your beautiful eyelids

Does the beat of the beautiful eyelids

of the girl from out east

beget a tornado across

the great plains of my sadness.

"child of the moon"

Beneath the flashbulb of the January full moon, curled foetal across the pathway before me, the pathway to the triangle site, lay a child. His skin was glassy white, depigmented by the lunar effulgence, shorn of hue like a subterranean. He stirred at the sound of the crunching gravel, sat then stood, his eyes blinked carefully in greeting. A child of the moon, he seemed, his hair silver and thick. I felt the same compulsion to cradle him that I felt for my own progeniture. Slowly I rested the tips of the fingers of a single hand upon his shoulder, found the skin as cold as meat. He led me some short distance to where in heavy rains the Yare had burst its banks once more, the brownish water about the dried reeds, a deft fondler, and swollen into bleak pools across the adjacent fields, crooked trees jutting from their middles like the very last frail edifices post-catastrophe, allusions only to a distant biodiversity superseded by a huge hopeless spread. We looked a while at the rushing water, at the moon cast in it. His vocalizations were not of the English tongue and had the timbre of birdsong. All about us were goldfinch, scores of them. He held me to his bare chest within which occurred a detonation. I felt soaked in moon. The air was creamy with it. He pointed a lean digit toward the water and was then gone, the song of the goldfinch left in the dark behind him, tellit- tellit - tellit.

" hey, grondelski " __ 019 __ the - an - end

\ The – An – End \

The five encircled lamely like idiot beasts, out for confession and release. For a moment there was a break in the cloud and the sun was blinding but was soon gone just as fast as it had appeared. Their behaviours required the validation of disgust, the sound of their own conveyed doings rendered concrete by that very conveyance, tethered by it to the grim physics of this earth. “Let me tell you of a dream I had,” I said. “In the dream, I entered into the empty ward room of an abandoned hospital complex. Lying completely naked on the floor by one of the walls was a manager from my meagre employment. Her pudendal escarpment was entirely hairless and pale, like a mannequin of sorts. She had her hand gripped between her clenched thighs and was pleading with me to bugger her. I helped her up and towards a gurney on which she lay on her side and I began to lick the full cavity of her anus.” They were visibly aroused by the telling of the dream, and The Big Kid enquired as to its provenance, its significance. “There is little or else none,” I said, and stuck him with a stumpy blade. There was blood from his mouth like a rich secret. He lay very neatly in the leaves and face down. “In another dream I followed a slim middle aged woman in business attire over a locked gate marked ‘Danger No Entry’ and across a wooden fence panel lain across a thin motionless brook and did her roughly in a burst of abrasive jabs in the long grass, where ruined pump assemblies rose like the orifices of the bogland beneath rusted manholes in squat brick elevations, the blowholes of a dying leviathan, my shoes squerching to the tongue in the sloppy soil.” I drew the squat blade in a deep and tender parabola upon Mick the Cunt’s neck until it too enticed as cunny to covet. He was overwhelmed by the mass of his contents, flooded in it, and watched from his back the darkening sky and the treetops as the liquids of life departed in haste. By now the three as were left had clustered together, certain of their coming fate and glad for it, but also afraid. “They were but dreams,” I said. “Of mind only.” I knifed Scooter through the top of his vast head. In it went, easier than I’d thought. He blinked once in what appeared to be a considered manner, pitiful almost, then twisted to the ground, a substantial heap of compostable matter. Dimmock and Beaky looked on. Dimmock worked the bodies with his eyes and palpated his genitals through the front of his clothes. The allure of decay such an unbearable aphrodisiac to the ones of his ilk. I cut him down like a bulrush scorned, left only Beaky present, his hands clasped together. “I’m a fuckboy,” he said. “Don’t mean no harm, just love to get me wong wet. Can’t be so wrong to wet me wong, to feel an instant of clear unalloyed lust and to act on it. Can’t be.” I embraced the poor fool, beyond whom the world extended apace far beyond his knowledge. Felt his good muscles. “Or if it is,” he said, “then I meant not for it to be. Meant not. Acts accrued to a confederacy of mishap. And that’s all.” Scant validation but death, I thought. Scant. “You’ve lived,” I spoke quietly. “What better? What more?” He seemed to relax in my arms only to tense as I buried the blade in and drop then down in death. I myself lay amidst them and passed the night with their hefts, was gone with sunup, would return again long after. The need’d always be.

" hey, grondelski " __ 018 __ please judge

\ My Canto \

                                    / Please Judge /

It is left for me to judge this motley mass

of reprobates and simpletons

to mete out the punishments befitting

their acts of misogyny and inhumanity

invariably death, or other such brutal acts of its class

in the tall grasses, in the boglands, the mire

only judgement can validate the depth of experience

the tangibility of confession allows

depravity to take root, later bloom

to flourish through the eyes of others

and what would be purer than a moment of violent retribution

or the kindness of misanthropes

and it is ever the case that

my glass house is immovable.

