violate responses

by culturehero

Posted to Action Poetry on 2001-05-06 05:56:00

I think it began when I put the suit in a small box under the bed instead of on my usual body, a decision reached powerfully with a not unimpressive panache in one of my increasingly common drunken moments of reality; frequently boiling down to desperate grasps at draining bottles to force their insides down myself so that I forget who I am and what I have done with my life, at least so far, up to the point I am presently recounting here. Many people saw this, I think, as the ‘beginning of the end’, as it were, of my oh so bastard life. You see, for the past fifteen years I found myself working in an office. This is as specific as I want to be, failing as I do to believe that the shit I perform carries any kind of title, purpose or function in society as we know it. I am constantly reassured by ugly men that it indeed does, and without the likes of me – drones they chortle and breathe into their brandy and ten-year malt at the end of their two hour days, fat red-faced ancient butchers, these pork-loined executives in drab clothing and wispy singed head coats – life would be a very different experience to that we live now. I tend not to listen to their tirades. I tend not to care. I tend to fucking hate these people, and for the very threat that it is the likes of me that create the life I lead for myself, change was expected.
Gently indifferently walked home on a typically unpleasant day. I seemed to be trapped in some complete refusal to see anything good in the world, and I understood completely why; look at myself, I thought as I passed the station I should have been entering to catch the same train I have travelled as an entity upon for too long to even move lips over, thru brain merges and news stories and crashing bridges and pregnant women going on and watering and children’s screams and parents hands – open closed – and rain and sun and wind and hair messed and stolen baggage “asleep to the last stop sir?” a coat torn by coffee aggression and fingers grazed by obsolete decorative door handles that never open, and a changing landscape of twisted trees reaching awkwardly to somewhere they want to be, so beautifully green and I felt free thru a sunshine reflection and hazy laying kicked off shoes after office hell and the track just going on with cigarette offences where the fine is £50 and they saw me every time every ten minutes with new sticks hanging from mouths and not sure how to react to open breaches so maybe confrontation “no smoking here sir,” to a continuation refusal I’m not smoking, “isn’t that a cigarette in yer mouth?” – nervous anticipation, I see the bead of sweat finding its way down yer face, what’s this they send the youngest guy on the train, with the spots and slightly flared trousers, the awkward gangly greasy hair stance of impressionable adolescence, the first job anxiety of I’ve gotta get this right, the knocking knees and pleading eyes… tho the clouds and the sky thru the window – “no” – how could he refuse that’s smoke comin outta his face he crumbles inwardly to his own lung revolting, there is no mother now, he smiles trying to retain authority, mumbles in a broken voice “then let’s just keep it that way shall we, siiiiir,” (drawn out bastard they’re thinking), so I wink at the guy stumbling towards a door brain wheels turning like fucking piston-man he won’t get out and we both know he’ll never work again; but then settle down like social evolution is personal devolution and cigarettes out the window and sensible train journey and newspaper and the buildings overtaking the happy days in a crashing ensemble of “Where’s my pencil?”; my glorious smoke exception a prospect-ridiculous when all I see from a battered carriage is industrial violation, brutal buggery of an anus I had grown to love, familiarised my self with, its every twist and turn and nook and cranny and ridge and hair and tilting entrance, every line and smell and tenses up reflex of a half-finger entrance into its sordid debauched gross perfection where once was green, with my years and my women and my life went something else and I watched it all from a slashed up seat and graffito walls emerging in hideous safety to burnt candy floss world, nothing but job; look at myself: nearing 35 hair brushed clean backwards and greying betrayed in navy blue suits and patent leather shoes with briefcase reading of tax problems and financial affairs and Americas gun blues and dying soldiers and fucked-up fighting and million pound footballers and booboo yack who gives a shit about this too big pages of words that aren’t about me aren’t even for me?
The station lights hurt my eyes and I hadnÂ’t even looked at them, just kept facing the other way and walking on; I like to think I was having some kind of crisis, suitably dramatic for as dull a person as I became somewhere back there, whilst putting placing those forms I so delicately and resentfully completed on behalf of somebody else into the appropriate somewhere, but really I just wasnÂ’t getting on my train yet. I knew the next one would be along in twenty minutes. I hated every thought I was having. It was dark and cold, the wind blowing hundreds of people in front of me, blowing shit around the streets, so cold and birds flying overhead ruffled feathers a open beaks to shout to each other some bird revolution how they will all fly together and tear something big a hole in whatever they feel like because birds have got the wings the beaks the insanity the motive the opportunity, but all they do now is defecate the pavements and eat the shit we throw away but you know theyÂ’re watching you in those trees they live in the trees they got it all right and I see them taking over the buildings and I smile tho I feel tears coming to my eyes, and guess itÂ’s because I know I canÂ’t feel anything, like my legs, but I think I want to drink.
Throw a glance behind me. Bustling bodies in and out of cars and doorways and shops, battered faded poster-boards, tall up-stretched building seem to be leaning in on me in a surrounding nightmare I once had where the TV got up and talked and poked me in the ribs and screamed and hit the top of my head like I was just some object, its own plastic toy and I didn’t sleep for a week after that. Kids on bikes shout rebellious obscenity, dogs make whimpers and I see a collection of bums taking money from people like me who don’t even look at the dirty bastard they throw their money towards – and not all dirty bastards are the same, I think – which makes me wonder if they’re taking me away to somewhere else, lifted above their head like an idol but I see my feet on putrid ground, and guess if I were carried it would be to a burning, or a grave, or somewhere they think I should be, they don’t know. Glamorous women I assume are all whores, a blonde haired made up mask to hide the wrinkles and faint moustache and cellulite, tight everything tho I ask myself why and won’t look at that over-full red slit and its seductive draws on half-smoked cigarette and the legs that might just maybe lead in another world to paradise where we all want to be; old signs swung and creaked and made symphonies of a landscape, a wrestling moon, frightening myself when I make like every hum and the fast moving cars chasing us all out of the centre of town like mechanical cowboys of the technological age is monstrous orgasm and rivers run tired with the semen of a million dead.
