" 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.