Pages

30 July 2013

Ecstasy



 

It was good gear; less speedy than a Mitsubishi, but with a cerebral buzz on the top and a heavy body hit like the ecstasy of old. It delivered its silky messages through the loving membrane to the centre of my brain with a herald of triumphant feathered horns. Liquid ease poured through my veins as smoothly as warm treacle. My head was as open and clear as a Sunday morning hush; my bells were ringing in celebration. It was good gear alright, and it tinkled with expectation.

 

The phone trilled musically – so I answered it. I recognised the voice immediately, it was my ex, and she was out to break my balls.

 

“I’ve seen you with that girl and you disgust me” she shrilled.

 

She needn’t have looked. No-one forced her to look, she was just nosey. She cranked it up a level – strictly for my benefit. I held the receiver away from my bloody ear. She had to vent her spleen;

 

“There is a word for men like you – you’re a pervert!” she concluded.

 

Seventeen in leather boots; I must’ve been out of my mind. She was my Lolita moment, forbidden fruit fresh on the vine; I couldn’t help but take a bite. I was old enough to be her father, maybe that was the point, I didn’t ask. We asked no questions and we told no lies. I mounted her like a billy goat. I had the situation well in hand – a few sharp thrusts – a few long strokes... I was slippery to the hilt, she made cooing noises.

 

Those budding breasts, emerging fleshy pears, all smooth and jiggling, were a feast for my hungry eyes. There was the sloppy slap of sodden groins; the strain of muscle and sinew, my senses where alive to her scent, her essence. All concentration went to the pulse at the centre of my being – my throbbing cock. The moment stretched and arrested. My cock, my monument to virility, exploded disgorging a million incendiaries into her womb. Cool shards of ecstasy foamed through our bodies with orgasmic delight. We collapsed back onto the bed – all spent and tingling like electric eels. We expanded into the night to become all the lovers in all the world.

 

I salute you Madame. Here’s to your brace of porcine offspring and their ashtray faced urchins. Take a drag sweet lady, there is nothing like this at sea, just sweaty hands and a quick rubdown with a wet sponge. I am a pervert. I’m a cradle snatcher – indecent and rapacious.

 

“That’s good gear” I said

 

“Where did you get it?”

 

“From Santa Clause” She replied

 

“Enough said”

 

She liked to dance and I liked to watch her dance. Her moves were purely sexual, not everybody can dance that way. She was going through a pupation; the final emergence of her sex. She was pretty basic in that she didn’t play games. I liked it like that. I had enough complication in my life.

When she’d come over we’d talk a little and then we’d cop some E’s and fuck all night. She’d dance for me and we’d dance together; then we’d fuck some more.

 

Dancing naked is a freeing experience, you feel quite exposed. You feel you are doing something primal, magical, but it’s no good on your own - you need a partner, one at least. That’s the beauty of ecstasy – it frees you up to the possibility of self expression without inhibition.

 

“Ever smoked an E?” She asked.

 

“Smoked it?” I enquired.

 

“Yeah, crush it into pipe and smoke it”.

 

“No – never”

 

“Wanna try?” She asked

 

“Yeah – go for it” I replied.

 

I’ll try anything once and twice for good measure. I took a blast, I took some more. It felt good; a thousand doves fanned my lungs and spread their soft wings across my heart. My blood surged with electrical potential into my fevered brain and pulsed in easy beats to the rhythm of my heart. Something magical seeped into my eager flesh and I felt as buoyant as a cloud. I shed warm rain from my opened pores and unfolded out into the universe like a hungry flower.

 

“This is good” I oozed.

 

“Told you” – she had.

 

“This is fabulous”

 

“It’s great, but it doesn’t last long” she said.

 

“Nothing good ever does” I replied.

 

She was candy sweet, my Georgia peach. The world revolved on  those slender hips. She lit me up and gladdened my heart. We frolicked as children in the summer sun and for one brief season we were the best of pals. But summers end in autumn leaves and our autumn arrived all too soon.

“I’ll never forget you.”

