hauté boheme

/криостатированной горячки/

dis! gus! ting!

Cocooned on the seat before
in the fleshy circle of a slut and a rapist
Gnawing with awe-ful fingers on her hair
and kissing her too many moist times
on the nose, the stomach, the retching, spastic forehead
She came from her
She was forced into and out of
that stranger’s womb

An act of violence put her there
now only violence keeps her

a study of futility

In the first life he has landed.
In the second weight has sprained all his knuckles
he bobs in her hands.

In the third life he thrashes into flight.
In the fourth nothing gives
her fingers are a noose about his wrist.

In the fifth life he is let go.
In the sixth he is netted and spooned
from water into wetter gasping horror.

In the seventh life he wills out the heart.
In the eight his ribs are belted
breath demanded from below.

Truly, there is
No Exit.

Hell is – other people.

deep bass protest

the dead gong sounds
in the dead of the night

star-light wrinkled feather
and a burnt, dying-out fist-fight

delight people-flying
with a bounce air-tight

arm slight to the belly
on the hood on the car’s top-light

what height feinted moisture
over-bruised clanking screams “de-knight!”

takes-fright motor screaming
deep-bass morse-code writes

“I’m slight-ly off-duty see
you tomorrow, good-night”

slept tight
her head on the tarmac song

dance class

Thirty-odd girls supine on the floor,
each her own dais

she kneels and crows, half-naked
with nets of strings wound up her thighs
and leather mousetraps chewing open her feet

one hand flattens her womb
her face is carved too devoid for her neck to carry
with an intention so compressed she can
swallow a mouthful and float up

buoyed by each curving elbow
made to bend and carry
she trembles motherless under
white strips of dew
that fall, syncopating, off her breast

and prays the rhythm accepts her fever
prostrated in every possible
towards an altar
that shines back
every shorn

Story of the day : why, even, do i dance-class?

study of spasm

Pulled into meditation
producing only disgust
The face of the body scrunches
and dourly, escapes itself

Because any organ can only exit out of itself, through itself, into itself.

needle horror

I am sorry for the weight of this old betrayal. I know you have smelt it in approaching days, that wet rancid is clear in the stiff blood hanging idle-busy in my distant sour limbs. I can smell your piss and fear. Until now the news has not yet reached the heart, pray for me he remains a damp and bundled load i can lug safely to the tip of the block. The trial itself will be sharp and short and slippery, and after worlds will have been popped into place, edges of death receded by inches. The world will be clear, sickness spared, or ill, will not have worms in my gut or the sick fester that rises from behind the eyes as they gaze upon the suns of Cambodia.

But really – a needle stuck into my flesh and the sterile fluid squeezed into my new orifice. Horrors, i would rather die early unraped.

I have seven days, and by then i must be cured.

Brothers, sorry i have been gone so long.

little death

i told Corbett that he was old
and his face split
was reamed
by realising the wrinkles that hung off it
to say ’no’
he shook his dreary udders
from which no more wisdom poured
and pronounced ‘i am dry now’
with a surgical flourish

at sixteen i took up despair
and wondered from which nook in my shoulders
i could see my genius flow

i picked a country off a map
‘Nebraska’ was a good, strong name
for a nation with a beard and orange hills
i would save the people there
there was no better start to conquest
for i could see its end already
nations clamouring for the touch of my hands
mother teresa died in my bed
i wept and shuddered and
poked my head under thick covers
as i roamed about the streets
and felt a rhythm of vast aloneness
syncopate my bucking hips
i drooled cyanide into my pillowcase
from resistances dotted past Europe and Russia
i kissed sartre in the frigid french air
joined tongues with Einstein
shared St Helena’s with Napoleon
pushed Hitler off a cliff
his face shining from under my floor ball stick

i have awoken with my hands strapped to my sides
in a white room sprayed with antiseptic
after tearing the skin off my kneecaps
for i could not stand the regular pattern
of little scratched dots there
yesterday Corbett told me
i had never been to France
or Prague
had stabbed a friend with a toothpick
he told me he would not strangle me
and covered me with a grey blanket that fell in puddles
i could not straighten with my bound hands

but someday
when i can
i will write his name in a little red book
and beside it,
“is old”
and he shall fall to the ground in the same agony
that carved insides out of a scalpel-wielding me

Corbett told me that i was mad.


This evening i tilted my skull towards the sky and saw a Michelangelo’s sunset covering the expanse i know as sky – swept off the urbane bus and phlegm-specked windows i suddenly become aware of a deep, throbbing desire to believe in something bigger than myself – to see that there would be a god absolute enough to have patented this beauty or churned it out in a colour factory with an audience of captivated humans with their manmade reason to have witnessed – and then i look down at the blue duffel stuffed between my legs, and the stale, pale, smell of sweat gracing an air hemmed in by many skins – and hear the children asking fantasy questions – “mummy, if you could be anywhere now, where would you be?” – and energetically i laugh myself off like a puerile joke.

I cannot resign myself to smallness, and as a result am doomed to insanity.

atlas weeping

Admit – is freedom supposed to be a chore? Suddenly i am able to understand the plight of atlas – i must answer for everything, have done everything, have been thrust into the world conscious and only too possessed of my own faculties. There are deaths continents away that i want to fold up under, tuck my feet up on a couch, miles above the floor when the blackness spills from distant sky into a discrete night in the bedroom. You, too, must pay for every second wasted as you grieved over the biological convergence that swaddled you into existence, and the bright outrage takes precious illogical seconds you cannot answer for. The world is beating on about you in within its silly incomprehensible law. No human scribe can read reason into the absurdity of our race, to which the angry, foolish, individual is the key – the man who distract himself with jobs, sex, and other people. This tribe has concocted its own reason – sketched crude parodies onto papyrus held beside the sun, turned and stared point-blank into the monstrous rim of eclipses, cried at seeing death, a more distant death like the starvees in Uganda that could not be more pure of bereavement – and yet they are. You are hugging everyone selfishly, egotistically to your chest, may believe that when one world ends all the others go marching on in the same invincible ignorance. But your life is not like the others – the phenomenal world is a dirty and threatening loan-shark, and to add humiliation to despair we cannot describe it in languages it has not already given us – rogues and thieves and highwaymen. Now you are kneeling upon a red carpet with a stake in your arms, and you remember that you have been nothing but an attempt by a species in the quest permanence and beyond that, a dark intelligible void. You place the stake onto the floor and slowly lower your heart into its sweet, weeping embrace.
The function of explanation at y=laziness yields a negative value of x.


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