Thursday, December 14, 2006

SpringSong

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scoring on the Goldhawk road
casual, loitering in an old leather jacket
absorbing the warmth of the sun
reptile-like through translucent skin
watching the people pass me by
laughing and loose, the first warm day of spring
waiting for TJ’s patient – loping – junky walk
to emerge from the crowd like an optical illusion
hidden in plain view all along

the methadone clinic was a breeze today
no piss tests to outsmart
no arguments with the staff
no queue at the chemists
no sour look from the old whore behind the counter
even the garage music that blasts from passing Ford Cortinas
sounds somehow RIGHT today

this morning we fucked, slow and stoned
before she left for Conduit Street to work
TJ picked up the first time I called
and the trains did not conspire to crucify me

I look up to the powder blue London sky
feel the heat upon my face
and all of the bullshit
that came before this perfect, insulated,
heartbreaking and immortal moment
melts away
like the January snow
Tony O'Neill

Lovebytes[1]

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I imagine lying tangled up in the sheets with you. Hot sticky limbs intertwined, my right shin casually strewn across your right shin, me on my tummy, you on your back, my right hand snuggled around your right bicep. I drop my left hand off the edge of the bed and into my bag. Seeing with my fingers I grasp and discard first my diary, then my concealer and my lipstick until finally I grip onto my eyeliner.

Laughing, I kneel over you on the bed and taking your right hand in my left, I write ARM on your forearm. We laugh together and I write CHEEK under your right cheekbone that was highlighted with your smile. You turn your head to your left on the pillow and I write STERNOCLEIDOMASTOID along the muscle which runs from the sternum at the base of your throat up to the right-angled curve of your jawbone, and you thrill at the discovery of a new name.Bending forwards I place a light kiss in the dip between your clavicle and the top of your shoulder at the bottom of your throat, and I feel your pulse beat urgently against my lips. I write CLAVICLE along the bone, drawing a line under the kiss.

Our laughter is harder now and your tummy is shaking with the exertion. I jump to the other side of you on the bed, taking the covers with me caught round my foot. I drop to my knees again, and holding your vibrating tummy under the flat of my left palm I write ILIAC CREST along the glorious curve of your hip bone that I love to feel nestling in the crook of my hand.

Moving down now, writing swiftly I name THIGH, KNEE, SHIN, ANKLE, FOOT, METATARSAL, BIG TOE. Then I come back up and kiss the tip of your nose. My eyes dart hungrily about your face looking at the pattern of your delicious freckles. Your eyes delve deep into mine and I look at the creases in their corners as you smile up at me. I kiss your left dimple and you close your eyes. I write EYE on your right eyelid and run my hand through your hair.

SHOULDER, WAIST... I'm moving around your body again. My hand slips round and under you and I continue my naming and my loving. You turn onto your front, and I kiss every vertebra from the base of your neck down to the base of your spine. Then I write SPINAL COLUMN along the sinuous length of you.
My hand sweeps over your rounded buttocks and, both giggling madly, I cheekily write BUM on your right cheek. I burrow further in and write INNER THIGH, kissing you just above the mole inside your right thigh. BACK OF KNEE makes you scream with the ticklish sensitivity of it. CALF, ACHILLES TENDON, HEEL, BALL OF FOOT and we're done. You flip onto your back again and pull me onto you, our bodies squashing together and smearing your bodynames onto mine.In the morning when you're gone I imagine how I will be left with more than the odd stray hair and the memory. I will have your imprint on my sheets and smudges of random backwards letters over my body, like bruises.




Lisa Payne

Consumertariat

Darryl Wildblood is an Edinburgh based film maker. Consumertariart is a short film of his poetry and images.

Anal

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The 4 of us
crowd the screen.
Amazed at the quality
the picture sharpness,
transfixed as he
KY'd the exposed 12 inches,
stuffed it up her arse
and thrust away
as her whimpers
jemmied clenched teeth.
Eventually,
when satisfied,
he withdrew,
wiped it clean
of blood and shit,
turned,
whispered "She might
make Christmas"-
sent a junior doctor
scurrying to the waiting room......

