Digger

June 16, 2012 at 9:11 pm (Home, Observations, Out) (, , , )

Why on earth do you do it?
The mud on the knees and seat of your jeans give you away;
the dirt that lurks under your nails
shamelessly for days following.

I’ve seen you
at night
digging.

Do you think you’re some kind of
horticultural vigilante
Digging up flowers and seeds,
some with old roots, deep and tangled into nests
some seeds, barely sprouted, embryonic.

Don’t tell me you’re acting in the name of some
high botanical justice.
I’ve seen those you leave bereft:
Tiny, Mr Phips
tending to chrysanthemums alone
since 2004;
Lindsy, and Helen with her round belly,
who just want one shot at the white picket fence.

This morning I found a baby shrub
leaning against the kitchen door.
It’s leaves pale and waxy,
covered in the delicate blossom of some older tree
like a mould.

You sap stained murderer,
why on earth do you do it?

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Obsolete Love Object (A Lesbian Ode to a Socket)

March 14, 2012 at 1:10 pm (Female, Halves, Observations, Rooms, Uncategorized) (, , , , )

For every tune

your partner is better,

and when you buzz

we’ll sing together.

Your sister orifice

is ignorant.

I’ll wet my finger

and electrocute myself –

you bitch, you complicated

rejecter and bleeder.

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Kitchen (I Like)

June 3, 2011 at 1:56 pm (Bodies, Costume, House, Observations) (, , , )

They keep a ball gag in her mouth. Her lips stretch, they’re cracked, as dry and corrugated as the zip of the tight rubber mask. And what’s more, she isn’t what she used to be (someone, somewhere, has the tapes and letters to prove it). For over eight months Bonzo has pushed her sprawling legs out of the way of the fridge, which she is tied to by a thick steel chain, wrapped three times around the cold white box. Perhaps it’s attached to her rubber body suit, perhaps she’s just draped in the chain, weighed down. The landlord explained; a bowl of water on Mondays and Thursdays, dry cereals or porridge on Sundays. Liz took the bins and Bonzo took the gimp. That was to his liking, the gimp didn’t smell quite so bad.

Neil dropped by one sharp April afternoon. Quiet shirt, jeans, radiant amiability, notoriously pleasant. Universally considered sound, recipient of a diverse range of sincere demi-greeting nods. He takes a two beers from the fridge and turns to Bonzo, and with a jaunty smile asks, “Why have you just, you know, got-a-gimp?”

He’s the sort of man who calls a spade a spade. Or a shovel, at a push. Bonzo stares first at him, and then the gimp. The well-meaning words wither in the silence. Neil continues to smile, a veteran of awkward silences, “Like, how some people just have a pool table, you and Liz have a gimp. Why a gimp?”

“She isn’t a gimp, we’re not perverts” sighs Bonzo, “she just came with the house. Come to think of it, she might not even be a she. Those tits could be part of the costume, I never thought to check. It’s in the contract, all I have to do is leave water out for her. It. Her. It.”

“Why dont you check? The rubber’s skin tight, you could have a quick peak between the legs and get some idea of it”

“It always has to be sexual with you,” spits Bonzo defensively,”everything has to be a little bit sordid. So there’s a person in black rubber chained to my fridge and suddenly I ought to be prising it’s legs open and peeping at its genitals like some kind of rapist!”

Neil sniggers apologetically and opens first Bonzo’s beer, then his own.  “Do you ever take the gag out?”

“No” Bonzo exclaims, deeply embarrassed, “I told you, I don’t touch her. Just put out the food and water in a bowl”

“But its arms are chained. Even if it could crouch down low enough to drink in that suit it couldn’t get the gag out.”

Bonzo is silent, taking a great interest in cleaning his nails. With his nails. Transferring the dirt from one to the other.”Look, you’re making me all cross now. Stop asking questions about it. I don’t know, nor would I care to.  I just put the bowls out, it’s in the contract. That’s fine.”

