I’ll play whatever you can’t, but why is the stage so high, and who’s the rhythm guitarist, can I be her, can I vault this barricade, do you get kicked out for crowdsurfing, excuse me, sir, sir, sir, what is your crowdsurfing policy, do I need a permit or a surfboard leash do go up, can I be your dog, no, it’s like a Sex Pistols reference, and I’m more like my boyfriend’s cat because we already have a dog who very much loves him. Sorry. Sorry. Ope. So sorry.
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I have come to the conclusion that the unsafe action is probably safer than us, safe like a rip current when you know exactly it’ll happen, cut, shear into you, tidal bore, our shoulders mingled with several other shoulders. We are many limbs, literally, not literally, whatever sounds most punk. If you split your skull when you fall, will we see the memories tremble out, glitter and cold brew. Beer on the lip of my sock, the cuff of my jeans. Somewhere in between is my leg, then your leg, the things that carry us, upward, downward, both all at once.
Right into the merch table. Invisible and slippery through the arms of security. Gill, it’s not like ascending to heaven, descending into hell, et cetera, I promise, we’re going to die but if it’s like this, I’ll be disappointed, maybe because everything else seems so much more viable. And up our alley. And I’m your alley, the one where we get beat up by ourselves, copies of copies, the people surrounding us sweaty and thinking all the same shit I am. Gill, Gill. Gill.
We’re all wondering if this is our chance, the one and only, so go ahead, do it, get fucked up, or don’t, or whatever feels suitable to your needs. Because pain is just an idea entering your body, your head obscured by light, Gill, I see you until I do, because for a moment, you could be anyone in the crowd. And I wouldn’t be alone. You’d be everywhere, which sounds so spiritual because it isn’t, the lyrics quoted verbatim from the mic transferred into your tongue. Go ahead, we’re whoever we want to be, but I want to be the person who witnesses you fall into your own arms. Like you really, really care. Because there’s blood on your shirt, and I sure hope it’s mine.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
Liam Strong (they/them) is a queer neurodivergent writer who owns two Squishmallows, three Buddhas, a VHS of Cats The Musical, and somewhere between four and eight jean jackets. They are the author of the chapbook Everyone’s Left the Hometown Show (Bottlecap Press, 2023). Find them on Instagram/Twitter: @beanbie666
Want more Liam? Check out their other story in this issue: [enter live link], and their poem from Issue 25: fever daydream … AND their poem from Issue 21: several men’s failed attempts at asking me out to brunch
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