I inhale

September 12, 2013 at 11:34 am (Bodies, Halves, misogyny, poem, The Real) (, , , , , , , , )

I found Cissy wrapped up in a grubby paisley throw upon the riverside where I knew it was her before unrolling from all that matted red hair out the top it was luminous and partdreaded but perhaps would coil if brushed it lay on the dusty sunroasted asphalt clean somehow protruding bodiless from the O opening of greenblue weave I knew it was her before I rolled her and the face was when it came pale and unfamiliar though fitting  and the sight of my own sore hands on and rolling out the bluegreen cloth awoke me in some sense of myself as the centre of a tableau I was my own audience to and so she was unwound at the riverside which suggested drowning but her lips pink and dry and asking for I’m sure everything she eventually got as I thought cruelly my becoming aware of her discovery at all before here in venom though lucid I am paralysed I am  always paralysed for a moment upon revelation just as on waking the exception being so distinct from the rule I leap out of bed sometimes my chest throbbing onto the river bed perhaps lay her to rest either in before or since the rescue which itself was staged by someone else her counterpart my carer though a creation as much as any old thing I can think before I see but her is and that unrolling body tumbles about the bleengrue teardrops the wrists leaping over each other and clatter on her thin bones her body unfolded itself to me as she unfolded herself at my push a mile or two from gruebleen sea where she could have gone to drown it was not me for though I have the face in mind and the face was hers I had never seen it once before for as they say the brain will not conjure faces of its own accord but can so make ex nihilo the sensation of  familiarity that old measure of being what well we miss when pointedly in our present when déjà vu strikes stronger than any fixed memory the brush creaking through her knotted hair musksmell of synthetic bristles head bobbing back as though on a spring the wrists again now the wrists clattering over a broken neck almost bruiseless and quite peaceful my own hands in my peripheral growing numbish as I take the formality of her pulse two hunks of meat pressing into each other as the breeze dies down to tepid stillness like any sealed room the mouth lolling open in the dead air as my own breath tugs at diaphragm spasmodic I reverse the riverflow and drift backwards into my own blackness to see first the beginning.

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Playing the Angel

December 21, 2009 at 8:05 pm (Angels, misogyny) (, , , , , )

I once knew a boy who was so strange that he stopped being a boy altogether.

The boy used to stand very, very still. He painted his skin to a marble-pale, placed little circles of vivid blue glass upon his irises and set his soft hair into ringlets. It was sharp and March and midday, and today the boy had paper wings. He stood in his thin robe wondering for the first time why those Little Men paid for his services as a paralysed stone angel. And a poor creature of stone he was, for his occasional smiles and bows, dances and kisses. The punters delighted in his sudden animation and threw fistfuls of copper, coins of silver and gold at his feet. But the boy prized paper most of all. It was the notes that tempted him out of stone.

But the paper in his wings embarrassed the boy. When he visited the cathedral, the marblemen mocked him with coldness, standing still and offensive in the line of his blue glassed eyes. He kissed each statue’s lips until his own were pale and numb as theirs. In these kisses, the statues exposed themselves, and let it be known that they were competent enough and needed no blood-filled counterpart. At last the boy felt an embrace of flesh on his own bones, and was content. He knew what creature he had always been, and it was delicious

Soon the boy found his heart was white, it billowed like a sheet. Every trouble and challenge was simply meant to be. He was angelic, no longer to blame for mortal sins. His apparent blunders were part of an almighty Will, and though the Little Men would never see it (they never saw anything), he knew he was blameless. All jaunty and sugar-skulled, he could wander wherever he liked and shout whatever thoughts or desires he pleased until he coaxed the anger of Little Men, and fists covered his naked back with bruisey-gray badges. When they sprang plum on his thighs and forearms, the boy would press the vivid fistkisses to relive his conquest into the Little Men’s hearts.

The boy decided that he would dirty himself no more with mortal love-making, and instead set out to impregnate virgins. Something in his pretty mouth, pale skin and slender, delicate wrists earned their trust. He revelled in their joyful screams and sweet tears, and lapped at the blood that sprang between their thighs, which he was certain was sacred. How beautiful the world would be, he thought, with hundreds of tiny messiahs ready to learn and teach, and Make, much like the Little Men. These new lambs would be bleak, not meek. They would fit into this world so snugly, all boarded and strung wired. All their graspy, clutchy hands! All their tiny concrete skulls! How proud their mothers must be.

That was all the thought he ever gave those poor, desolate whores.

All the gloom the cathedral once held was spun into delight. The roof, in particular, held a flaxy appeal. The boy wished only that the tiles were skin, so he could tread a mauve print with his boots and graze soft, white flakes in his wake. Though its grit crunched under his boots, the roof would never, ever give way because it loved this sky, just like he did, and stretched out all peaked and pretty to caress the infinite blue loom. But the sky ignored the pathetic stone. It blushed evening at the boy, and beamed at him with vibrant, sunset clouds. The sky made an opening among its mists: The Place Between. A breeze touched soft upon his lips and invited him to soar by its side.

He flew briefly behind the lids, but soon fell. First white, then red, then all splattery. He stopped being a boy altogether and was quickly cleaned off the stone below with the greatest tact and discretion.

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She’s the Wow.

November 15, 2009 at 12:48 am (Alcohol, Female, Home, misogyny, Rooms) (, , , , )

I can think of nothing better than stocking tops, or more horrific than a uterus. Between: the lense blinks. They mistake innocent whale-bruises for a diamond’s mirror tilt, and a fist’s caress. Lips tense, pulled into grins by bliss, to kiss their drooping eyelids.
Our love affaire continues between walls, a concrete tank of rain and smoke. I am given sour commands: Sprint north, or east, or here. Save her, ravish him, leave me.
My flesh crawls with cells. These unnatural X’s pair and germinate to form this hide, and my skin is sick.
The walls shake and creak, they will give at any moment to crack us all from glass to sand. Shoulder blades to sheets, unable to panic my ribcage rolls in heavy waves. Four sloping walls, past occupants bound by space alone pollute the room, they must dissolve. This whole house sways like a drunkard,  I toast with it.

The wine tastes like poison, and it is.
And I like it that way.

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