“You always make such a thing out of anything that isn’t the norm. When we were small you were the same. You always had to put my scardox aliens in the deskdraw because they’d ‘wobble at you’, and you made me take that Ziggy Stardust poster down because Bowie’s eyes freaked you out. I loved that poster, but you made me take it down, because you fixate on tiny insignificant things until they become things, things which I love, but you can’t stand”

“So you ‘love’ having a gimp?”

“Yes! No! it isn’t a gimp but no, what I love having a roof over my head, which I wouldn’t if the landlord found out that his” he pauses “fridge-person was gone. Or dead or something.”

The hum of the fridge seems raw and intrusive now. Bonzo sulks into his bottle waiting for Neil to reproach him, admit that he was being silly, ask them to forget it and chill. But Neil just looks calmly out the window, somehow enjoying the green-grey view of mossy concrete. Fuck Neil, right? The silence (or hum) could go on forever for all Bonzo cares.

Eleven O’ clock, Monday. Bonzo and Liz share an early breakfast. At the head of the table Bonzo can see the knee of the gimp peeking around the fridge, shiny and black. ‘Are circumstances perpetually against me?’ He wonders, ‘Or am I just a naturally uncomfortable person.’

Something in him cracks after a minute or two eyeing the jet black shine of the gimp

“I want to swap. I’ll do bins if you feed the gimp” She shrugs staring into her tea wearily. “What do you think of it all, Liz? What did our landlord mean by chaining a gimp to our fridge?” Bonzo looks all wide eyed at Liz, who sits silently for a moment with her index finger pressed to her brow. She speaks.

“In sixth form my English teacher told us that we could do our end of term project on whatever book we wanted. I chose Watership Down, I loved the film. But a week or so in I ran into a problem, Watership Down isn’t about anything. Well, it’s about a group of rabbits trying to get from one place to another, but that’s it. I was shocked. I scrutinised it for days, perhaps it was about the dangers of police state, or our views on patriotism, or our relationship with the laws of nature. Nothing came. Watership Down is about how crap it can be to be a rabbit. No more, no less.”

“So our gimp,” Bonzo’s brow furrows in concentration, “is a rabbit?”

“Not quite,” says Liz, smiling slightly, “our gimp is just a gimp chained to a fridge. Which means that we have a gimp. Chained to our fridge.”

“Fuck you, Neil” Bonzo mumbles into his cereal. “I feel like a pervert.”

ALTERNATE ENDING

“Watership Down is about how crap it can be to be a rabbit. No more, no less.”

“So our gimp,” Bonzo’s brow furrows in concentration, “is a rabbit?”

“Yes.” Liz smiles.

And they all lived happily ever after.

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The Alpha Omega of: Why I am an Awful Writer.

September 27, 2010 at 10:03 pm (Art, For Larks, Observations) (, , )

A is for Almost,
B is for Blast
and C for those Constant
Confusions I Cast.

D makes Disaster
for all Else, my E,
F brings the Fuck ups
and Grievance with G.

H is for Hatred
for myself (that is I),
for the J that is Jaded,
and L, that I Lie.

M is my Mindset
and P is my Pen,
O is for Obvious –
I’m (Q)uite sick of them.

R is for Really
I could if I tried,
S is for Soddit:
my T – Temper decides

how my U – Ultimate
V – Vision turns out.
W for a Writer whose awful at-
Xylophone, fuck!

But with a Y simply Yearns
to mimic her heroes
at the end of her pen spouts
Zip, Zilch, Zero.

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Labouring the Point

September 17, 2010 at 10:45 am (For Larks, Observations) (, , )

An investigation of the word “Point”.

