Art on our bodies

The first splat of paint came with a loud howl into the night. Blue, pink and purple streaks stretched across the black sky. The colours roped around our bodies, dotted nearby cars. Like wild children we chased each other across the park and up the quiet street, screaming laughter into open windows and leaving footprints like liquid sidewalk chalk.

We arrived all messy, grinning like Dennis the Menace so clear we’d been up to trouble. And so we held our shoulders close to our bodies and hoped like hell we wouldn’t leave pink streaks on the rug. More liquor, more paint, more and more. New lines and stains and smeared red smudges. Orange in the corners, green on the chest, and our roller in the hands of strangers.

The cabbies knew nothing, having driven many of us all drunk on madness towards the costume haunts. With tip we left pink secrets on door handles and waved with our child actor grin. The camera died with the last empty beer bottle and we made it home to showers early, soaking tubs with the swampy water off our coloured backs.

Morning brought pale white skin and the promise of a second costume, once we’ve shook up and off all the crusted paint. And in a morning bed look up at the ceiling and say to no one: no brushes, ever.