Christopher Major

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Her Hair Was Braided When I Met Her

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Sweet Julie,
I wish
your diaz eyes
had
no husband
no children
(tho' I wouldn’t take them away from you)

wish your
sweet mouth
was alone

wish
you
worked with me
like I
thought
you were going to

wish
you were
just a lonely
you
in your
nice clothes

(I want to hold your soul)

cos then
I’d fall
for you
and your
trouser’d hips
and your
tops for work

sweet Julie
I know
that’s not
your
real name

when I
first met you
you had braids in your hair
your NHS
tunic
showing your
Julie
shape

you showed
me around
this place
and I
wanted to
work there
because I
thought I
would be
working with
you, Julie

but you
chose a woman!
(not you, but Sue)
and when
she didn’t
show
you called
me
(not you, but Sue)

and I wanted
to work
with you,
Julie,
but you’re
at the
other site
now

fuck it
Julie,
lets have
an affair anyway
Julie,
a big
blonde affair
that will tear up your family

let's do it
in the Haywain
in the Watermill
in your Golf

we can share starters
at the
Festival Leisure Park
we could
get a room
drive there
in your flash
Golf we did it in

room service menu
in my hands
while you shower
me off you

I’ll touch
your toy knickers
on the floor
with my toe

I’ll mix
drinks from
the minibar
looking in
your diaz eyes

ordering
fried chicken
in baskets

have
lurid
intimacy
on a meat high

mixing drinks
from the minibar
watching cable
naked

Ford Dagenham

I'm Not Going Back There Again, Me

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I’m not going back there again, me. No way. You should’ve seen her last night: off her face; a complete fucking wash-up. She said to me that she wanted a real man. A man who could put the booze away until the cows came home. A man who could match her, drink for drink, blow for blow: a strong man; a man who could put up with her. A man who didn’t bruise too easily.

I’m not going back there again, me. No fucking way José. She’s mental. She attacked me with an empty bottle of Claymore last night – just because I wouldn’t drink it with her. She finished the whole bottle. She said to me that only real men drink Claymore; that Irish whiskey is for poltroons. Before I could explain she went for me; she didn’t give me a chance. The bottle hit me between the fucking eyes with a thud – luckily for me it didn’t shatter. Then she demanded I fuck her. I didn’t, of course. I got the hell out of there. Sharpish.

I’m not going back there again, me. Not on your Nelly. I’d rather be right here writing this, sitting at my desk in my lousy office with the other drones, trying to get away with doing as little work as possible, waiting for lunchtime, that dreary respite. I’d rather be in the miserable meeting with my line manager at 11 o’clock I’ve been summoned to. Anything. Invoicing, filing, data-entry, even photo-copying: the simple day-to-day activities of a dogsbody. I don’t even mind everyone staring at the purple bruise on my forehead, between my tired eyes. I don’t care what they think about me; I never have. They can fucking stare all they want. It gives them something to focus on. It helps to pass time. It helps to make the working day crawl along that little bit quicker. It’d be funny if it wasn’t all so meaningless. Really.

I’m not going back there again, me. Not if you fucking paid me. She’d only be drunk again. She’d only want to start another fight; demand I grope her cunt or something. Probably chew me up and spit me out. She’d say to me I’m worthless, useless, rotten and boring. She’d laugh in my face, ridicule me and belittle me; filch the money from my pockets. She’d pour warm beer over me, spit on me, call me a twit and poke me in the ribs – just for fun. She’d hurt me until the bruises covered my body like ruined petals and then she’d point me to her door yet again. I’d leave her fulfilled. She’d banish me until I came back knocking the very next day, safe in the knowledge that I am weak, maddened by her; that I don’t know what else to do. Then she’d just let me back in for more like nothing had happened. Happy.

I’m not going back there again, me.

