My second ever video blog; in which I talk about the Sudden Denouement Anthology, and my photography website:
My second ever video blog; in which I talk about the Sudden Denouement Anthology, and my photography website:
I inhale the smoke and gasp under the lights in this jet black room. Sweating bodies and dead flesh grind and bump around me, so much cadaverous globules. The first pill hasn’t kicked in yet – I can still taste dry ice and hairspray – so I pop another and dream of my future.
Above me on the stage, the party is just getting started. But I don’t party. I’m looking for sensation, real feeling. I see empty men and indifferent women, just so many appendages and openings, no more atuned to love as the assembly instructions for furniture. I’ve already seen a Princess, but the low bass throb is reacting badly with my shoes and I’m struggling to move more than five yards a minute.
It doesn’t matter. She comes over to me, just as the second pill kicks in, and her eyes turn into a pair of gold coins ringed with black. Leaning on a table, my opening line isn’t brilliant. Are you blind? Can you see? It’s fine if you can’t…. I’m not prejudiced. She’s sympathetic but confused. I’m confused but sympathetic. With firm hands and long nails pinching under my armpits, she hauls me out of the bonfire before the strobe dilutes my memory.
Dragged across the floor, I can see the artifice of this place. No ceilings, just vents. No lights, just effects. My trousers are sticky with beer and other questionable things. I have a flashback memory; fourteen years old, first time getting loaded on beer stolen from my parent’s fridge, listening to music on my headphones whilst lying on my bed and feeling as though I were floating into the song… like melody could be fluid, and something one could swim around. I felt my immature quilt cover melting around my arms and legs, the pillow swallowing my head, falling into the rabbit hole of a greater sensation of feeling. I’ve never felt better than that teenage drunk.
She drags me into the Gents and rams two fingers down my throat, her long nails lacerating the roof of my mouth. I instantly throw up foam and blood, as a concerned man with aftershave and soaps for sale looks on. She rubs my back, tells me Everything Will Be Okay, and buys some wipes from the dude. He won’t accept her money, but she has a way of making things happen.
What’s that Smiths lyric? Under the iron bridge, we kissed. This isn’t an iron bridge and we don’t kiss. She drags me outside and we meander, supporting me as best she can, until we sit under the ruined arch of an ancient church. The fresh air ploughs into my senses and I feel like I am drowning. Even the stars in a cloudless sky move too fast. She sits with me, holding my hand, and asks me questions. I try and answer them all flirtatiously, but she just laughts. She wants to know who I am. When I sit still the echoes of the bass still pinball around my head and send me off-balance. Her arm around my shoulder isn’t affection… it’s protection.
At some point, I ask her for her number and she hands me a card with a wink. I go for a kiss, and she darts away from my lips and plants a wet one on my cheek, grabbing a handful of my expanding groin in the process. I look up and mumble something about the moonlight. I can barely focus on the damn thing, glowing and bulbous above us. She looks up and points, tells me about footprints that will never be erased and flags that will never stop fluttering, if we can just believe in the impossible…. something something. Something something? Why can’t I remember….? Fucking hell. Why can’t I remember?
I woke up in the gardens, not far from the arch. I opened my eyes to a dogwalker, crouching nearby to pick up some shit and eyeing me pathologically, trying to assess whether I was still alive. Underneath the crook of a low shrub, dry from the morning dew and still wrapped in her denim jacket, I rolled out from my little grave and surveyed the morning with a thumping headache and slime on my lips. I felt something sharp in my pocket and I remembered, the card she’d given me.
It was blank except for a lipstick kiss and words scrawled in biro; TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF.
In the dream, she walks behind me as I stand in front of something impossible, trying to find my way around it. She wraps her tentacles around my waist with a squeeze and I feel her breath on the back of my neck. My hair, and everything else, stands to immediate and obediant attention. When did I get so submissive? I feel her breasts pressing into my ribcage and her heartbeat thumps against my spine, playing the bones like a xylophone. I can feel the nerves dancing in my heels.
Nothing is impossible inside your forcefield. Wearing you like a rucksack, with your arms wrapped around my neck and your legs hooked under my arms we flatten mountains and part seas. We stomp across suspension bridges, leaving rippling waves that send cars and coaches flying into the air and over the edge. We reduce cathedrals into dust and snort an ecclesiastical line or two from our forearms. Your long scarlett red hair hisses like serpents and cuts like a molten whip, slicing through the forearms and necks of any fool who steps in our way. We collect limbs like pennies in a casino flattened by a tornado.
I offer impossible things, because I like it when you bite my ear in irritation. One day, we walk into the sea with our pockets full of rocks, to see the shipwrecks and pickpocket the dead. I know that this is an impossibility too far, and as the cold water curls around my ankles and then my knees, I realise that I’m feeling for the first time. We go under into a deep blue and I cannot breathe. I stumble along, in the vague direction of the skeletons of ships, seaweed waving us away, until your heel nudges me in the hip. You’re pointing in the direction of a metal husk, with eyeless sockets where the Captain’s bridge used to be, and a broken bow like a dislocated jaw.
