song for chloë

steer yourself away from me, steer away. through your mediocrity, your great beauty, the silver birch fallen in the recent gales but a slim trunk over at road side, the A140, the immensity!, in the passenger side, the lines – the one line – that’s there at the base of your tummy and down to where the top of your cunt would be if your skirt wasn’t the way the garment hangs upon that line, that line is entirely precious, absolutely so, it’s there when I sleep and at other times, always there, all the lines that conspire to bear the geometry of your body on your legs – hosiery! ever hosiery! – all the colours of the monochrome rainbow feet stuffed into brogues, anchors to the horror of the world, you suffer migraines – not me! – you paint the rims of your eyes in ascent as routes for me to follow, your whole body is a signpost towards its other parts, other points of interest, your breasts, obviously, your breasts the notable point of interest, tremendous things, and when you drink cold water up from a huge thermal receptacle I can so easily substitute the receptacle for my prick, tip worked and lips around, it’s the migraines maybe that make your eyes roll back a way, that lovely lolling look like a wench under voodoo, under zombie trance in a 60s flick in the tin mining villages of the Cornish peninsula, enslaved by the greed of a capitalist squire, and that same lolling as facilitates the imagination of your facial expression at the height of orgasm, you look slightly like my oldest friend, a great guy, a smart guy – it’s the shape of the nose – makes for an odd desire, close your eyes, cable knit! cable knit across your tits! close your eyes, cable knit!, like a working dog I’ll guide you to the position you need to be in, I can kiss the pocked skin of your forehead and so bear the weight of your frown, I imagine you in almost constant pain physical pain, I don’t know why, you’ve one of those faces, tonguing your teeth beneath your slightly mean lips, oh my – look at those earlobes, you smile downwards, how do you do that? it’s wonderful, you are

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.

" hey, grondelski " __ 010 __ the runner then at rest

/ The Runner Then At Rest /

I hefted her body to the Yare, watched it bob towards campus to be hooked ashore by the conservationists out analysing the water, scarred into the talking therapies at the sight of your genitalia slackened by the restless tide.

" hey, grondelski " __ 009 __ mick the cunt's canto

\ Mick the Cunt’s Canto \

                                    / Exercisers /

I’m the one in the dewy meadow your car passes in the pink dawn

in the trees, the bramble, watching the walkers and the running ones

why do they run and what do they hope to escape

they are wax effigies of self, moulded into the garments of exercise

I will apprehend you on the cycleways

where the lights fail and the CCTV can’t reach

and peel those garments from you like the skin of a fruit

your mouth I’ll fill with the same earth that I will sculpt over your eyes like plaster

render you an horrific replicant, mute and sightless

your thighs mottled red in immense blotches

ink stains from the cold breeze, the chill

devolved to dirt that would dry and crack

I’ll admire your fine form from afar

would not try to touch or otherwise caress you

for it is not my place to do so

my place is but to render you an horrific replicant of earth

until that earth has drawn the breath that had been yours

but belonged now to all.

" hey, grondelski " __ 008 __ fig. 3

Fig. 3 – Intro, apropos of Mick the Cunt

Mick the Cunt were as good as his name, cunt b’name, cunt b’nature, th’ cunt, were a right cunt, a cunter, th’ cuntster, were Mick the Cunt, King Cunt – such was the prophecy of dispositional self-fulfilment.

" hey, grondelski " __ 007 __ vicky's tumble

/ Vicky’s Tumble /

Out Cantley way by British Sugar, in the stench of molasses and run off, along the Yare, along the banks there, where the eddies are, and the eels be aswim like freed lips squirming dark and slippery in the murk, I coaxed her into reluctant coupling while her oafish partner swallowed pints with Sertraline and dozed on the sofa; she was scarcely dressed for outside, tan suede ankle boots left saturated from the long grass and the reed beds, and in a quiet spot as I began to knead her arse through her trousers and feel it give, hear the flesh parts parting, and push her gently towards a wet metal bench anchored in an oblong of pocked concrete for watching the cruisers, so I could coax her cunt out  just enough to fuck, she instead slipped on the flattened reeds and into the waters, where after a brief spell of screaming and great effort she soon fell silent beneath the surface and still, a poor swimmer for a girl from the quaggy villages, and I sat and touched myself and left her floating body for the farmers to find.

" hey, grondelski " __ 006 __ the big kid's canto

\ The Big Kid’s Canto \

/ An Isosceles Of Flank /

You’re a mother, I know,

which is perhaps why I want you to hold me

to rest my head on

your very full breasts

be told to ‘pull myself together’

to have my hair stroked

to snaffle the stench of

nicotine and body spray

to pour me out a glass

and talk me into the darkness.

