I don’t know how many promises
I have made to you
one a week
probably one a month.
and promises to a child
broken are the worst kind
like plucked angels wings
but I am half man
life is no photo
the only static, constant thing
I could share with you
is my love.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
'Aumgn,' she said.
Not that that was what she actually said. Aumgn was just the sound she made. She couldn't form words properly with the gag in her mouth.
Whatever it was she meant, though, she was keen for me to understand.
'Aumgn,' she repeated, urging her chin forward. 'Aumgn.'
I stopped what I was doing and looked at the pile of books on her bedside table - I was sortof straddling her, at the time, my cock and balls resting on her taut little tummy, so the books appeared reduced, spied as if from a great height, the perspective awry. I started reading through the titles (I'll admit, the sound she made - Augmn - kind of wrongfooted me, she disturbed my stroke, I froze and the books arrested my attention, took me away, momentarily, from whatever it was that she wanted). There were seven books on the bedside table (I counted), all of them concerned, one way or another, with ornithology; more specifically, concerned with murmurations, the huge, sweeping, kaleidoscopic clouds conjured in the autumn sky by enormous flocks of birds preparing to migrate. She was studying again. Preparing herself for whatever it was that was brewing in her head. Her next painting, sculpture, installation. Murmurations was very much the thing of the moment.
'Augmn,' she said again, much more frantically, shaking her naked hips, bucking as much as the scarves tied at her wrists and ankles allowed. 'Augmn, augmn, au-g-mn.' Over and over, Augmn, Augmn, Augmn. So I took her nipple between my thumb and index finger and twisted, painfully, the way you'd twist a key in a lock - if the key wouldn't turn or the lock oblige. I twisted and I squeezed. I squeezed and I drove my recently bitten thumbnail into the delicate skin hard enough to draw blood. Adelle closed her eyes and turned her head, arching her back as she pushed into the pillow. It hurt. I could tell. It hurt like hell. But she liked it.
This was the thing with Adelle. Sex, no matter how good it was, wasn't enough. Adelle liked pain. She was a complicated girl. I'd been seeing her for maybe seven months and that period of time had recorded a gradual accretion of askings: she wondered if I'd... how did I feel about... next time, could we... She wanted tying up. She wanted me to bite her face so it left teethmarks. She wanted me to piss in her mouth. She wanted me to stub cigarettes out on her thighs. She wanted me to slap her, forehand, backhand, forehand, as we fucked. She wanted me to insert pieces of metal in her cunt, the sharper and potentially more dangerous the better, as I licked her out.
It was a source of no small dischord at first.
I remember, one afternoon, she said she was tired of the slapping, it wasn't enough, she wanted me to punch her, she wanted me to punch her hard in the face, hard enough to loosen a tooth - and I said no, I didn't want to do that - and she told me I was a pussy (she spat the word out, you fucking pussy, and then she spat, actually spat, spat like a punk priestess into my face, which was all she could do because once again she was tied to the bed - and I punched her, with bubbly spit dripping offof my chin onto her Barbie duvet cover, once, twice, three times - and she, get this, she closed her eyes and smiled, with blood filling her mouth, she smiled and she said, yessssss, like Kaa, the googly-eyed serpent from The Jungle Book).
A strange thing happened. As I lost interest in Adelle - or, to be blunt, in the interstices between our increasingly violent love-so-called-making - I grew more enamoured of the unpleasantness. It was as if Adelle has seen something in me I'd not even known about myself, had kicked open the door to some fetid room - and now the door was open there was no way it was ever going to close. What's more, the one encouraged the other: the more disinterested I grew, the further I was prepared to go - and Adelle wasn't daft, could sense what was happening, used it, drew on it, fed it the way wood feeds a fire.
Which brings us all the way back to: Augmn.
She opened her eyes and looked at me, made the sound again and gestured once more with her chin. I pointed at the books the way a child points at ice-cream. Adelle shook her head, brow-creased and tried to nod in the direction of the window. I clambered off of her and stood.
The window, I said.
Again, the shake of a head.
I looked down from the window. On the floor, alongside the radiator, perched welcoming on top of a pile of dirty t-shirts, was a screwdriver.
The screwdriver, I said.
Augmn, she said, nodding. Augmn.