Point Out: To withdraw the phallus from the vagina before ejaculation, also known as The Withdrawal Method.
Labouring the Point: To copulate roughly until genital soreness is induced.
Vanishing Point: The tip of a narrow phallus.
“Great Point”: An ego fuelling compliment.
Points of Interest: The genitals of male celebrities.
Viewpoint: Voyeurism.
Missing the Point: To thrust in the act of coitus, but have ones phallus miss the vaginal opening.
Pointless: Woman.
Bloody Pointless: A menstruating woman.
Pointy: Phallic. Can also be used to describe someone who is full of their self.
“I Can’t See Your Point”: Small man, cold day.
Neat Point: Trimmed.
Valid Point: A man presenting himself to either a homosexual man, a heterosexual woman or a bisexual.
Raising a Point: To induce erectness in the male genitals.
Elaborate Point: Colloquially known as a “Prince Albert”
Irrelevant Point: Nude man, Lesbian
Power Point: To copulate vigorously.
Power Point Presentation: To copulate vigorously in front of another.
“I see your point”: A discreet warning to a man whose flies are undone.
Point A to Point B: To Frot.
Pointy Hat: Condom.
Pinpoint: A very narrow phallus.
Talking Point: Witchcraft!
Pressure Point: To squeeze the phallus uncomfortably.
Point-Scoring: Someone who is said to be “out on the pull”.
Pointed Face: A face which has been ejaculated upon.
Gunpoint: An overused phallic symbol.
Point of Contact: Success!
Vague Point: Klinefelter’s Syndrome.
Double Points: To be penetrated in two orifices by a phallus.
Pointing Out an Argument: To direct, using ones phallus, the attention of another to a piece of information in an academic document.
Pivotal Point: A trick also known as “the helicopter”
Pointed Shape: Phallic (see Pointy)
Putting a Point Across: To switch the phallus from the vagina to the anus during intercourse.
Bonus Point: To discover a secondary set of genitals on ones new sexual partner.
Countering a Point: To joust the phallus of another man to prevent imminent entry into a woman (or man) that one desires.
Bringing Up Another Point: To act as a “Wingman”
Dismantling a Point: Circumcision.
Contesting a Point: To “whip ’em out” (two or more persons required) and see whose genitals are of the largest proportions.
Help Point: To bring a tired man to orgasm.
An Important Point: The phallus of a man who holds (or held) great power. (For instance, the penis of Rasputin, which is said to have been cut from him when he was murdered and is rumoured to be in possession of a third party and still preserved today.)
Assembly Point: A set of genitals so marvellous that man gather around it as soon as it is revealed.
A Redundant Point: The phallus of a eunuch.
Illustrative point: A drawing (or diagram) of the genitals created for medical, educational or artistic purpouses.
Focal Point: The “head” of the penis
Minor Point: The phallus of a gentleman in the coal industry who is unable to spell his profession.
Major Point: An officer in WW1 who was famous for keeping his jewels heavily armoured, constantly afraid that they may been damaged beyond repair by gunfire.
To Point Out Eagerly: The hasty withdrawal of a man who realises suddenly that he is engaging in coitus with a lady of ill repute or odious in face and body.
“I Appreciate Your Point”: “I have been a while without engaging in coitus.”
Final Point: The final commission of an artist in the adult entertainment industry.

This list was composed with help from The Anarchic Dandy (http://flotsamyoni.wordpress.com/), who is as much to blame for this atrocity as I.

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I, Lucifer

July 24, 2010 at 10:41 pm (Observations, The Real) (, , , , , , , )

“If I really am going to say everything just as it occurs to me and be honest about it, then I must start here”
– David Mapp, Алёна VI

So, here we have the fourth wall. The little ambiguity I had surrounding The Electric Angels is going to be gone. As unnoticed and unimportant  as that obscurity may have been, I’ll miss it. Now it’s me talking, and I mean really talking – in that retained manner you’re forced into when there is no longer an allegorical hidey-hole to peek from.