Lee Rourke



Thursday, December 07, 2006

Venison Sausages

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I was trying to get some writing done when my friend Mike turned up with his arm in a sling after falling through the roof of a burnt out warehouse in Hackney while high on MDMA and dressed as a goblin or something for Halloween. Landed on his face but he was alright; two days in hospital.
He arrived bearing venison sausages and an unidentifiable fruit. I told him about a book I'm writing about celebrities who get infected with a disease called Celebricide that drives them mad like rabid dogs until their cocks falls off and their insides turn to black blood and stuff and then we drove through South London’s gridlocked rush hour traffic. Mike got so excited about the thought of all those dead celebrities - Kilmer, Lo, Kutcher - he jumped out at the traffic lights to go and see his girlfriend and I went to see a connection to score some strong weed because it was Friday night and I sure as shit wasn’t intending on embracing the evening straight and while he was there he played me a demo by some shitty rock band, which people tend to do a lot these days.
I got back in the car and drove through three miles of nose-to-tail traffic for singing along to House Of Pain on the radio acting like I'm some badass white rapper too, even though I rap like Stephen Hawking. By the time I got home it was dark and Mike had left his sausages on my bed, which made me laugh because I'm a vegetarian and I know how far he had carried them today with his one good arm and how just much he was looking forward to eating them. Actually, it made feel a little sad, thinking of him and his girlfriend without their sausages for the night. I put them in the freezer for him. He can get them another time.
That’s the beauty of technology.



Ben Myers

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Days On The Old Estate

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The other day I passed the council estate
Where I grew up
And I had to take a look
To see if they were still there, I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, but I couldn’t resist
So I walked to the old garages, and to one particular garage door, wondering, no hoping
Something might remain
And there they were
A few small letters written in Tippex
JR 4 CB ‘84’
Fucking hell, I thought
Still there
After all these years
Twenty-three years
Over two decades
And seeing those letters forced the memories to come flooding back
A veritable deluge
Of days spent on the old estate
Dynamic days, halcyon days, glory days
The wonder years
The years of my youth
Spent in an East London that was now gone forever
Swept away in one generation
And I felt incredibly sad as I looked at those letters
Remembering that CB stood for Corrine Burgess
My first girlfriend at age twelve, she a year younger at eleven
And I didn’t even know how to kiss properly
Because when my older friend Ricky told me to give her a Frenchie
I didn’t even know what he meant
A Frenchie, I mean think about it?
It sounds a really old fashioned thing to say now, but then again, who the fuck uses Tippex these days?
So we just kissed, English style, lips to lips, no tongues
And I remembered how I played strip poker with Corrine,
While we babysat her younger sister
And I got her to take her top off
And how she cried and I got scared that she might tell her mum, but I wasn’t scared about her telling her dad because she didn’t have one
And I remembered how we used to play Ouija board at Corrine’s house
And how the glass would suddenly fly off the board and scare us all
Only finding out later that Ricky had been moving it around all along
And I remembered my first cigarette, a John Player Special
Does anyone smoke them anymore?
But most of all I remembered the Christmas parties
Each year the party would be held in a different house
There were only thirty houses on the old estate
A tiny close-knit community
And everyone would come, all the kids, grans, granddads, singletons
Everyone in their best clothes
Me circa 1983: Mullet, rat’s tail, yellow Lyle and Scott jumper, pink Lacoste polo shirt, sky blue Farahs, and white leather deck shoes
And the adults would all get drunk
While the kids would congregate in the bedrooms and talk shit,
And at least one or two of the older kids would get drunk on thunderbird or special brew, and talk even more shit.
And the kid whose house the party was being held in would show everyone their Christmas presents
And I remember one year Simon Broom was given a Sinclair ZX81, the first computer I’d ever seen
And amongst the adults, there would always be at least one fight
And the next day everyone would talk about it
Who got done, who didn’t get done, and what the repercussions would be,
Like who was ganna get done as a result of the unfortunate altercation
Oh, it was great days back on the old estate
A very privileged upbringing
And as I stood there, two decades later, a grown man
Touching those faded Tippexed letters on the garage door
While, in the background, three Muslim women
Looked on wonderingly
I wondered what Corrine Burgess was doing now
Or where she lived
Because in the intervening years
I had lost contact with nearly everyone from back then
And as this realisation began to sink in
I also realised it was a mistake to come back to the old estate
Because of all the forever changes
And it was then that
A teardrop
Rolled down my cheek
Like a cannonball