She wanted me to use the screwdriver on her. She asked for it. She said Augmn. I can't be held responsible for my actions.
Now, can I?
Thursday, January 18, 2007
pity my poor cock
and all the places
it has been
all the holes and hands
and mouths and
and the time
it in margarine
and fucked against
a Frigidaire freezer
and the way
the margarine curdled
crippled my cock
one spring morning
of all places.
Luton is a very dull town.
For this bearded lady;
She is faster than a painted horse
And not afraid of sudden jerks.
Glancing at the security camera
Lights! Make-Up! Action!
A pistol shot…Hardly chaos
A quiverless hand
Goes the rocking shock of blood.
The eating virtuosi blink once
As a coffee-stained corsetiere
Hits the floor.
Removing nail varnish over morning papers
She wonders if there’ll be time
To hand-wash a gown of sequins
Before silver bracelets clank
And the hardener is applied.
On a stool I perch, for ten hours a day, watching the world go by, rubbing cocoa butter into my tanned skin, patent red boots twinkling in the light. I sit and I dream. Paint my nails. Comb my braids, re plaiting them into tight corn rows.
In my case is a hand mirror, marbled green – a gift from my Aunt who lived in Almeria. As a child she would let me stay in her cracked white hacienda, the mirror would sit on her mahogany ladies dresser. She said to me once, “Carmel, I see you looking in my special mirror, one day you will grow up to be the finest senorita in town. You will wear a red flower in your hair. You will dance on coffee tables – slamming your shoes to flamenco, dressed in monochrome polka dots. You will be just as I was”.
When I became old enough, and in her eyes ‘a real woman’, she gave me the mirror, so I could be like her ‘forever beautiful’.
Today, I look through it; the reflection I see would bring disapproval from my dead Aunt. I swear she is looking down on me, over my shoulder, raising her eyebrow, cursing under her breath. Though my face is made up, and dusted in bronze powder – my neckline, chest, and waist are bare. I am wearing pink rhinestones on a chain around my ankle.
On the other side of the window that I face every day, gazing out across the water to the other window girls over the way, stands a group of English men. They are pointing and laughing at me. One of them slams his palms onto his chest. He cups them and grimaces at me, his friends laugh. The man pushes his fist down his trousers, making a tent shape that points straight to me. They say bad things. I do not speak English well, but I know that no matter how much they humiliate me, they will return. They will part with their money after sitting in the coffee shops. They will make me dance for them, all of them sat in a circle, pushing notes into my underwear, leering, and trying to grab me. They will be thrown out of the club by Hans, I will wipe the oil and glitter from my skin, and return to the window as they take a kicking down the dingy alleyways at the side of Koestraat.
The English men, dressed in cheque shirts, with short gelled hair, and always, yes always stinking of alcohol, they come to this part of town, to celebrate marriage. Their wives to be, the women who love them, they let them come here in big parties. Like apes they run around the canals, throwing up in the water, drenched in sweat. We watch them, and try to turn the other cheek. We are the silent women, for there is no voice behind a window pane. All we can do is watch. Try to entice. The tourists come from all over the world, to smoke hashish, catch a peepshow or two; some of them bring their wives. That I don’t mind. But the gangs, of English men who smell of cheap aftershave, they howl and shout at us like animals. To them we are not real women. We exist behind glass. Like real flesh mannequins who will dance at the flash of a leather wallet stuffed full of Euros.
Bunny giggled, and then wiggled his dick from side to side between her fingertips.
Mac Jackson’s eyes opened up real wide.
“I’m telling you,” he gasped, “Watch out! Goddammit, the firearm that is gripped within your hand is lethal!”
Bunny giggled louder before her tongue flickered away at the tip of the shaft.
“Christ lady, I will not say it again, but the piece should be respected at all times! It’s fully loaded!”
Mac’s upper body tightened, and then convulsed, caught in the rush of what Bunny was doing to his dong. Bunny then licked away at Mac Jackson’s balls.
“Ye Gods!” Mack Jackson screeched.
Bunny’s finger tapped the prick’s tip. The cock then shot, shooting forth a small cum stream that hit her left tit.
“Ah geez!” Mac shuddered, “That wasn’t meant to happen!”
He then slowly sank down to his knees and looked down at his deflated prick, humiliated.