Walking away everything becomes accentuated, everything becomes real and uncovered like for the first time again and I feel that perhaps I am the only one, I remember thinking that before; the bruised brick of every creation singing before me its death anthem, hollow deep-voiced murder, all the power in the world contained within this most simple of structures, untouchable and intimidating, razor sharp shadows cast from flickering streetlites, the flicker of induced seizures and gyrating bodies in numbing paralysis all foam-mouthed and sweaty and there chews another tongue; shadows hiding something we don’t want to imagine. This parade of shops becomes endless, the same shops I have seen so many times before roll into each other long neon assault course and the concrete floor beneath my feet begins its taunting abusive chants as I try to avoid the contact but a guy can’t walk on air alone so I’m forever guilty of intentional traipsing blam on the stone blam on the curb scuff as I trip over the uneven raised blemish on its coarse face, stumbling like rubbish in past sacred glass and smoking youths – that isn’t their handbag – who spit and shit and piss thru yer letterbox and steal anything they need like the cigarettes in their hanging lips with misunderstood inhalation and always have their reasons which we just box away and select a future. Trains rattle past in my head and on the tracks, buzzing clack like a screaming mule ridden by hundreds and every second of its passing like a fleeting glimpse, a projection that is not recognised.
I can feel my legs tiring as I continue pushing away from the safety of life. There is not a death, no tiresome mundane exaggeration – I don’t want to cause a scene or anything unclear – simply an absence of the traits of any life I had lived. And the further I move the more distant it becomes, like the hand of a beautiful lover as it waves its goodbye and you say I will be coming back and you know you will and she knows you will but you still both know and can tell from the tears and the looks in the others sad eyes that they know too that this is still the end and the pain of breaking something that still goes so far is overwhelming and they stand illuminated on horizon that is expectantly releasing itself like the end of a movie and it waves like shimmering flags in gentle summer breeze and everything returns to childhood or those sunny days when kissing lips was sacred and conversational and you would walk together arms linked and talk about dreams and where you would be and it was never here but that’s the only place you find yerself… lost beauty no togetherness the stars and the appeal of the things that were hope gone, gone like the fading silhouette of a baby-soft hands in the setting orange/red sun of a broken past; aching jaws numb cheeks pained expression as I leave something else that gave me a stability I don’t want anymore. The discontent and my face – once youthful buoyant stubbled handsome w/ its hope and love and feeling and amazement, now grey and sunken and dead eyes – bearing down on me like drooping minds and shaking heads and frowns belting impressions… tiredness and anguish of the bleak. Electricity powerhouses jitter their humming ailments to the ears of every man, towering legs and pylon mistakes and smoking chimneys – where are all the flowers? – derelict houses and sleeping bag burglaries this is all so shit so dirty and you just gotta yelp and beg for forgiveness to the guy at yer feet if you didn’t kill him when you trod on his face.
Losing count of time or minutes or steps I took from the fucking station. It got darker again but I might have just walked into another town it really means nothing. A Negro huddled in a doorway barks some regurgitated dialect in my face and with thought and whim I stop and listen. Almost invisible in the nite, yellow glowing lantern eyes and sparkling teeth like a piano to heaven like a cartoon ghost floating serenely around and I half expect white gloves to be the only thing on his hands, shitting up every guy like just teeth eyes hands, a puppet or something with no body and a grinning Plasticine gob and gas-powered hands – hey Mickey. He calls me Jack and I still can’t see him – beginning of madness here with more music this time the orchestral bumping of a dancing minstrel heard over in my head like it was played as this special soundtrack for the black to do his shit with – tho I make out what he wants and see a bag of green which sparks off this desire and I recall with pinpoint depth and analytical perfection the sensation of this throbbing delight or some equal collapse – and wouldn’t collapsing be sweet around now under a haze of smoke and total relaxation stuffing money into the hand of the omnipresent smiler and grateful skips and his clicking tongue and tapping heels – like is he a stage guy in a heroic musical where the tiptap of shoes makes pretty girls swoon? – the bass drum still banging with the trumpeting seraphim of this Negroes jazz-hands march and his appreciative warbles like the howls of something else in a concrete dream and I feel two minds throbbing thru an overcast sky.
Pocketing the green I swing past couples and homosexuals and whores and pimps and cops and cabs and piles of decaying mess – stench infesting eyes that water and haze of banana shit – and head across the broken road into a bar. People here don’t stop and watch me they are merely doing their own things: a short man whose moustache I’m convinced is excessively large, which as a fact begins frightening and mocking my mind its independent blowing in winds that never sleep and its tense shuffling with every muscular contraction of that stunted face, it sits like a well-trained dog in its labial basket detached from all other hair this man possesses; I think he’s a fucker, stands before the open hood of a shiny car that is smoking a churning and not going anywhere. His dark eyes glisten and I ask if he’s been crying but he doesn’t answer as I asked it in my head and never even looked at him, hands buried in my torn up coat I never even looked at him, feel his vacant gaze but there isn’t any aid here. Tramps and bums like dirty furniture I never choose to notice, towering pillars of illumination at every ten paces that make everything monochrome and still, a swirling sky of nightmares that clouds the holes up and shows us all its gusset, schoolgirls on benches smoke cigarettes like candy, lipstick marked all eyeliner-faced and insignificant, lips give head, and my nails are getting too long.
I move into the bar without looking around or thinking or listening, just sitting up there on stools. Take a bottle of beer its thrown in my hand and paid for and I pull it all inside remembering every second the power and that I should keep going so I do and pump relentless money into slobbering white vest blue jeans wet-cloth fat bastard hands – with hanging cigarette and bald cranium and sandpaper voice threatening some kid broken nosed and bloodied thru something about nephews ah fuck I don’t listen – as the sweetness and the paradise keep falling into me and gradually like developing cancer everything goes into something else and hazy and watering holes and there can be an end to it all and starting to notice I turn to face the other patrons, spilling and pissing my drinks away. Mostly huddled they interest me, the human condition, should I make a conversation in this swamp of television possibility of a tortured lifestyle? However, one thing was becoming abundantly clear to my condition: I wanted to ejaculate. Not only that, it being a simple biological operation I am more than capable of performing independently; no, preferably I wanted to ejaculate into a woman. My head felt like a mess of unfinished sentences and scrawled graffito screaming nonsensical slogans, and alcoholic paranoia, a potential thesis I created in a short silence over breakfast with myself, was responsible for a number of hideous visions that carved open sardine tins to find a thousand bodies, each mine, laying face down in murky brine, whilst coarse-haired glassed befrocked lorry drivers read some kind of rites. In a solitude of experience I vomit. It forms a delicate pile at my feet and reminds me of fucking.