It was a bombshell. I knew it was over. She hadn’t said as much, but she was already thinking of me in the past tense. I had always known it would come. I’m a realist. However, I hadn’t anticipated the sinking sensation that gripped my heart. I took it on the chin though and kept the beat.

“And I’ll never forget you.”

 

With 20/20 I can see that it was a learning experience for us both. Our covert assignations were thrilling and instructive. She learned to wield her power as a woman. I learned to love with a lighter touch. We both received as much as we gave and I have only fond memories of her.

The days receded as summer dwindled. Things were winding down and she came around less frequently. There was no discussion, no heart-searching, no tears. We never said goodbye – she just stopped visiting. I never saw her again, but I never did forget.

 


27 July 2013

Mental

Clown

I made a cunt of myself      for no real reason    that spike through my heart    the faulty adrenal gland       sending acidic transmissions      through my mind and body    I could tear my skin off, fuck!


I spiralled on terrible trajectories     Like that moth in the bathroom     on its fatal last flight     an elongated spasm racked    and viciously surged

the reckless head load of poison      acrid in my mouth     my words have cancer     cutting words, killing words     no balance attenuated      no reason attempted     all passive strategy      lies in wait for the unwary       then pounces ferocious    Into the maelstrom, fuck you!  fuck you!      and fuck you too   


I’ll smash your face in       eat your entrails for breakfast     tear the stars from their sockets and grind them to dust    don’t come home       I started a fight      and  damaged my being      with psychotic clubs
.

23 July 2013

rubbers

Rubber

there was time to murder    down at the cemetery   where lecherous old doggers     retched and decaying    rolled off slippery with sweat and cum    having telegraphed images    pornographic in nature     to their casual hook ups     and anal slime buddies      who stood with their phones    in regimental order       their viagra fuelled members       stiff to attention

the klu klux midnight jamboree   is pursuing their orgasmic high    in a well worn car park    by the broken leisure centre     with his    or her    eyes   on tonight’s shallow prize    “we’ll go at it bareback”   declared the brassy young beastial   “so shed ‘em and spread ‘em    the devil take the hindmost   I heard he prefers his meat doggy style”

“you have a bonny mouth    lets you and me be friends      you suck real good     now put your teeth back in      the queen of sheba    is in the next motor   cannibalising mirrors    and playing the diva…”     he was expecting caviar  on crisp golden crackers    but settled for sloppy seconds     as did his lady in waiting     the unnamed bendy bird     with the black nylon hair

sometimes meat      sickens me a while     no doubt the occasional dalliance       brings pleasure to the senses    but it does nothing for my soul      so I’m going home      to an ice cold shower    that kind of love is hard on the haunches     besides the last rubbers left     with my favourite lover     but I still got her number     coz she expects meat       and I’ve got that in my locker    

 

18 July 2013

Yahweh

god_blk
a long time ago
the great god Yahweh
unleashed on the Earth
war, plague, famine, and death
in generalised semantics
those parasitic beings
called homo sapiens
bearing fatal messages
of peace, love and harmony
while they butchered
with glorious indifference
and espoused primal laws
the survival of the fittest
to justify their ignorance
pleased to meet you
you and me shoot good
we be friends
eat my gun
the end

.

17 July 2013

Flowers

Flowers

Whose grave did you rob
To bring me flowers
How much did you steal
To buy my love
Where did you go to
When I needed your shoulder
Who will you turn to
When I show you the door
.

13 July 2013

Doomsday Device

Bellsdyke
His name was Robert and he had a twin brother Richard who, he explained, was on another ward because they could read each other’s minds.

“Together we are too formidable for the nurses to tackle.”

He was a tall, slender, carrot top of about twenty eight years. When he spoke his hands fluttered in his lap like birds trapped in a cage.

“My father was a minister in The Church Of Scotland. He resented our gift. There was a massive power struggle and he locked us in a time capsule for the sake of science.”
He looked around furtively.

“We don’t belong here, but they had the idea we were building a doomsday device, so they locked us in here. No vision you see. No vision.”

