kleaver

How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

Tag: literature

the voyeur

i was fucking you in the grass
and she stood
and then took a picture of us

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I have not come here to spill for a long time – I am sorry.

Protected: Sakhalin burning

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Protected: a study of futility

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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

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

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Corbett told me that i was mad.

at the mill with slaves

I concede – would rather be named 14763 than a silly unpronounceable thing of romanised ‘asiatic language’. And really, i would rather not be named at all. I would like to be raised with fifty million other cherubs in a petri dish, produced by whirring machinery or rows of birthmothers strapped to daises in a clean production line, timed screams, timed labour, babies popping like popcorn to a cosmic manmade rhythm. I should be crammed with organic logic – i would be breathed into life from a first body – the first  achiever of everything, i the machine evaluated every five minutes, battery checks and math. I would like to be stencilled into a character, well-oiled, the flesh concession to a world carved from itself – the brain turned against and into tiny metal canisters, transistors and lawful jetpacks. Bad faith will become the natural state, everything will be told what to do, we will relinquish ourselves and be incapable of fear or dysphoria, we will have no choices to pretend to make, or even lives to live – for this beautiful earth is too sublime to be life. We should pass into objects and out of objects, never having lived and never really dead, stark chance combinations, manufactured atomic algorithms, random, real.
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Bravely, I aimed at utopia. And missed.

Now i know you – the dogma has faded from your face and you fall into my lap, a nude flap of flesh colour.

hello, amygdala

Hello, Amygdala. Do you see out of my tiny cut-out windows that strange and foreign man across the table? He is speaking, his lips are glistening and gnashing furiously into the shape of words, and when the occasional violent sound is called for, the tip of a viper tongue spittles out from between the gouged-out insides of the mouth and spits effluent into the air. When he is not shovelling food into his mouth he is excavating these words – all the way from Sakhalin that smoke-puffing incarceration from the other side of alimentary land. Suddenly i realise that he is hollow, and his actions transform – his mouth engorges in aggressive ripples and cradles slowly the contents of his stomach as they are brought out, dilated, under the light. The intestines are a trouble to unfold, but the vapid negroid bones fold obediently under the lap of a bloody, clumpy mass and now the whole system is herculean, pumping machinery – whistling with angry air socketed from one end of Person to the other, and still his hands march smoothly on, impaling himself furiously onto spoons and spoons of risotto, cream sauce whisked into the gale and ejaculated like albino mice just seconds after – the whole thing a sick diorama, clockwork.
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Excuse me – I am pregnant with cherubs and wish to vomit them out into the world.

gristle sea

Disgust is clawing a battered way from my backpack of ribs even me as i fix my smooth, rolling gaze at her round, proud face. She glares sunnily back at me, inflated by everything she has ever said or done in her life, and her pimples wink like little metropolises in the sunlight. It is a casual disgust that rises at any hour – even as my eyes float over her kneecaps – that seem to be floating in hard lumps of cold fat, and the vast expanse of her body, bag smug over the right shoulder. There is a hand trickling up the front of my throat and the fingers are gnawing steadily at every deep intestinal duct, milking bile into my eyes as the fibre of my spine rustles in a shared misery. She is splayed like a debauched roman cow, gorged on wine and roast, a huge ham which, upon ingestion, emits matted phlegm-coated betrayal – strange, as though i had mistaken her for another of the little people – the chronic tossers, dependants, that i abandon and have been thoroughly abandoned by.
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It is a casual, cruel disgust that rises at any hour and at all things.

the flat affect

A molecule off a tickertape counter must have graced Clemenceau Avenue on the fifth of January, two-thousand and fifteen, for as a bus pulled into a stop, its doddery air-conditioning pipe leaked water clandestinely onto the road, drops running together as the bus slowed to let loose its beeping brood into a stock of villas opposite – and now morphing into a third black stripe gracing the two yellows (parking, forbidden) on the grey tarmac – and now it has left, is picking up speed and streaking away from the poor sweat-sodden businessman with overflowing breath, vacuum gusting air that waves his tie good-bye over his shoulder, while the poor man, vanquished, stares at the growing blanks between the punctiform splashes, vivisected upon his lost road.
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I confess – I have been walking out and giving the foul cough to the lambs that fled past on the street.