/ in the darkness I bathed /
/ in the darkness /
/ the water black /
/ black water /
Jim’s cock’s been deeply entrenched in his own mouth in your
absence. Cunt hasn’t shut up for a second, a perpetual (very) low level thrum
of utter banality. Prancing around like King Shit. Fucking Junior Senior, with
his gestures and his dyslexia and his desperation for THE TOP. Striding around
the carpet stuffing a bacon baguette into his grim little mouth. His near
limitless collection of shit hoodies is quite something, the mucky cunt.
Do you suffer from liquid shit?
Clunt and Winker sitting in a tree
R.I.D.I.N.G. T.H.E. M.O.B.I.L.I.T.Y. S.C.O.O.T.E.R.
I’ve got in with the doggers in the Hevingham chapter. They
park up most weeknights in a small clearing just off the A140. You can see the
dipped beams from the road. A small but friendly group, predominantly male.
They stand talking amiably while pulling at their limpets like they’re trying
to dislodge a tick, pulling the skin taut, their demi-ons, trying to will it
into usability while they wait their turn on one of the few women in there.
Just usual bloke talk, pub stuff – motors, transport issues, work, the
political, recent telly. Only all their trousers are down at their ankles,
their legs a great spectrum of varying whites, goose flesh in the cool night.
Down on the back seats of two of the bigger cars the birds’d be getting done
in, their meaty buttocks pulled to the edge of the seat and soaked with pooled
semen and excess lubricant, while first come first served the blokes sink their
little selves into the swathes of genital. Joining the convo on occasion, even as they did it. When they pop they’ll
stagger back in almost apology and get their pants and trousers straight back
up, have a Magners and a smoke behind the small fleet of attendant Mondeo’s
with those others who’d finished. The bird’s give themselves a moment, sip of
spritzer and a chinwag across the space between the motors, seed out in foaming
drizzle down the gulf of their anus, rubbed half dry like Nivea. Stain’ll not
scrub out of that upholstery, not never. Spots on their arse cheeks like
graffito. Then the next’d be forward
trembling in the halogen streak, diabolic shadows contorted across the bare
trees in gestures of profane supplication, prick tapered thin like an animals
but about stiff enough for entry if they bend it, welcomed into the ewer of the
sodden hooch like prodigal sons returned, the ladies thumbing through
notifications while their tits hefted across their torsos like full bains-marie
with every puckered thrust. More compulsion than hobby, the dogger’s life. The
pleasures seemed few, confined only to that very particular instant of release
– the rituals around it but a necessary evil – or to the slight kick of knowing
similarly equipped inadequates were appraising ones every effort, screened from
the happening lives just beyond the chapter by only thin coppice and staggered
hedgerow. In the car parks and laybys the participating ladies became the
pinups that life outside it would scarcely permit. Around them the blokes
bayed, like children crept into their parents’ bedroom. It was a civic duty
they offered, a charitable donation, a generosity of spirit. Outreach to the
vulnerable. A cuff to stuff. Community forged in coition. I’d be last – a
newcomer to the group, I’d have to prove my mettle by watching numerous
strangers ball the bag I was about to; have to feel the clag of their spunk on
my sunk scrotum as it hit centre point. The lady, a natural mother, helped me
feed it in through the incredible tarn of corporeal juices that I slipped over
clumsily left to my own devices. Gently squeezed the tip and rubbed it the
length of her crack, engorged and vital. I willed myself to sustain arousal to
such lengths as to lose it, felt the meek retraction of blood, rushing from
cock to face as I flushed, thankful for the darkness disguising such truths.
There was reassurance in her eyes. She guided me into her brown dorm, her
faecal sleeve, her welcome gift, her farty salutation, which had me done within
a handful of strokes. I found the anuses of the otherwise unattractive to be a
potent tonic. It was only on withdrawal, chunks of her fluffy yellowish shit around
the rim of my glans, some barbed plunger, that I noticed her husband in the
driver’s seat, eating a Ginsters and reading C. J. Sansom. All done love?, he
asked. Sounded weary, but then it was late. I cleaned my penis on my t shirt
and in lieu of a handshake gripped her toe briefly and tried to find my bicycle
in the wet leaves in the darkness.