He stalked off with a loping gait when he saw one of the nurses coming into the ward. He had some complaint or other; he had many quite fanciful complaints.

The wards were named after Scottish islands; we were on Islay and Robert’s brother Richard was on the neighbouring island of Jura. It seemed appropriate to me that the wards were named for islands, because each of them seemed just like a little island separated from the mainland of everyday life. The building that housed these islands was a vast rambling Gothic Victorian asylum, a bedlam as they were once called. Locally its name, Bellsdyke, was synonymous with lunacy.

I was placed there as a voluntary patient under the understanding that if I had not volunteered I would have been ‘sectioned’ under the mental health act as a danger to myself or others. It was a Hobson’s choice - volunteer or we will make you. I would be detained there under observation for thirty days until it was determined what would be done with me. I had come to hospital a fractured personality with certain delusions and suicidal tendencies. I was a manic depressive, but did not know this at the time.

During the first few days I kept myself to myself. I felt I did not belong there anymore than Robert felt that he belonged there. I was deeply depressed and withdrawn. The nurses tried to coax me into interaction with my fellow inmates, but I would not be drawn. Gradually though I began to acclimatise to my surrounding, at least during the daylight hours. At night I found the hospital a weird and frightening place. All night I could hear people sobbing or crying out in distress. I could hear doors slam and footfalls echoing down long empty corridors. The boy in the bed next to me would not stop crying, I didn’t blame him I wanted to cry myself.

It was several days before I encountered Richard. He was identical to Robert in every way, except that he wore a three piece tweed suit. He was standing in the recreation room of Islay ward watching a joiner replace the sashes in one of the old wooden windows. He turned and walked to the rec room table, which was festooned with books and pamphlets and picked up a notepad. He approached the joiner and flicking through the pad informed him that he had the wrong window.
“It’s this window that needs fixed.”

The joiner nodded and dutifully undid his work and proceeded to the next window. He was nearly finished when the sister arrived and informed him that he had replaced the sashes in the wrong window.

“But the doctor”, he said, indicating Richard, “told me it was this window.”

The sister smiled forbearingly,

“He is a patient.”

Richard quickly about faced and skulked off like a guilty schoolboy.

That night, after his parents had left, the boy in the bed next to me was distraught and he sobbed for hours. I despaired of ever getting to sleep, but the nurses gave him a shot and he was soon out cold. I woke up in the early hours with the lights flashing on and off. Robert was at the light switch.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked groggily.

“Morse code,” replied Robert.

“Why?” I asked.
He just gave me an indulgent smile, stupid question.

“Who are you signalling?”

“That’s a secret.”
“Please stop it,” I implored, “I’m trying to sleep.”

Just then we heard footsteps approach the door and Robert jumped into his bed. “What’s going on?” enquired the nurse.
“He won’t stop talking,” said Robert pointing an accusing finger in my direction, but averting his gaze.

“Get to sleep Robert,” said the nurse and closed the door.

Robert had an aversion to television. Most of the other patients were avid viewers during the hours of seven till ten when we were allowed to watch. He believed television would steal your thoughts. However, he did not leave the television room while it was on. He paced about behind our chairs making cryptic comments while averting his eyes. One evening he became particularly animated while we were watching Top of the Pops.

“It’s propaganda!” he exclaimed. “Turn it off,”
he made a grab for the switch, but was intercepted.

“It’ll melt your brain!” he insisted.

Then after many attempts to distract us he said in a sly voice, “I’ll detonate the device.”

We ignored him. He began a countdown “10, 9, 8...” When he reached zero he slammed his hand into the fire alarm and all hell broke loose. There were bells ringing everywhere. The nurses arrived from their station to see what was going on and to evacuate us from the building.

“It was just Robert,” we protested, but regulations are regulations.

The whole hospital was evacuated and we all, many of us in pyjamas, stood outside in the snow while we were counted and the fire brigade did a search of the building. I was standing next to Robert and he turned to me and said, “BOOM”.