“Cunt chops!” He muttered to himself from a far off place.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
just the morning after.
From my pillow
she looked up, dishevelled.
A stray lock of hair hiding her eye.
We both smiled the
‘I’m thinking what to call you
‘cos I can’t remember your name’.
‘I have a small problem
with alcohol,’ she grinned.
‘Alcohol gives me
a small problem,’ I apologised.
Coffee was suggested.
I threw on my paisley dressing gown,
filled the pot,
rattled my Penguin cups.
I heard tippy toes
and the door close
as softly as cashmere.
Walking back to my bedroom
two steaming cups in my hand,
the afternoon belonged
to me and Veronica Lake.
left in the
& men in the street
of brown floors
bay window now-
wall of wires
of a month long buzz
of blind flying optimism.
the brown box
& I think maybe
I’ll burn out-
torn and fragile,
a paper ribbon
a kids party,
in bay windows
but line this pad
and my Effort
in dark evening
skies of embankment
& my wet coat
that dried in
thru the city.
I’m static now
what to do.
I walk the dull and dirty city streets around 6 A.M
Sheets of newspaper blowing across the pavement
Appear like mad drunken dancers in a crazed musical
The headlined front page becomes a pissed up Gene Kelly
The T.V Listings a gin soaked Frank Sinatra
Hard-faced prostitutes catch taxicabs
Their nights work being done
They return home to, fix-up, rest their aching cunts, and count the dollars
Two middle-aged hospital workers walk hurriedly, heads bowed
Preparing mentally to start another ten-hour early shift
The pavements beneath the ATM machines are littered with hundreds of white bank receipts,
Like the remains of a ticker tape parade celebrating the eternal Saturday night out in The Cross.
The Cross never sleeps
You can grab a beer, a fix, and a feed 24/7
But at 6 A.M the place is in a strange flux.
Everything seems animated in a dream like limbo.
Drunks stagger along red-faced and glassy-eyed
Oblivious to their immediate surroundings
An emaciated junkie parts his matted blonde hair and flashes me a grievous smile
A half-empty beer bottle stands on the doorstep of a strip-club never to be drunk
Suddenly a deluge of brilliant sunshine floods the main drag
And for one exquisite moment everything seems golden like a giant cigarette butt
A frozen moment in time until the gold tide suddenly washes away
Replaced by the cold grey heroin light of early morn
The Cross is steeped in heroin history
Echoes of former deals and drug highs reverberate off the club, bar and strip-joint walls
Along with ghostly images of long dead prostitutes and doomed drug-addicts
Images that prowl the vulnerable Sunday morning streets of the Cross
As I go gliding down through the debauched and exploited decades
Back eventually to a brighter time
When Aboriginal people sat on hilltops overlooking Sydney harbour
Discussing the dreamtime, going fishing, and making stencils of their handprints
A million sun-filled days ago
When we would lie side by side in the bed we mirrored each other. The curve of our breasts, the roundness of our tummies one way, our hips the other.
We’d run our hands over the other, knowing the other was knowing the self. I wondered if it was a form of narcissism.
We thought we were the same size, but when you took your hand and placed it level with my palm your fingers had tip over the length of mine, and our feet the same as well, your toes peeping over the top of mine. We suspected that your head might end a few inches after mine did, but after the shock of the hands and feet we didn’t want to measure it.
Despite this betrayal the stars had aligned in all other ways and I swear that we were even born on the same day.
When we kissed, was that your tongue in my mouth, or my tongue in yours? Were those your teeth biting on my bottom lip, or mine on yours? Was that me or you reflected in the eyes in front?
For years we stayed and loved and danced this way. We moulded the one out of the other, in our image, with love.
Then one day a betrayal worse than the hands and feet happened. Your heart shifted its usual pattern. The one element crucial to the symmetry we had spent so much time perfecting had altered; and my heart broke when yours did not.
are the busiest ones
the ladder - off the front line
young Dr.s Farah legs
not the teenage
cash & club hungry
not the fish wives
in blue dress ruts
attitude in their
ward to ward
not the motherly
eager to smile
on the front line
in wine coloured dresses
in blue pyjamas
young support workers
stuffed in tight grey
don’t want to know
wot you wear
on civy street
in my mind
you are ALL