Males seemed not to have the remotest sexual appeal, which was unfortunate. I could not escape the fear of eyebrows that had been stemming in my spine for several weeks, and bushy unplucked lengths were overtaking this bar. I felt on a thousand drugs in a thousand parts of the world, lights whirred like machinery and conversations were becoming clearer, like perfect clarity, words that might have meant something if I wanted them too or if they interested me only they kept on and eyelids directed downwards thru pain and puke into seclusion. Crying men – I wanted them to be dead next to me in stools like a real joke, or just so I could think it had happened – were leaning hard on their hands, supporting flushed crinkled faces on them, far above smouldering and yellowed cigarette ends. One old pederast sat with tan raincoat and long pipe, tears behind pince-nez, grey-black hair scraped parting to the left all angular and horror, dirty suit new and fresh in youth but still on bones and tensed skins in his dying collapsing old age – only the one lung sir? – looking a shab-infested moth pantomime, jewelled hands and shoes that smell like leather, rapping fingers gently on wooden table. His mouth fumed gins, and murmured bastard about o my wife and her cancerous cells! and o how I worry just small wage brought in cannot possibly care for her enough so what must I sell when I have nothing to sell? and I thinking you fucking these boys helps little and he just on and on and on droning my wife and no one really bothered, like a busted chair of no springs or better maybe a dart board, but one guy whose face big in the shadows like maybe a bear whispers – but loudly cause I hear it and I’m over here – ah man that’s tough what’s yer wife’s name?… and pederast glazed eyes looks at him and around and like green faced but I think he might be diseased chants with hollow gaze or hollow voice “she doesn’t have no names!” and then back again like all the other nights lamenting the boys and the boys not being there and around for him any more or too much for the cock-sucking and the dismay and woes of the ageing queer stuck in a youth. Some breaths held when glasses were smashed like fucking plates by one fat man, brow sweat soaked, thinking I guess should these shards be for this queer but everyone hides their eyes and thinks of other things and the table is back on its legs but now I want to just ignore it all and look somewhere else, pouring something tasting bad but burning well straight thru me.
Aching rotating head I turned this way or that way until before me – the power the emotion of an empty graveyard rained on by wetness – it sat, or she sat, like some hallucination blowing minds in a heavenly firework display in further reaches of derelict thoughts, sitting relaxed casual smiling parted lips and the teeth of piano keys sweet ivory glistening under 40 watt hideousness, emergency flares to the warm insides – o the saliva glands and the sucking and the tongue flicking up and down and round – of another body but a body like nothing I ever saw or dreamed hanging like what should be art, tho maybe it just is?, or a primordial hand puppet but I didn’t see no strings… I looked her up and down, empty glass reflecting my face back at me like a planet, held loosely between fingers. She seemed long, an initial and albeit unintelligent observation, and sat teasingly with two stretched ladders of legs resting delicately on the table before her; dark tanned flesh of these glorious stalks or pins just two of Babel’s completed towers stretching to Christ and a choir of masturbating angels, legs like wagon rides thru insanely twisted underground mines to the prize in the centre, sweet fountain of youth, legs like Caribbean palm trees swaying in warm breezes that scream yer name and the freedom of a childhood, legs so long it brought tears to my eyes with just small imaginations… the perfect lines as you near the top caressing the whole with tongue and finger and climactic groans finding folds and taut skin and aromatic hair… legs I followed like the hypnotists pendulum, so tranced and fucked, and knew I had to spread (O how she bends those knees! O the innocent scratches of shin and thigh! O palming the fleshy mass where my mouth should rest! O knees together, damnation to my blocked views!)
Can you believe a man who insists these legs were the merely the opening act of a lengthy production, the appetizer, the mere vol-au-vent to a genuinely more satisfying feast? Surely he lies, you mouth gapingly like belted children before headmaster, tho I nothing but honest to goodness shit leaves my mouth when I say fuck! The legs like the masterful authors introduction to the twist, the directors testicle-grabbing build up to what follows and what followed was seen and it was good. Tauntingly human a minute skirt covered something and shadows beneath left hazes and gazes and fumbling hands all over this screaming ecstatic toy I picked up somewhere kicking off shoes and tears in the eyes sniffing too much white, the shadows thru which I see it all everything tracing from the tough hair – its elegant tri. – to the opening and the clit concealed like the insane joke of the laughing beer-drunk creator and sweet hard lips, choking and taking in air drowning in their sea of kicks, spreading gently and followed round to the rim of an asshole like beat lonely recluse just longing for that attention it never gets and this magical skin between the two so firm to my craving touch or is it just sensitivity like a nub but everything is concealed in the clouded shadows under this skirt… a closed eye erect descent. Yet moving casually higher, exposed stomach of golden manipulation, the tongues rolled over that stomach, the children lapped at it, the Gods pissed on it, like a rabid schoolboy I shuffled my hands in my trousers, the only instantaneous stimulation I was able to provide myself with in this current state. Breasts of candy the face set her off completely, ah seductive dangerous full red lips! How you mouth the words ‘I love you’ in the madness of my head, and how I see you wrapped around my cock powerfully giving the head I so dearly need!