I firmly believe in the redemptive power of alcohol and felt
real unconditional love for the drink,
and for years of my life have vowed to drink myself closer to purpose. It’s a
tool to find spiritual meaning, and while not now nor ever a Catholic I find
the imagery of transubstantiation to be perversely appealing, and though I drink not necessarily
wine and perceive it not necessarily as the blood of Christ, I nonetheless
observe a profound spiritual meaning in the periods of intense drunkenness that
punctuate the routine of my everyday life. I see depths of life otherwise
indistinct through sodden sozzled eyes, a sharpening in the booze that
clarifies the urgency of lives all bigger than my own, and of course stagger
the streets in harmless ecstasy with a half-sized bottle of the cheapest brandy
slipped into my back pocket. It has been a habit since my twenties, drinking
pint after pint until immersed in the earth itself. Drink, drink, drink until
the disintegration of the self! Goals are everything. In slurred words and
mutual loutishness and in minor injury the drinker merges into something so
much more than the sum of his most unsavoury parts. I’ll drink to make myself –
not others – more interesting, and more interesting to myself, the pointlessness of thoughts all silenced as the drink
took over, all noise drowned beneath the rushing of my own blood or my own
quiet insight. Drink would allow the sacrifice of self to the moral structure
of the values, would enable the collapse of a flawed ethos and the succession
of another, a better. There is something peaceful even selfless beyond violent drunkenness,
stripped of affectation and pretence, and drink is the constant and the
eternal. It is the vessel and also more than the vessel. It is the beginning of
everything. Let’s drink pints dotted with odd slurps of house spirits taken
down grimacing from iceless tumblers until we fell asleep, faces illuminated in
bursts from the flickering lights of the unplayed fruit machine. The world
flows all the more freely with the lubricant of alcohol.
coiled around
yourself
like a tied shoelace
– I’ll undo you
to
then do you
you’ve a tremendous pair of tits
and legs in tights
the hosiery!
what a
posture
spine up, broad of shoulder
- to bear the tits
as mentioned, I assume –
your
bass Essex drawl
- take me to
Colchester! take me to Chelmsford!
- and also the
other towns – Harlow town! –
as a kid my paternal grandparents
took me to the hypermarket
in Harlow
I scoffed a huge sharing bag
of potato hoops and
puked in the car
the blanket covered seats
the FART numberplate
I'd crawl at you across the carpet tiles
to your little brogues
then nose your legs apart
and go up to your cunt now
tights off - lift your arse - let me at it
smell like a sandwich I'll eat right up
and we'll fuck and fuck
- your violent grip -
the frenzy
and joy
release the two tits to me, oh do
let me be it
With a ramshackle troupe of old pals I attended an inner
city high rise block out for pills but we instead left with a dirty white
omnichord that a tough teen was playing through a kronky amp in the kitchen with
a remarkable sound. we drove then to a sizeable house in the countryside for a
kind of party. I was having an intense fling with a girl I had loved painfully
in my youth - it would have been twenty years earlier - and we were on each
other like disease, consuming each other for the brief period that precedes
monotony then resentment. We kissed with the eagerness of animals and there was
fission in those gestures, uncontrolled and enormous. I reluctantly mixed
whiskey and cokes with a bottle of cheapo bourbon I had in my backpack and
passed them about. They were sickly and cruel like the best coitus. Whenever we parted
we would press our bodies together, an affirmation, of sorts, that it was
happening. Life was so fragile and its contents with it. As we drank in a courtyard
garden birds began to plummet from the sky with great force, only one or two to
begin with but then many and then more. They hit the rough concrete like bricks
and popped in a crimson smear of viscera. We ran to take cover beneath
abutments, wooden framed semi structures, door jambs. One friend was hit direct
and felled in an instant in tremendous death. In a hallway we kissed. The
omnichord was playing in a different room, the sweet melody from the theme to Cannibal Holocaust. The house was reshaping around
us, brick steppes leading ever up but never away. The proprietor of a vegan
cafe whom I had not before met but whose tofu burgerettes were amongst the most
uninspired I had encountered during my brief period of fleshlessness - she was called 'Bren' to us - appeared to be collapsing in a manner, bleeding heavily from an
unknown source and hyperventilating. She limped in broad rings away from the
house and into the fields around it. We considered her as dead soon after. I took
the time to ask the girl if she was content with our arrangement, if she wished
for things to continue in this manner. She said that she was, at least until
she met someone better. We watched as the walls of the house bore great maws
amidst their structure, churning and black, for what end. When later I emerged from the crumbling edifice I searched for her to no avail.
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