Infinity and the Juicebox Boombox

Image © Ana Thompson 2016


by  Anna Geary-Meyer August 29, 2016

School’s out for the summer, sister, so meet me by the pool. You’ll wear a rainbow choker and I’ll chew bubble gum, we’ll sink to the bottom of the deep end, hold our breath forever, swim till our skin’s pale and shrivelled. Bloodshot eyes, a small price to pay for your blurred silhouette, kicking, splashing, heading for the light.

We’ll tan strapless on striped towels, chlorine-green hair drying in the sun. “Turn around,” you’ll say, while you change out of your swim suit, but I won’t. Come on, come on, let’s be the kind of girls with rhinestone sunglasses who walk to the corner store alone. We’ll trade our straight A’s for neon-pink haydays, in the bathroom getting high off L’Oreal Kids grape scented shampoo.

My mom says trampolines are a recipe for broken legs, but I like the way you bounce. Can you show me your backflip spaceship? Can you play me your juicebox boombox? Can I join your lemonade stand garage band? Cause when life gives you lemons, you rip off your elderly neighbors with 50 cent cups of Country Time, trade the profits for sugar coated candy lips, or have mine for free.

So take off your chicken pox kneesocks and let’s ride this Slip n’ Slide straight to hell. I’m late for dinner but I don’t care cause we’re bad girls now and you’re Bubblicious, baby. We’re hitchhiking to infinity, eternity is a sunset of mosquito bites and the distant echo of your mother’s voice calling you home, but we’ll never go cause you’re my schoolgirl whirlpool and I’m your Hoola-hoop.

Everything’s a circle if you give it enough space, I say, so screw the pink, let’s be black, let’s be goths, punks, vampires, let’s say fuck you 2003 and sink our teeth into it, revenge via seduction, we don’t need any help making ourselves whole again. Pop songs dissolve in the blood dribbling down your chin, kiss me, your lips are a time machine, blood is gasoline, pooling at my feet.

Already gone. What’s left: assorted size 7 footprints disappearing towards the diving board, one deflated flamingo, floating, donut hole where its stomach should be, wings reaching out to oblivion.

Anna Geary-Meyer is an American writer living in Berlin by way of Boston. She thinks and writes about a lot of things, none of them particularly related, including chemistry, queerness, and Sufi poetry, as well as anyone she has ever kissed. She enjoys long walks around the Landwehrkanal and watching swans do swan things. Read her previous work on Visual Verse.

Ana Thompson. 1984. Argentinean based in New York. I did oh so bad in highschool. Ramones fan. Romantic idealist. Frenetic dancer. Everything bagel with cream cheese, toasted. Large coffee with a little bit of room for milk. Malbec. What I like to photograph the most, is what I feel. A.k.a el propio asombro
insta: elpropioasombro

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