I was aroused when I saw that triangle of

your tan skin on the rooftop terrace

where your blouse rode up

and your jeans rode down

while you smoked and I drank

such a view of the castle!

and when I left to catch the last bus

I waited outside the ladies for you

in the sterile stairwell of the grimly clad

brutalist office block they never demolished

the smell of toner cartridges and Lynx and turkey

and jus and dry shampoo and detergent

where in festive flirtation drunk strangers

patted my beard like the acolytes

to my dumb prophet

the wisdom of five pints

the wisdom of the urinal

I waited so I could hold you and mumble goodbye,

for though you are bigoted by tradition

and of a cloth unrecognisable

to the cloth I have myself nurtured

you’re right for me

I feel a desperate love which –

let’s be honest –

is but boredom made flesh

and though I love the idea of love

I cannot for a moment imagine

the reality of the act of so doing.

" hey, grondelski " __ 005 __ fig. 2

Fig. 2 – Intro, apropos of The Big Kid

The Big Kid’s a bloke, a grown bloke, but with a huge kid’s face, hairless and bleached and with the smarts to match, laugh a minute is the Big Kid, until you realise otherwise, though you’ll only ever realise once it’s much too late to realise.

" hey, grondelski " __ 004 __ what became of grondelski

/ What Became Of Grondelski? /

She saw the seed stain on my jeans, the muck of my nail beds, my brisket hue, meat cheeks, boiled bacon, the needy rheum in my eye, the gob spots in my gob edge, and as she left a departing taxi, in the very early morning, I pulled her into the alley behind her terrace that was lit by the white of a single street light, amongst bins and buddleia, detritus, a rancid mattress, a tricycle, a microwave, a dismantled motor engine, soft green moss, waist high dandelions, I pulled her to the stone and gripped her neck with the both of my hands and applied a downward pressure until with a slight snap it dawned across her intelligent features that this was that, and the eyes flicked off, like a no vacancies sign, and I took a peek, such was my prize, obliged as I was to receive it, the breasts lined with thin veins like the routes of pilgrimage, the lightly thatched pubis, the meaty drapes of the cuntal finery that soon would fester, and with a tool I carefully divested her body of a hand for my assembly of works, for the hands are the key.

" hey, grondelski " __ 003 __ scooter's canto

\ Scooter’s Canto \

/ Hey, Grondelski /

Hey, Grondelski

let’s grind!

I’ll push your legs back

your fine legs back

till your tiny cunt grows

chrome! fine! perfect!

taste it meaty

the line of it

the fissure

lapped at

like a beast on

a salt block

lather it up and fuck you

while you whimper

and I too whimper

your Chelsea boots

and coat

hey!

and your face

I’ll move my fingertips

over it

like the blind

construct memories

from sculptures of touch

your face replicated

as a plate sized

medallion worn around

my neck

I’ll follow you –

though it’s creepy

I know –

I’ll follow you

to the address I found

on an application form

and will stand outside

in silent darkness

will imagine the life

beyond the glass

the life you have

and not I

only for a moment

don’t say goodbye!

don’t say goodbye!

don’t say goodbye!

before you’ve said “hello”

would you like to be cherished

for I can cherish

I will imagine

and envy your garments

taut around your dips

and promontories

envy the food that

enters you

and the shit that

exits you

envy the walls that

watch you sleep

and wash and cook

and work and

sometimes masturbate

when did I become

so much older than

all those younger.

" hey, grondelski " __ 002 __ fig. 1

Fig. 1 – Intro, apropos of “Scooter”

Scooter, that grim faced side of meat, a bloke-sized cluster of blood vessels and gristle and rancid pheromones overflowing, less “born” – more “compiled” from the scraps and scrag ends other parents throw away, heavy, foul, retarded, a compilation of failure.

" hey, grondelski " __ 001 __ the ritual begins

/ The Ritual Begins /

We met in the dusk of afternoon on the small roads out of town where the broadland oozes about bald spectral trees, forests of skeletons horrible, white, in the headlights passing, just brief glimmers of those ghosts of summer swamped by the swelling tides of foul puddles farted from the dank loam, that dwarfed the felled trunks, soft with disease and drowning in life for which death proved the perfect camouflage; we met in the dusk where their slender branches take slender rest, form proscenium avenues of the B roads to Hainford, banks of brown leaves like great lisping tongues upon us – Scooter, the Big Kid, Mick the Cunt, Long John Dimmock, Beaky, me; we six met in the dusk on the small roads, such was the ritual, and we shared in the cool without warmth or comfort  our tales of horror and despair and too of memories of the loves of the future.