Collecting Beads

Collecting Beads

for M. Nin

 

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Leslie’s Books and Antiques

Leslie’s Books and Antiques

The Pleasures of the Damned, 1993 was a good year – putting me on like Chapstick. The bookstore doubles as a sex shop –

Leslie’s Books and Antiques – the only ‘antique’ is a stuffed cobra fighting a mongoose sitting in dust on the counter while a floral curtain

the kind you’d find in a 1950’s farmhouse, too orange, too pink, is the only thing that separates the Best of Woman’s Weekly’s winter recipes

from the gang bangs of Bonnie Rotten and her spider web tit tattoos. Leslie looks bored behind the cock rings at the counter. It’s 3pm on a Friday

she reads Black Beauty and if her horse was willing, she’d ride at night – the thrill of fog over the creek, but he’s in Camberwarra at her ex-girlfriend’s house

she’s afraid he’ll be sold, he’s getting past his time. But one can dream – do you read Stephen King? Cujo’s on the top shelf, there’s one left – worth a look

I was in a coma five years ago, two days, as soon as I came to, I read Cujo and realised nothing scared me anymore. I used to be religious – pledged my vagina to God

no men or women for a year – then the coma happened and I realised no one sits on a throne of clouds, no one cares about my vagina

I might as well sex who I want and open a book store with all the essentials, she winks. Sex takes as much imagination as reading. Why not have them together?

Love is Endless Oil

Love is Endless Oil

after John Tranter

 

Pulled taut, released, eternally splitting amoeba

under the microscope we are watchmakers

ticking away time like stars, gluttons for red enlightenment

blu blasphemy – I’d love them all, forever falling

into the arms of new men, new stories, a sundial splitting

my shadow. Your smiles leave breadcrumbs

hypnotic urgent monsters stir the pot – I’ll fake it

being without body most nights turning and vanishing

like a comet, philosophic and industrious we

put out the siren call for sailors – John Tranter said

love is endless oil and being water there is no hope for us

it’s our nature to want absolutes

to want the purest forms of experience, pushing existence

that patient god, to the brink of sanity. We don’t skydive

or hang ourselves by hooks for the crowds but after so many

stories we’re bent like a sculpture of paralysing and total fatalism.

 

 

 

(It started like this, from a previous post: https://goo.gl/v5ozG3)

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Down at Bar 52

Down at Bar 52

 

You don’t want to hear it.

Quaint women’s things

lotioned into the air

vanilla perfume emanating

declaring her woman-ness

god that’s dull

but you’d fuck her in a heartbeat

the moment’s there

Shhh her opinion

Shhh her telephone number

just get down to it, a hate-fuck

pure hate

so much it nearly asphyxiates you

a rock star way to go

and then

that stupid mustache

screaming microphone feedback

entitlement

is distilled into one sentence

“I didn’t spend $50 on cocktails for a handshake”.