At this stage I clearly had to make a decision, and I was already at her table before the thoughts entered my head. Was seemingly sobering up at least as suggested by my blind stupid faith in self-healing, which they would say resulted from years of child abuse, only half smelled of vomit, and was slurring my speech into what I am sure many people would see as something rather cute, or maybe depraved if they had sense. I was carrying a cigarette hopefully, hoping she would have a light, and planning my words. It has always been a chore for me to explain to women what it is I actually want from them, without somehow fucking up to quite an extent. In this instance all I wanted was sex: nothing complicated, no conversation – I can tell she will be dull company – no ties – I rarely like seeing the same people twice unless the excite me – no emotion, except brute savage lust. I just want a fuck, want to come in something other than my hand in my bedroom under my bastard walls, want to see her face as I push it in hard. However, this may be an unlikely way to get her against that wall, explaining calmly and sensibly, with frequent hand movements and a precise scientific diagrammatical explanation, that I want to take her in every way I can. I said excuse me or something equally pitiful and she turned slowly, hair rippling like shallow waves above beaten sands – ride me hobgobliiiin and swish yer glorious head like you mean it! – and blinked her eyes, big blue plates, once then twice: yes? She answered, her voice everything like I imagined it thru the laws of misleading nature, all hoarse and battered like a long-suffering pimp pushing little girls into trucks shouting good face just two pounds, making me think it might not be so hard. I was noticing more wrinkles in this light, and frightful scowls that emerged like reactions to nothing in particular, just as regular as clockwork they appeared as tho demonstrating to misunderstanding man some metamorphosis of beauty and everything was forgotten… she could take cocks, no joke and despite the crudeness I ploughed dumbly on only now not modifying myself remotely. This bastard, I thought, will do as I say. We looked into each others eyes and I’m sure I smelt cunt as I leant closer to her ear and whispered one simple short sentence, uttered like a movie: “I’m going to fuck you harder than they could”, nodding my head towards the rest of the decrepit bar. She smiled widely, perhaps describable as an ‘oh yeah?’ smile, and said five minutes. Not bothering to ask where I kissed her neck and went back to the bar ordering a jack that tasted sweeter than wine.
Five minutes later I took a glance over my shoulder. The jack was gone, along with another, and the woman whose name I never knew and whose face uglified minute by minute – making me wonder if by the time I get my ride she will have a face of hideousness, a face like mine – pulling her into depths of desperation when every man even the shit-faced ones chooses the prettiest girls for their penis mantle-piece, and prettiest she wasn’t after visions and drink made images amazing, or maybe she was and her face had become familiar. I didn’t care or want to think about it now because I knew I was getting a ride, if I could stand, and I had seen her legs move openclose and pictured the cunt and the clit and the hair and the all and was going to play; maybe it would take my mind off of other things that seemed to creep there every so often like time and location and future. At some stage a decision probably was taken I guess by myself to ignore the principles of time, especially hard things to disregard as an entire generation and lifetime and fucking society is based on punctuality and arrival and departure and oh shit what’s the time? but I realised that progression required a rejection or ignorance of such restraints. I will go to work when I want because it is impossible for me to be late (I don’t operate in time). I will start drinking when I feel like it because there isn’t too early. No rushing: I am not running out of anything which could affect my ability to carry out every damn thing I want. Most of all there is certainly no future, just one long line of present. Never tomorrow, only today, only the moment. Tho I was convincing myself rapidly that this was accurate, and that theoretically man can live in this frame of mind, thoughts of impending firing and dying struck me now and again, notably made distressing by my apparent inability to – even now – separate time from language. However, I am not a linguist and don’t give a shit about it anyway, and I ignored them all because I will only die young if you think in years (i.e. in time) and Jesus I am specifically not thus I die experienced, I die doing what I want and nothing is significant but this. I had smashed my watches and clocks before I left the house, and I put the concept out of my mind, for the first time in my life; dumb justification to do what I want.
Thus no worries, no inhibitions, no-thing. Using the bar I hoisted my body upwards and I remember feeling perturbed at the time that I was still wearing a suit, but being drunk and horny and lazy and thinking of another paradise where between spread legs men wretch on eternally flowing energy, blooming flowers and broken trunks, seed spread from place to face and thru the wing-mirror of terrific machines I just left it moping, and it said nothing. Was there ever that time other than in nightmares all open-eyed and shaking nervously legs crossed tight despite crushing bollocks and jabber of gob, rattle-shake of teeth; was there ever that time when boo from putrid closets emerge little squeal voice of suit wearing man like yer special and it keeps it on an’ on like you’ve got a suit on you sir are a cut above the rest of these terrible people and the suited man always walk tall swinging with swagger and stance arms taut and moving shined shoes glisten as tho food plates – rather die would you? – radiating confidence all of which I swear derived from the presence and existence and very essence of this suit and the fact they are wearing it. A good suit can make a man… a bad man can break a suit. I fucked that suit up and it still clinged in one piece to me, devoted fabrics, but it no longer spoke. Man going to work wearing his tailored personality with pride; people step aside to let him past, he always makes the fucking train. But me… stood up in that bar in that regular suit and they didn’t even notice, didn’t look at me or respect me or do anything, they just sat. I don’t know what I thought except it was six minutes and counting and I don’t think she gets this no time and another guy taking my promise of sex with is not all laughs and manly acceptance because tonite it’s like I’m seeing this virgin, not whored up bag I think her to be, and no one takes this shit from her but me, and besides its me taking her as I damn well need it what with changing lives and giving’s up and whatever. Thinking again tho maybe my hair was responsible for changing these opinions, or my face, or the fact that I just didn’t give a shit. Suit or no, I was just a bum probably took that jacket thinks old guy no.1 in heavenly baseball cap and ragged beard – how long you been driving that bus, man? – and I swear to God almighty I laughed like a baby and yes-o-yes that suit said nothing, letting me walk out of somewhere the only dressed-up cowboy who really speaks his words from his mouth or fights his words out of his mouth and shone nothing but nonchalance.