Joseph Ridgwell

Out Damned Spot

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i say
such was that day as i decided to hold back the ejaculate please
don't stop no
not yet
and so it stayed fierce and like each sperm was snarling and showing its
teeth
growl growl in the clench
as i thrust deeper
not coming
not going to come no
as the sun was out over kilburn and the dogs were barking in the gardens below
as i thrust keeping the wolf from the door and hands and fingers in mouth
i will not stop
don't stop
won't
won't
not
stop
and kept it going for a good old time for a man of my age
and then
o it was reaching some kind of crescendo
with the waves crashing in my ears and the hands and more fingers gripping and
digging into me
noises of animal as i whipped it out finally i
remember seeing the mouth open and the eyes close
tongue over a mouth of nice teeth maybe only one
filling
as i pullled it out and aimed for the tits all proud like the lion who will be looking over
his shoulder at the younger lions in no time at all
but who still has all his hair and is still a good lion
for now
and the cock was in the hand and aimed as i said and
gutteral noises as i had
held back for some time and
then here is the trick
as i had held back for some more
and more
and miraculously more
a scream of pain as i whip it out
for the blast and shudder but
there is o no
whats this but blood in the ejaculate
fresh blood
like from a cut
very red vivid red
and lumps of cum and falling between my fingers
i stand on the bed
and then in the middle of the room my knees all weak
her eyes round
like tangerines and shocked and im staring and very quickly its
shakesperian
lady macbeth or the hunch back of notre dame maybe
not funny this
as i am wounded and o shit
o shit
look
what's this ?
what is this?
blood
look blood
there's blood
blood and she says
it's ok it's ok
she looks scared
let's go to the clinic she says
i thought it was ok i say

M.Frankel

Monday, December 04, 2006

Let's Get Drunk And Dance To Slayer

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the familiar thud of the double kick drum
throbs through the sewers
of old London town
up through the drains
out in the street
an electrical charge
that starts at the feet
Slayer’s in town dude
fucking Slayer
and tonight the angry sky
will be raining blood
oh yes
we are hear for
brutalism
and blood
and mayhem
and to watch the
flying
bodies
hit the swirling circle
pit
guest tickets, baby
up on the balcony
and down below
in the smoke built
spotlight Hades
flanked by his banging brothers
bent double
Tom Araya is gurgling
Are you read for WAR?
I said, are you ready for…”
and Lombardo is Wagner
writing rhythms of hate
with blast beats
for the protons and neutrons
bashing bare skin and skulls
before them;
the inner animal unleashed
inside the
four thousand nine hundred and twenty-one
of us
let loose in this blackened zoo
beneath
the proscenium arch
heads charred by
sixteen strings set to stun
in the bronze-sprayed
deafening dome
that lets us watch the stars
as the fetid floor slips
away and away
into the bowels
and the slop
and the sweat
and the ash
of a Monday morning
- later we’ll smoke weed and
read the Sagas and
fuck to the sound
of the wind
but for now
we find
Valhalla on a
cold Sunday night





Ben Myers

Sunday, December 03, 2006

Robin About 8

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My beard stutters rev rev rev revolution into the wandering shapes of day
Day Shapes are all I see…
…except you, robin
Mocking me from the sundial
Where all is shit except expensive turf that must cushion my face

I am aged twenty four to thirty five
And I have not been bad
But this glimpse of rushing light worries my blinkers on the floor
I must seek high ground to dig in…
…dig in and glimpse of experience some more

I am not a bad man, robin red by the pond
I have a hobby, am humble, don’t crave just money
But still I weep on the sunny corners…
…in the corner quiet of shop and the dusk of the city
Filling out forms from anger as lost as those that left me

My negativity is an unravelling knot of diamonds
That used to be waking nights of shift-change sirens
And the Guns of Dreams I own…
…dream on; are impotent and made wrong
And I had to go to the shop, robin, in the last of the sun

And the checkout child who loved Elvis onto his T-shirt
Has more going for him tonight…
…tonight when I touch books to calm me
Away from the Rage monday gave me
As a surprise to shake me and taunt me

There is darkness under the blinds now, desk light in the corner
As I struggle like those small flies climbing the walls till dawn
You’ve gone sleepwise now robin…
…sleepways and warm
While my bare feet lay broken in a draught that remembers the sun

But robin, you still taunt me with your peace…
…I remember now your bright breast macho on the rocks
And I am not into hitting the wall anymore, robin
So I act productively, hopelessly, my pen in the boxes
I am aged twenty four to thirty five robin,
and I have not been bad…
Ford Dagenham