The next time I saw him he was being dragged away by two orderlies screaming for help.

“John! John! Help me!”

It was two days before he arrived back on the ward. He was a shambling shadow of his former self. The ‘chemical cosh’ the other patients called it; a drug called largactil, a common treatment for schizophrenia. I seemed like a punishment to me, punishment for unleashing the doomsday device.
.

11 July 2013

Vicious Monkeys

Skins

vicious monkeys

getting frisky

all elbows and tongues

shaven heads

and swastika smiles

wrong man

wrong place

the power of the knife

twists in the stomach

men must fight

cowards must flee

with the pulse

beating in my throat

blood pool coiling in my gut

I fled

never looked back

whoops of laughter

still ringing in my ears

.

10 July 2013

The Last Message

Time

the heart is huge and soft
and melts like butter
you don’t have to ask me why
I still carry on with the Freudian Fraud
peace descends with God’s own medicine
the Japanese sandman commits hara kiri
bleeds on the sandals of Jesus’s son
the last ever message on the front cover
oh father – what have they done?
.

3 July 2013

Quislings

Quisling_01
I know that they have me under surveillance; some shady fucker with a telescopic lens hiding behind a neighbour’s blinds, undercover operatives tailing me in unmarked cars. You might think me paranoid, but these fucks are seriously nosy. Plod has an insatiable appetite for ‘intel’. I have a scrupulous fascination with privacy – there are conflicting interests at work here.

Tongues are wagging. Lies are being smeared. There are quislings in my camp – ready to turn me over. There are piggies with their snouts in my trough. They’ll know my schedule by now – they’ll have been monitoring my movements. Well, I can change my schedule, alter my movements. I’ll adopt a disguise and go incognito. They’ll have to get up early in the morning to catch this worm.

While they are watching me – I’ll be watching them. My eyes are peeled for signs of their presence and I have eyes in the back of my head. They lack the energy to keep up with me, I’m a veteran insomniac. While they doze I’ll be making my moves. I might be a target, but I’ll be a moving target. Crazy? I’ll show them who’s crazy!
.

2 July 2013

Rat Boy


A nightstand with an empty cup and full ashtray – a book of placebo poetry – pretty words strung together for abstract effect. I garner images like the crumbs of toast itchily deposited on my mattress. I neck my medication after carefully chewing each pill with care.

(ONE to be taken at night. If sleepy do not drive or operate machinery. Avoid alcohol. Swallow this medicine whole. Do not chew or crush.)

I go for the heavy stone – the terminal rush. I reach out for a taste of oblivion and oblivion reaches out to me. I have no fear of falling. Gravity is my best friend. That heavy hand on my shoulder – that warm envelope of darkness is the closest thing to the womb – outside of death.

I like to write. I like the exercise of assembling the words – negotiating meaning – no obfuscation – there can be no doubt, no room for mistakes. Mine is a struggle for meaning; it’s more than a mere obsession, it’s a life or death contest. The notebook on the nightstand is full of scribbled impressions – most are indecipherable to all but me.

The bedroom window is open just enough to let the night seep in. I feel the hum of the city streets, hears the howls of monkey bands making their way home in the wee small hours. Just before I succumb to sleep I think I hear a scratching sound somewhere in the room.

I dream of a long corridor with locked doors on either side. I am running from something or looking for someone. I dream about a girl, someone strange yet familiar. She is my woman and I have to protect her from some unseen threat. 

I dream that the girl is pregnant. She gives birth to a rat. However I try to care for the child I feel revulsion and I cannot help thinking that this is my replacement. It makes perfect sense; Rat Boy is the ultimate survivor. It’s only when the infant calls me ‘Dad’ that I wake up with a jolt.

The sky is grey, the light is thin. It could be anytime, but my body tells me that it’s six am. I always awaken at six am. I kid myself that it’s a lifetime of routine, but it’s junk and I know it. My body awakens me every morning screaming for ease. I am less well equipped for survival than Rat Boy, I shudder as I recall my dream, Rat Boy has no weaknesses like junk.