Up and out back turned to smashed glass and cool winds chew on face like cannibals with scruples, I can tell the howling creaking windows are the apologies of this gusting explosion so neither of us feel bad. I want to spark up a conversation with that blowing madness just rolling things round those mean streets like its got nothing else it just tries to devastate minds with the detail and origin and most people sigh ‘it’s windy’ and its this big bad thing but not me I wanna talk to it, like it is nothing for everyone or nearly everyone but there is one guy walking the streets smoking cigarettes thinking of something, tho no one knows what, not even the guy would you believe, and he will see next to the canals young ducks orange beaks gaping lazily feathers fluttering and a beautiful cycling catholic girl never quite shaving her legs right school skirt hitched up laughing (“there is nothing bad”) hair moved off that pretty head and back-back in torrents of excellence and then leaves chasing each other and children chasing leaves and parents chasing children and he will realise that this is revelation the wind is everything the secret the key to something bigger and not many are going to see this but just one might and that is all but that one has got it, something. I turned around in the street, the kids gone the tramps more pissed it was empty dereliction. Not nervous but anxious for this fuck I walk towards a side-street where kids score H like peanuts and this starts the wondering but I see a silhouette and I know it’s her I can smell her I can feel her and we’re in each others arms – that sounds romantic – I grabbed her and pulled her close, holding her ass against my hardening length, and we kissed hard. She asked me my name, I didn’t say anything. Why the fuck does she want to know that? Don’t say much do you, she mumbles, upset she has no control, but she is like me, can’t take something this far then leave it she’s gotta go the full stretch now to get something out of it. Only romantics like kissing, it is too much love and not enough base. We both know we are using each other and it is irrelevant, both striving for different details but roughly the same thing just happening to need somebody else for the equation. There might be a small part of her that knows, or rather thinks, this is a bad idea I’ve got to stop this one day, but like I said, I am in control.
“So what then?” Stupid questions it is all about depravity and this sacred moment. I pushed her pretty hard against the wall two metres behind her, which she hit hard making her voice jolt death-like ughh. Her eyes seem to spell blind hollow fear or then again respect, I never distinguished well, and her tongue extended minimally from her trying lips, just enough to see its serpentine tip poking and feeling the surroundings, jabjab tasting the air for good or for bad and wondering whether she could swallow me whole, then hips and legs move like snakes and squirming flatly they corrupt and lead is this the piper the children skipping singing and the tongue crash back to earth… she is kissing me tongue halfway down my insides penetrating violence of motion (is she hose-piped?) ah I swear I never swallowed them mother and grabbing pushing I kissed her back and her front. When a woman groans under my command, thru my kissing and caressing a small exclamation is omitted under the breath like they resent fully every slight pleasure I provide them with and must keep it some secretive release – like primitive saps we expect nothing for nothing and there is the guilt or mistrust of being pleased; if another human being pleases oneself we seem to feel this suspicion or a bizarre need to question motive like what does he want or how dare he know how to get me like this because pleasure is weakness when they are trapped in ecstatic idiocy I can do anything, tho of course I wouldn’t dream of any such thing, after all I am not a Christian – I can never help smiling, her neck moist and tender I wrap it in my mouth and she pulls the back of my hair so harder I bite and chew and lick and gum head forced to neck and she’s pressed hard against wall back scraping and there’s buckles and zips being fought like wars and I’m free, the cooling breeze-gusts over unsheathed erection, two hands holding legs back and ram, it’s thru, bam, rolling eyes, ram, open mouth, bam, split in half like wonderful rye, ram, I saw her mouthing ‘yes’.
Satisfying in its way but I didn’t stick around, just pulled the suit trousers fully up and buttoned the blazer, the fucking blazer. I thought better of speaking to her, she was panting and I felt a strange nothing. It looked as tho she needed some help getting her shit together, which I did – put her lipstick back in her bag, it seemed to have fallen out during the sex – while she wrote her number on the back of a card that was for some cab firm and stuffed it in my pocket. The was a moments respect for her perseverance, she was dirtily aware of the fact that I was unlikely to ever think of her again but she went on doing her shit, like she will with the next guy and the next guy and the next guy, falling in love with a thousand a year who get it a little further than her pimping boyfriend who swears she’s gotta keep doing it, just a little longer, then knuckles her when she goes to sleep.
I smoked a cigarette while I was walking away. It had been a long time since I rode in a cab, I called one from the card and threw it spinning agonisingly to the gutter, too many descents, amidst shit and semen. I canÂ’t remember the wait exactly I think it was short and when the car arrived smeared in black I had only smoked half the cigarette. The driver was big, well over six foot I was thinking tho he was sitting down and it was dark, and had thick black stubble covering his face. He was smoking hard and I saw a bottle of Jack, cap off, between his legs. He impressed me and intimidated me whispering things that should have changed the world and perhaps they did and I never noticed, but when he says get the fuck in I did. Who fucking knows whether he said any of the shit I heard? We smoked a while and he started the fare. It reminded me of a countdown, every second ticking away a life, not mine, but a life.
The driving seemed like days and the driver seemed like a god to me drunken battered in the back seat guffed out awkwardly rubbish legs puffing relentlessly little more than clouds of the thick and billowing a face hidden that says so much without moving delivering us all from a journeys end. Every time eyes close they donÂ’t open again until the last time I try it when eyelids offer sanctuary I open to rising sun the sky stretching before me to a horizon that doesnÂ’t stop with bleakness and IÂ’m sure I am dead and any paradise is here but really I am outside the place I live. My wallet has gone so I go inside. It is tidy, pedantic, perfect, organised, piled, categorised, filed, chronologicalalphabeticalhypothetical it is there like a cunt of a shadow.
Perhaps these feelings lay dormant within me for years without ever rearing their grotesque head, and only of late had I experienced the dissatisfaction with myself and my life to so much as notice, but when it happened it was as if a huge burden too heavy to hold was being lifted the iron curtains welded into gate posts the bollock-film of reality hiding what is finally stripped down like a headless chicken. Something just clicked in my headÂ…
I can almost taste the fucking headlines now:

MAN DESTROYS OWN HOUSE
In laughing fits of glee he tears pictures from wallsÂ… and worse

A local man had police baffled this morning when he wantonly destroyed, from the inside out, his own home. The terraced property, one floor of which is owned by the furniture assassin, was cordoned off by police officials after multiple complaints by concerned neighbours and terrified passers-by reported a graphic assault with verbal expletives and obscene gestures. After twenty minutes, a record two hundred calls were made to P.C. Barry Forbes: “I couldn’t believe what I was hearing… usually these kind of calls are pranks, but when there’s that many even our boys can figure out there’s something not right.” The man, who remains unnamed due to disappearance, continued his real estate abuse for approximately two hours, smashing windows, screaming, setting fire to objects in a completely unsystematic way, ravaging his personal belongings and property and occasionally, as far as could be seen, standing on a hard piece of furniture and yelling such unnecessary phrasing as “C***ing whore” and “A***hole” when referring to his own person. Shocked pedestrians gazed on in disbelief as the penis and testicle glands of the male, thought to be 32, were extended from his remaining window. After screams subsided police entered the premises, to find the man gone without apparent trace. A respectable suit was found beneath the remnants of a pine bed, now little more than four stalks. The investigation continues blah blah blah.