I trudge over, but my feet are getting heavier, or you are getting heavier, or the tide is pushing us back. I turn my head to meet yours and we kiss, but I realise as our lips meet that you are struggling as well. I taste your tongue, mingling with sea water, and we break apart, our lungs convulsing as you hold me tighter than you have ever done before. Arms around my neck, my ribcage compressed and your heartbeat now beating tribally against my back.
I wake up face down. My pillows have been violently tossed out from under my head and are resting on my back where your breasts once were. There’s blood on the sheets from chewing my lips apart. I’ve gripped the sheets so hard, my fingers have pushed through. Every muscle is locked tight. I roll over with some effort and stare at the ceiling until I can escape impossibility and return to a safety I don’t want anymore.
I remember the first time I saw my schoolteacher naked. I’d returned from lunch early to avoid being alone in a crowd; I preferred to be alone whilst alone. I opened the door and found Miss Kempt, laying back in her chair with her eyes closed. Both ankles were resting on the desk as she reclined, knuckle deep inside herself, with a sanitary towel clinging on to the gusset of her panties which itself hung from one knee. For some reason, it reminded me of the pathetic bunting we’d put around the corridors with messages of learning and wisdom, quotes from dead cunts we didn’t care about telling us to learn stuff we didn’t care about so we could grow up and get jobs we didn’t care about, and meet partners we didn’t care about and have children…. well, you get the idea.
I snuck out before she could notice I was there and took my boner into the boy’s bathroom. I showed it to the weird kid in the class next to ours in exchange for three sticks of gum and four packets of stickers. He just stared at it for a while, breathed on it, tried to touch it but then flinched away like it was an exposed electrical socket. With a last wheeze from his stuffed nose, he gulped hard and ran into a cubicle, slamming the door behind him. I zipped myself up and left, my head feeling light and without blood.
When we all finally returned to class, Miss Kempt was on her knees sponging the floor, next to a bucket of pale, pink water.
I do a few tabs of blotter acid and head for the arcade. Mercy is working tonight; a diva with dirty feet and a bruised knuckle from knocking the shit out of her Dad. I nod towards her, but those circular hawk eyes are scanning the room like a survellience camera. This time of year, old homeless guys come in looking for warmth and free water, using their last pennies to start a game they’ll never finish as they get the feeling back in their throats and fingers. Mercy shows none; she stands behind the old fools waiting for them to take a turn of a game they can’t understand, before throwing them out by their greasy collars.
A seventeen year old boy in a huge uniform, with a rock in his throat, waves at me and offers me a gappy smile. Slip works the ice cream parlour, which is why I never order any. Slip’s face is pebbledashed with acne, a series of hideous eruptions that produce small yellow snakes whenever he does something like talk, or breathe or exhale into his cheeks. Mercy has thumped him twice; once when he tried it on with her and once when he tried to jerk off into the salted caramel.
Somewhere around the fifth go on House Of The Dead the wave crashes over my brain and I’m failing badly. I take a few more tabs, knowing there is no going back now, and my only chance is to fry my brain so badly it tries to reset itself. Monsters are reaching out from the cabinet to wrestle the light gun from my hand. I can feel the coins in my pocket chewing each other like little Pac-Men. I step away from the encroaching zombies and start firing the light gun wildly at a ten year old boy trying to play Virtua Cop on the machine next to mine. He has red eyes and sounds like James Earl Jones, and I know he is controlling the monsters and so must be destroyed.
When I regain consciousness, I’m sitting on the floor against the shutter of the arcade. It’s closed, but the lights still blink and fizz above me. My head has melted to my knee, bone on bone, and I scream as I wrench it free. Standing up, on one leg and with the sea wind blasting through the hole in my head, I stumble down the empty promenade. On nights like this I’ll break into a car and sleep on the backseat, because the wallpaper in my bedroom moves and makes me seasick.
A few pictures from a recent shoot/wander to announce the launch of
a dedicated and more organised site for my photographic work.
I bleed always
Translucent and odourless, it flows cold
Flavourless and…. pointless?
The grief of distant stars…
…no longer there…
…the light reaching us too late.
Can you be saved?
Do you need?
Do you want?
Touch your fingers
Eyelash-kiss my moist cheeks again…
As you snore in my arms, the vibrations run through me like the tremors of an earthquake; the ripples spreading out like stones hurled into a pond.
Your sonorous baritone makes my atoms dance.
I see my reflection in your eyes and I’m always dying. Always falling to my knees clutching my chest or covering a wound on my neck. Always clinging to life inside that perfect circle of black.
Hide me under a quilt so I can bury my tongue between your legs, picking hairs out of my teeth. I’ll wet my broken lips against your sex, nodding my head…
…agreeing with everything you say. Hide me under the sheets, leave me to nest between your thighs and not come out until the spring.
I put down my cup of tea on the table and pretend to scratch my nose; actually, I’m sniffing my fingers. I’m wearing her black thong under my skinny jeans, so my cock is half squashed and half rubbed raw against the zip fly. My hair is filled with her shampoo. My teeth glisten with her toothpaste.
The question is asked
__ ___ ____ ____ ______ _____?
and I reply;
Excuse the language, mother…
…but I fucking love her.