This is not the project that I had in mind. I don’t know who knew, or if it was ever even apparent, but I started this blog off with the intention of writing the diaries of people who never happened. That is all prose really amounts to, I suppose, and that has been the main staple of this project, but it was intended to be more succinct, thicker, stranger. One world full of however many people it grew. Of course, I know that isn’t what a blog is for.

It’s time to reorganise this mess. From the start I’ve been using song titles or lyrics to title my work. This is silly. There are a few cases where this has worked, but mostly it seems awkward and forced. Yes, some of you may recognise the title of this post as an album by The Real Tuesday Weld (spotify, go on), but as I said, sometimes it works. I’m also going to go through everything and actually tag it properly, as if this were a normal blog that I’d expect people to read. I may retitle work or add introductions, I may not.

Lately writing has become harder. Most submissions here have taken me some time between half an hour to a couple of months to complete. But now, all I have is this solitary fragment of an idea which has been slowly chipped at for over three months. And here’s what is unusual: in that time, nothing else has been able to keep in my head. But more on that later. My problem is, as far as I can make out, that I am losing the world.
It started off with music. If you’ve ever tried to read while desperately tired or intoxicated, and for a moment found letters to just be scribbles and wiggly shapes; that is how music sounds now. Strands of noise. Of course, I can still hear. If I want to dance with someone, it is easy enough to analyse the pace, key and tone of the music and deduce an appropriate response, but it is as though a vital step is missing. And now:

Hans Bellmer Doll

Shapes are slowly fading too. My little Hans Bellmer, one of my favourite artists. I could prattle on for ages about this picture (and I do strongly recommend giving his series of dolls “La Poupee” a thorough look), but really that is a memory. Looking at the picture now I could never say why I liked it. There was a girl there, once. And she had a sense of distorted, carnal luxury about her, I remember.  Now it’s just black and white shapes and I’m hoping to Deity that someone can convince me otherwise. Without sound or pictures it becomes difficult to remember why we read or write in the first place. This condition isn’t permanent, I remember being here before, but the stay has never been so long or extreme. Enough bleakness, I have an idea, remember?

Somehow I still have my slowly evolving, continually half forgotten idea, written down safe in more places than I’d normally care to hide it. I can no longer remember what image meant, if it ever had a meaning. It started with Jacques Lacan:

“What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?”

and from there, who knows. Funny how a thing evolves. From the beginning I’ve seen this as a short film, which is awful because I’ve never made one. Either I was to wait until someone stopped by and explained how, or I could do this properly and sit down and have a stab at learning myself. I chose the latter, in one of my sporadic bouts of practicality, and I’ve been doing my homework. It turns out that you can easily access scripts for well known feature films online. This is impressive, I was expecting some half-hearted copyright laws to make them harder to chase down. It has turned out to be a lot of fun (The biggest learning curve being the tragedy that was the screenplay for Silent Hill. I managed to get my hands on an earlier write of the script and, by Samael, there was promise). Like dissecting anything else, it’s a gutsy endeavour and gruesomely educational. I have this eerie, tingly feeling that this will be the easy part.

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Permanent Daylight

May 9, 2010 at 12:13 pm (Observations) (, , )

The things I have tried:

Poe, Screamers, Beetles, Shockers, J-Horror, Dogs, Black Clouds, Open Curtains, Examinations, M. R. James, Torture Porn, Clockless Rooms, Dark Gardens, Eyes, Daneilewski, Woods, Urban Legends, Analogue Cameras, Jumps, Emerson, Kubrick, Shouts, Edges, Falls, M. Myers, Sickness, Breath of Horses, Streets, Exploitation Cinema, Mice Entrails, Ellsion, Monsters, Elderly Wooden Boxes that Smell of Mint, Traffic, Static, Dusty Air, E. T, Faces in the Wall, Disaster, Sprints from an Unnamed Darkness, A Bird in a Room, Strangers, Expanding Walls, Coincidence, Loneliness

And nothing will scare me.
I wait for the axe to fall, feel bitter adrenaline on my tongue, my ribcage fluttering,
for I know it will again. That moment that gets smaller as it hurtles towards me.

and in the meanwhile, before the thread is cut, I chase the comfort of fear.