And certainly yes I felt different within me I’m sure I was now experiencing some sensation, truly powerful, that it was possible to feel like a pulse or flickering wallop surging thru me, the sheer brutality of natural energy leading me on and on until whatever would crack into shards scooped up bowled and changing superstitious life, like an illumination maybe the religious experience and how it caused trepidation and fear but then I knew it wasn’t to be avoided and repressed and as tho a child finding the ocean and its truths and oh how it carries you really away to another place where words and thoughts become irrelevancies and all one finds is experience – a harsh confrontation of what’s there – and it does just go forever stretching to horizons of flame tethered only by our minds I let it carry me willingly and am absorbed in its grandiose. My heart must have been beating the other way round and blood surging from side to side and up and down not just round round round as looking at limbs and reflections in glass table positioned anally exactly central in a perfectly symmetrical room – curse squarely measured picture display, damnation to monstrous cut crystal ornaments and wooden heads imported from an island and tall potted trees that of course can never dirty carpets positioned like fucking saviours either side of a doorway and window blinds and chair covers and burning candles that was read in magazine alas textured walls; all the while there is no recollection of how this happened tho it all symbolises a life changed and tampered and over and I never even knew how it came about I can’t have been responsible just slapping my own face and smiling at any blemish and tears with clacking teeth but still frightened because it ever turned into this television programme – it all moves under the skin I can see something moving twitching nervously the blood wanting to get out and scramble around the room the blood beginning to speak to me as well more words only one is audible (and I know blood can’t talk) but it is big threatening robust, commanding us all it is a general in steel armies with its mono-word monologue “Escape”, chanted too fast and too much pressing at my temples everything must escape and like pinpricks rising from inside my body the skin lifts in tiny peaks and the blood keeps saying the words – escape ESCape escAPE – and my head is ticking so the table broken thru flurry of anticipation and glass in hands and feet and trunk, a climactic boom midway inside a build-up of revelation. Saliva coated chin charges bastard walls and pictures down drapes down curtains on fire, never forgot to scream, terrible defecation murdering trees with no remorse blood stained elegies tease walls of white minimalist ruin guided by sensation there is no more neatness designer clothes shredded and swallowed with scattered paper and organised precision knives driven thru flesh and mattress doors long gone out windows that were victims all along and in convulsions my sweaty portrait dumps suit in box under wooden frame where sleeping guiltily I watched the rain fall on only me even when the sun shone hard out of nothing but blue.
I don’t think I had breathed for hours and slumped in a corner bloodied and naked smiling inwardly because like a spark there had been alteration on high, and it felt like a lull and there was relaxation I had adjusted to the physicality of sensations accepted it all accustomed to the ringing and pounding which echoed morosely round my entirety, tribal drumming to the grave. I refused to let myself think back but saw the place and Jesus how did this happen? My meticulously organised and displayed flat was now shit, nothing stood, at least that which meant to stand, nothing worked or resembled itself, there was simply a mass of destruction. I could feel my mind fluttering every now an again, as an electrical power source jumps and buzzes and finally explodes as a fast moving freight storms past it, the energy felt by and radiated towards any person who happens to pass the station at the crucial moment; it mounts like towering storm clouds gathering together for a final assault, yer insides rumble and roll and you can feel the surge in them also, the pressure is intense and unbelievable making the end more poignant, and it is all the excitement of sexual release without any kind of stimulation, when it comes you think that’s it and that life will never be the same like some change occurred and the world looked better while it all went on but no it’s all the same and it’ll all happen again later when you turn yer back but just then for that moment it was sheer unadulterated energy magnified and the approaching train sucked it all back with it when the catastrophe hit us and the trees and the fences and the air all rattle and take it on for that split second of maximum ejaculate… the inside of my head had experienced the train syndrome and twitched tiredly like a fucked dog. Sat for a while taking it in if only it would fit like anything else, listening half-interested to the cock-eyed words of people outside, all seeming little more than drumming punching drones to another wishful thought somebody made up drunkenly when playing cards dictated futures (they spoke with fears of the noise and the screams, look at that beautiful furniture smashed thru the window like terrible plates, how safe can one possibly feel living next to a beast like that one presented himself to be, are the police going to do nothing, where oh where is the bloody shopping list?). Holy grail suit under bed-end it was time for breakfast, knowing just the place and feeling real beat, I stood up feeling like the violator of a thousand unwashed cunts, perverse and erect, and walked past gormless neighbour and damp-eyed police officer – no more than a baby whose flapping suit gave him a comic appearance caught loosely over tiny shoulders, like a butterfly in a net, weeping because textbook cases don’t involve naked shitting in yer own fucking bed and flapping trousers pin legs helmet of insecurity maybe we both guess he’s not cut out for this and nodding half-appreciatively he winces squints and thinks of his childhood bed watched by dead mythological mother who did everything she could to not be near that stupid face even die herself which is what the beating fists of school friends knocked into his head for seven years tortured violence, there was oedipal lust and repressed guilt and I read about his suicide maybe a week later begging for forgiveness tho he never killed his mother and people just died – mumbling tirades about bacon.

