Fruju Tropical Snow 


all summer we dragged those
bodies around that wanted
nothing to do with us. our
bodies told us what they
thought they needed, and we
had no choice but to listen.
the bodies blew eggs and
filled their painted shells with
shots of liquor. the bodies
could have sworn a DJ
stopped the remix to whisper
‘i’m sad’ into the mic before
resuming his sick beats,
dropping some of the hottest
hits of the ‘80s. later, in that
same heaving discotheque,
somebody had to peel the
leftover synonyms for desire
off the bathroom floor. we
have since abandoned those
insatiable bodies –  we
managed it either by sheer
force of will or total lack of
attention. it was the freest
season, but also the heaviest.



Strip Club DJ Drops a Beat


back in the red lit booth with my arms around someone – tits
pressed against a mouth they’re not allowed to lick with – checking
the blue backlit digital time on my G-shock
while I muffle them with my rented body – making eye
contact with myself in the mirror sneering at my own oh
to eyelashes on clavicles – this transactional
tenderness mutually agreed to be fake and yet
you’d swear I feel it for real – untouchable
touchable girl – my reflection getting glowed
halogen crimson – this room full of warm blood
and blood colours



Rebecca Hawkes  is a high country farmgirl gone perpetual student in Aotearoa, New Zealand. She completed an MA in non-fiction writing at the International Institute of Modern Letters in 2016. You can find more of her work in Starling, Sport, Mayhem and elsewhere.