" hey, grondelski " __ 017 __ fig. 6

Fig. 6 – Intro, apropos of I

I’d been born into their lot in the stench of muck, jug eared and ruddy, bald and engorged, but with the wherewithal to flee to the other better townships and strongholds of anonymity, where I learned to watch mute and to judge with nary a blemish ’pon these hands of mine, beyond the blood of the possibly worse whose lives I would return to chronicle and finally like flames quench.

" hey, grondelski " __ 016 __ disposal

/ Disposal /

Me and me pals wrapped her up in her own clothes and a few of ours, some bits of plastic we found lugged her through the streets trussed up, past jeering louts and Chinese students, the smell of her cunt upon our fingers, to a towering laurel beneath which we stuffed her to be with the dry brown leaves in the earthen bed.

" hey, grondelski " __ 015 __ beaky's canto

\ Beaky’s Canto \

/ For the Fans /

One sloshed piece we smothered like incubi

rubbing them long fingers together

her flesh the plunders of our moderate success

passed her around like a bit of sandwich we did

she were popping out of her garments

giving the all of us the considerable lusts

goosed her a large vod laced with roofies she gulped down her gizzard

then reeled to my arms caked in sweat

some dead weight she were

me and the few lads lay her to rest across four plastic chairs

had foam farting out of her lips like latte

acrid and warm I rubbed it away with my palm

and we pulled her titties out and took

turns to chew on the two great humps

pulled her pants off and licked at the cunt

that tasted of sliced ham

and all of us took the turn to do her

she slathered up decent for a goner

a spent blotto whited out back

our dicks slipped like equipment

and she muttered a something

alas unintelligible for all the shuteye done open eye

and quite quite distant

and I plugged the useless vessel of her mouth

with my very solid

plugged it till I felt the back

and didn’t realise till the lads were done

with the lower pasture

that all talk she’d upped and choked

when it mattered.

" hey, grondelski " __ 014 __ fig. 5

Fig. 5 – Intro, apropros of Beaky

Beaky was one bit of a rocking band, played the tinkerbell, the clackerty, the coarse rustler, the lip-whistle, the spindle-go, the scrapler, all the percusslings, plied his minor local celebrity to his slight advantage, promised riches where there were no such, drugged up the teenygropers to bare their wares post-show on benzos and sauce; he’d touch them behind the drum assembly, touch them all over and about, top to tail, face to ace, bonce to ponce, leave them asleep for dawn in the city’s great hedges.

" hey, grondelski " __ 013 __ to consummate in death

/ To Consummate in Death /

It would be customary for me to refrain from the sexual activity with the persons I remove as I find such union to muddy those waters as are otherwise clear though on occasion I dabble, the lure of the still-warm wound too great not to, sunk to scrotum in raw muscle kept like pets until rancid, until their bodies collapse around the traction of my piston.

" hey, grondelski " __ 012 __ long john dimmock's canto

\ Long John Dimmock’s Canto \

/ Schematics of Deconstruction /

Permit me my sirs

if you will to permit

permit me my utterances

my confession of a type

for what might any intercourse amount to

but confession of a type

permit my confession that the urge to slay

is almost overwhelming

I see the pretty girls pass

and imagine the incisions

about their abdomen

the breasts removed and stored

the reproductive organs removed and stored

grafts of milky skin removed and stored

each like the spoils of high-end gastronomy

their bodies are to me like the schematics

at the heart of their own deconstruction

flat-pack assembly instructions

followed in reverse order;

they are quite bold

the young, the pretty

almost brazen

comfortable in their own company

content to walk alone

in the dark streets and alleys

off buses

on walkways

by evening and night

where no such young or pretty girl

would hitherto have been comfortable

they feel invincible in their way

or at least invisible

entitled to an existence the same as or similar to our own

as well they should

for they are as entitled to life

as I am to bringing about its closure

as the whelm of the

urges dictates.

" hey, grondelski " __ 011 __ fig. 4

Fig. 4 – Intro, apropos of Long John Dimmock

All airs and graces were Long John Dimmock, dumbly clad in the grey double-breasted scabbed for pence in the charity shop, lightly soiled with spilled food stains and worn with unbranded training shoes of perfect white plastic; thought himself educated from online diplomas, the certificates for which he printed on a near inkless inkjet and stuck to the wall with masking tape, the black ink more brown and at the edges almost invisible, the man Dimmock not superior nor educated neither, only murderous and perverse and vile as was the wont of the human.