The diner was empty except for people at almost all of the tables: families in one corner, paedophiles in another faces masked in sweat ugly beards and newspaper articles demeaning them, and scattered business men lorry drivers and sick faced teenage mothers, chomping vainly on fried egg sandwiches grease-fat rolls and brown smears on stale bread. I walked in, still rather naked, head reeling thru the creaking doorway without comprehension of sense or recollection of violet pasts hearing lowly humming radio shows – all tiresome drones or melodious advertisements, sweet washing powder! – and the rolling wheels of a million cars churning morning towards visionary destinations. It occurred I couldn’t remember how I came to be here but knew there should be food to combat weakness so I sat left of the door, I wanted a view of the window, and waited amiably for service to indicate life. Stares pierced me like microscopic laser assaults, I could feel the male-female scrutiny of my cock and balls, and blushed faces shuffled because intrinsic politeness withheld any comment, any questioning, any excessive confusion and any obvious gawping, like any ordinary disability the blatant and powerful nudity that interrupted discreetly – and with minimal shame and fuss – their tidy breakfast with real crockery one had the common courtesy or goodwill, if you will, to avert their eyes maybe with certain pride of the British spirit like I’m noble for being able to carry on a regular life with this cross to bear and parents told kids to look away, anywhere but the fucking glands, “it could happen to us all” which oddly enough brought a long grin to my face: arse hanging around and no one dares say a word, as tho maybe I didn’t realise and would be devastated should I make such a discovery, treated me like any other leper; thus devious glances were stolen in my direction as the schoolchildren giggled amongst themselves with dumb beautiful cracks and the businessmen retained stiff upper something’s, took one look, nodded with an almost congratulatory approval, as tho of admiration of my fine bollock-naked specialist tailor, and continued with dictations or financial information, women fidgeted uncomfortably but with a definite edge of the impressed.
A waitress was in conversation with a superior: nodding heads and points in my direction indicated I was to be served and I checked the menu and rubbed my thigh to defeat with gusto an awkward itch that some nails just can’t reach. With trepidation and a notebook she neared me, the table rocking gently under my own pressure, casual chink-chink of salt pot against pepper pot driving every man in the place – bulging head veins and beads of frequent sweat rolling in aural Chinese water torture, each loosening the tie that little bit grasping tight the table legs ready to fling the fucker over and scream me to stop, I found it comforting and continued as they started to leave, as once noticed those little noises in those quiet places taunt with a chortle until death, with the scraping chair or the sharpening pencil or the tapping pencil or the whistling snot-breathe of the fat man who stinks of unwashed piss at my side for hours a day… little passages to insanity perhaps. Legs akimbo, I began to order when I saw her face, and it took me back…
… it took me back to every day a lazy day spent lying smoking under trees bearing nothing but leaves and sitting up all night round campfires with friends I never knew I had and kissing beautiful girls – different ones on same days – just because its something new and makes me feel kind of good and they are there and we all want to learn and experience as we’re just a bunch of kids with nothing to do thru the long hazy summers and eternally blue skies reflecting our faces back at us as tho there really was this great glass dome over the whole world or we were just the precise geographical centre of this epic landscape and everything is around us circling us and there is me cycling and running and laughing my way to happiness and another drunken ball or just walking for what seemed like ever with crowds and vodka and infinite women that go down so low as barefoot crazies traipse the beaches and the streets stopping only to smoke or fondle or appreciate – with songs poems tales of woe and joy – the fact that we have it all before us, or even more so we have it all right now. As I glazed barely up to the face of this waitress I returned like a dream to this past. Ah how I lost it all… no more innocence or humanity because I had raped her as we rolled in fields and beaches always together and how the parents talked with their cracks of marriage but all we needed was the freedom and the company and every day we would meet and just watch the clouds rolling by and she would hold my hands and rub my thigh – oh sensuous caresses noticed with profound genital presence – and kiss me on the lips and my bare chest in warm summer breezes as we talked or slept at each others side. I know cared for her and I’m sure she wanted it all to happen like it did, so growing adolescent male unable to avoid his surging hormones, when in the bastard paddock of autumn sun, leant and brought his mouth to the lips he had tasted so many times before but that were just so much sweeter every time and with age she became angelic as the breasts hung teasingly in tight shirts and the ass that sat on my lap a thousand times before overnight all I wanted and could think was to part it and fuck it and balls to the consequences and the casual hugging of her crotch by tailored trousers and how it must all come off, and is her underwear all childish patterns or womanly lace and how must this body smell in all it crevices, and we there was the kiss. She pulled away, like she knew things had to change with age but I wouldn’t give in and started to pull it out and she wanted to scream I could see by her cold eyes but in this serenity, haven of childish frolics, she wouldn’t disturb that peace, and the tall grasses as shelter, the buckling trees watching everything prophetically like a tired schoolmaster, she clenched hard as I took her virginity with deep strokes. Everybody lost.
And now this fucking waitress… it can’t be her, I know it isn’t her but pale and disoriented I stagger away from tables taking showers of coffee cups and sugar sachets with me thru the dirty floors as finally people have started to stare and the manager is on the phone – the police no doubt – and the staff seem concerned but won’t come near and for the waitress I just see this girl, fourteen year old girl, only person I ever cared about, as I tore at her glorious hair the hair of a princess and wrenched awkwardly with inexperience and adrenaline and mindlessness the underwear before I sunk it in as an innocent world collapsed around my head and the grass became concrete ugliness and the girl another face and the cock another part of my body; I see this girl with the tortured look of trust smeared over her face mockingly, swirling eyes melting into obscurity for sexual pleasure. I think I am going to vomit so push past everything and out into the street, hand over my mouth, retching because this is me.