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The Frenz Experiment

April 20, 2010 at 10:39 am (Observations, Out) (, , )

I read, “Friendships lost to a fractures marriage”, or something like that

And I get to thinking; why should any emotive stillness on this earth mean more to me than any other, including my own,
and how can nonchalance make me so nauseous?
Everything is flat acrylic, little coloured plastic shapes. All isolated, all lines, all beyond my concern.
Every word seems to be follow by some inseparable question of its relation to the centre.

(which today is me)
So to find every word ending in a raw stump where meaning ought to be is frightening.
A friend of mine once said that if you’re not too afraid to answer, your questions can take you to the core of the universe.

And so I look at his baffling theory-fantasy upon this little white page and feel no excitement. This lack is almost puzzling.
Yet even that doesn’t disappoint me. I realise this amazement. It’s gutless, it lacks the bite of reality,
hollow core, vapours above.

So I have written the sky, but it is only a word.

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Ink Mathematics

April 4, 2010 at 9:37 am (Art, Bodies, Observations) (, , )

Sex is terrifying; just like dancing, laughing, falling, menstruating, coughing, sprinting, climbing, cooking, singing, performing, carrying.

If you put pen to paper and make a shape more like itself, more beautiful that any shadow it could have, then you have escaped this sickness. Your hands and wrists; your eyes no longer matter. They no longer have any purpose because you have made a line, and that is a place of its own.

Sculpture is vile. As you press against the world, the blandness of palpable earth will push back into you. You become dusty or dirty, greasy. The universe can creep under your fingernails, if you let it.

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Let the Caged Bird Sing

March 11, 2010 at 12:10 am (Bodies, Halves, Observations, Rooms) (, , )

And he says something like, “Don’t touch me, we shouldn’t be two people.” leaving me to this back broked soggy mess of flesh that is what I am now. I think body is here, I think butterfly and flying fish are dead in this air because you spoke, and made my body

Then scoop up the wormy innards from my lap and put them back, because I don’t really want to be anything at all, you know? Every titchy pinchy action and slip of my fingers makes me flinch and clinch, cause I think these stupid coils will feel pain and that’s stupid because they go beneath the nerves

and I hate those fucking nerves. There is sometimes this whole halo of bit that is just air really, or maybe real thin. Skinny nought. Then there is a wall or a spoon or a woman and they break it and it’s, Eurgh, opaque.
So then he mutters a thing to me, and it doesn’t seem like a word or anything at all, just all grunty hurt beast noise, like boar.

Remember we rode boar backs in the forest and we were two people then cause all the hooves and thumping on the shitstink ground were from these two different piggies and all their horns and biting happened in different places to eachother, and the creatures they ate went only to their own bellies.

Don’t want to live here anymore, it is scum. It is skin and scum and nooks in the wall, you hate it too.

My eyes are numb, no feeling to where they look now, just lots of different seeings of the room. It is the innards, they full. The shock of them against the nerves has hurt my head and it will pass.

Why is he looking at the vermin in the corner? Not even an insect, no wiggly, stalky bits. All gross fur. Now I do not want to go back because his eyes are feeling all the lice and grease, his eyes are licking lice and grease, might make us ill.

Put it in a draw, put it in a desk draw, old bamboo heavy draw where it won’t ever be out of chinese darkwood dark. And I would not have done it if I had been in air, so!

So I win. Fishies and butterflies are deadened at your knees, and I have a vermin in a draw in a desk in a room full of walls and skin. So this is the place I made where I go back, back, back, back, back.

Bye bye, him. Bye, you. You will be all floaty skinny soon. It was disgusting that we met at all really, but I resent nothing. It was natural that there was a whole bough of it all, and it was only normal for it to be in the different bits that made it a thing at all. Bye bye.

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