For want of another idea, my life having been wholly void of all decision making processes for a positively negative eternity stretched screaming and sniffing with honks for years, my routines so tightly packed within finite tin can depression where no one can tell me I am free. Half a fucking lifetime, half of the only attempt I got to make something spent in a tired coma, frozen eyes refusing to see or operate and all I’m doing is going back and forth, ticking like the hands of a bleeding clock that tells the time of nothing but my regression into primitive earth essence and lo, devolution towards bland plants with no colour on their ugly shells! The world no longer cause of marvel and awe and open minded happiness thru barbed wire fences with bicycles and backpacks and picking strawberries like scabs because there’s nothing to do tomorrow or the next day or ever again with this frame of mind and I don’t need to sleep because all the beautiful dreams I ever needed were happening open-eyed and always coming true, the world nothing like this because the world is nothing and the will to make it come back – and it does take a will to create a beauty in the world or maybe just beauty for me ah so ignorant I am satisfied only by myself and this ideal I govern over everything, the everlasting deity – is gone and destroyed after this wasted youth and so saddened… it has just melted like pissed-on watercolours with two fingers at the different and the same and the fucking revolutionaries all smoking cigarettes in the back rooms of dog shit cafes, become the stable mass of chemical non-reactions, like a piece of crap impressionism itself with its stubborn refusals – why won’t it change before me anymore, why so static and ugly, why must I resent the only saving lines of a beautiful past? – and everything tired and used and its gonna be the same forever now. So why bother? It hit me that I hadn’t made a decision for too long, powerless and almost comforted I close my eyes and sigh heavily while the nightmare tides of condemnation carry me passively towards this then that then more, a continuous schedule without thought. It has been me for time, it has now become me, and I perform automatically, relaxed like a child, it has replaced everything, it is all I know. I go to the office and I am still naked.
The door opened in more or less its regular fashion: sliding scraping with nonchalant acceptance away from my body which applied the necessary force to said door to ensure its successful opening, until the space created between door hole and frame was sufficient to allow me to enter. There they were, colleagues. Typing and phoning their way to pitiful lonely lifeless death. Smartly dressed, actually pleased of their presentation, like sick fucking pride at the fact that they can wear a silk tie and a salmon pink cotton shirt with rich black stay-crease action slacks over skeletal forms, all pimples and pubic facial hair, hands calloused by masturbation. Almost half my age and already they’ve signed away their life to corporate laziness. I stood hunched in the doorway for several minutes contemplating the evidence and not knowing why I have come here. I ask: why have I come here? Yet nobody seems to respond verbally, though I can’t remember whether or not I specifically said anything out loud per se, and as a result choose not to mention it again. Noticing faces looking. A physically awkward kid blushes and fumbles with his pencil organiser, dumb cunt doesn’t know where to turn, just a bunch of dick in front of him. Face red and tortured, obviously homosexual. I can’t bear to look anymore, and the very office fills me with dread, just its vile cabinets – I always wondered where they lead, and surely it must be better and clearer and maybe the sun shines in smiles and the stars reflect ourselves and the dusty grass carries virgin hitchhikers to a coital paradise – and rotating fans epitomising the human microwave we’re all cooked in – like seeing the world as an obscene electrical appliance, which maybe it all comes down to all of the time, and everything in it is specially filmed-up nourishment prepared for the blast which cooks us all so the whole of our life is spent on full fucking power with relentless rotation, roundroundround just spinning and going and seeing things go by and the world on its axis is the holy microwave cooking our dead insides that themselves go on cooking forever, and we can watch it all happen from the inside but only some glimpse it otherwise we’re just working up spirals to make that heat bigger or the time longer and just going along with it and its gonna come, someday its gonna come when it all just fucks itself up and there’s no thinking, but a lifetime of the revolving awful – and desks sprawled like created rocks in beatific valleys where man leaves nothing untouched and tries to create nature, and the people who make it happened and are intent on dying old veins and earlobe and eyes don’t work and cock don’t fuck and nothing quite operates with exhausted heart and jelly circulation respire like fish deaths in a sweaty candle-wick nightmare room where no one will scream their names. No wrong decision anymore, office who?
For the first time in my life I feel liberated because I no longer have anything to lose. I think I am free, therefore I am free. And it’s like eternities of fog lift from my eyes as tho from thousand feet up mountains where blue skies play like chasing children, and the world is all crystal clear and everything is in a fish bowl for me, and the noises I hear are amplified a million times, and the colours I see like the complete spectrum of insanity and it all blows my mind and its all like I’ve never seen any of them before and they merge and melt within one another and its smudged by my own tears but its still there, and the trees and the buildings have all mutated into something new, maybe something I never even knew was there, maybe reality, maybe just my new head – because it is new and it has changed me – but it is a clarity of mind unprecedented and the soul and God have appeared to me and I don’t need to explain when I have experience and surely there is nothing else I need out of anything and I see myself reflected in the windshield – individually piercing pixels of knife-edge illumination like a continuous beam from every star in every sky in the heads of the world, all centred here, in me, divinity and paradise – as eighteen wheels roll over this infinity, the world has become its own, and everything is known, no more questions, no more anxieties, no more riddles it is all happening and I have seen without prayer or submission, and for that split second there was contentment, as my heart stopped beating I had a smile on my lips.
But wrapped up shot up “hold out yer arm!” I don’t think I have died and the sweet resignation of passing on to what it was I saw and I swear I saw is punched back with brutal gusto by a woman in a nurses suit with enormous tits and I’m thinking ‘more dreams even now’ as syringe full of madness squirted blindly on the floor is plunged and buggered in my vein and she smiles with yellowed nicotine teeth and broken heart tattoo cause she knows like me its nothing but H. Then the fix kicking in and pictures in heads and backwards collapsing – tho I’m flat back fucked already I feel like its taking me down further into depths of cosmos only petrol pumps knew existed and my head is falling like rocks all the way down but the pillow doesn’t go – as an erection begins with violent consumption and breathing almost restricted cause nothing ever felt so good and its hard and I need to be sure I feel it all thru me, I do, it flows and I feel it flow round vein systems and arteries thru my heart it touched everywhere like spiders fingers caressing my insides with sniggered tickles pushing it teasing the cock that stands soldierly and the ass that gasps thirstily but its never an orgasm because it surges with continuous attack and there no room for analyses just hyperventilating ecstasy – I don’t want to move again thru this rush like spunk from a bastard fork – my cocks become like a fucking Trojan no subsidence no tired droops or sags just infinite pumps and grinds and wallops like a hypodermic itself in the never-ending circle of arm-cock-cunt-onwards the needle just a phallic expression towering to heights in the nowhere spraying in testicle opiate like lifeless seeds to the kitchen workers below (all of it ending in the bulb) and I got this dumb broad riding me again with suicidal enthusiasm and a crass couple of winks. Oh, the ejaculate turmoil of blessed H.!