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?

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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)

collage_20160203233604167_20160203233612220.jpg

 

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”.

Lovers

I
Lip, bitten and fat
love slides off in hot water, you left
an empty pack of cigarettes
thinking so little
of dreams, plans sketched
out in night ink, the engine
of carelessness idling on
the rain drenched street
there was no room for circled calendars
you left
and I held
the door open for you.

II
Night’s a suit vest
stained with stars
we eat Thai under the lighthouse
wind chilling the bones
of conversation, an amputation
of true meaning, you push for sex
and I relent – the city lights
eat my heart out as the waves
white-wash noise covers the tell-tale
signs, I’ve a mind to keep you
but I always try to keep your kind
like a stick insect – so magnificent
so still, imitating a leaf.

Wild Saturday night, poetry, and mold.

Ahhh Sunday morning.

I have a new bookcase. It’s chocolate coloured, tall, and begging for books. The walls of my room are freckled with mold that looks to be making a home for itself (the joys of living in an old damp apartment), so I’m frantically moving all my prized books out of its reach. As it is with these things, I couldn’t help but read some of them.

Now it’s late (or early) and I’ve had my nose in some pages by the likes of John Tranter, John Forbes, and August Kleinzahler. So now I’m messing around with words. Here are some I prepared earlier.

Coral lipped, she had her tongue split
down the middle, now she talks strange
She likes to stick it out at small children
declaring that she never saw herself as a
mother

concentrating on the red man, he changes
green and we walk to the movies, she hates
romantic comedies and so do I, so we catch
some Nicolas Cage disaster. We’re not there
for the popcorn.

In the park in the early hours she hands me
a can of Coke, we do the whole look
at the stars and contemplate our lives shit. She feels
Athena is misunderstood – her manager – not the goddess
she tells me, though the goddess has a right to be mad
too, if you ask her, which I didn’t, but to watch her is heaven
and the night’s too cold for me to move.

I think the ending is a bit too weak. But I’m still mulling over what to replace it with. Maybe a detail about the other persona? I don’t know, it’s kind of her show, so… I’ll have to think on it some more.

Wild Saturday night/Sunday morning alone at the keys. I know what you’re thinking, “how does she maintain her extravagant lifestyle?”. Coffee and meds, my friends, coffee and meds.

Why, what are you doing with your Sunday morning?

Freudian Friday: Let’s Gingerly Drink to this Affair.

Freudian Friday meets end-o-week drinks.

Let’s make an innocent little gin get dirty. It’s Friday morning and we’ve got the whole day to suffer through before we can get our dranks on. So lets get masochistic and relieve our ennui – by daydreaming cocktail hour because I’m just fucking neurotic like that. So pull up a wobbly wooden stool in some pompous bar surrounded by eclectic hipster knickknacks, overpriced finger food, & that one staff member who always looks like they just hate the living shit out of humanity missed the bus in the rain. Cross your ankles and thoughtfully stroke your facial hair and let’s have one innocent little drink, one might even say that we deserve one because life is cruel and makes us work for a living. So suck this for an ennui remedy – The Dirty Ginger Gimlet.

Dirty (spotty) Ginger Gimlet. It'll cure what ale's ya.
Dirty (spotty) Ginger Gimlet (a young Gin Buck had sordid affair with a sweet little Gin Gimlet). It’ll cure what ale’s ya (I can’t be held responsible for that pun, I’ve been watching a lot of these laydehs lately).

Dirty Ginger Gimlet – you will need:

A highball glass packed with ice.

10-20ml Bickford’s Lime Juice Cordial (depending on how sweet you want it)

10ml Lime Juice

30ml Gin

30ml of Dry Ginger Ale

A dash of White Wine (whatever you have on hand – in my case Sauvignon Blanc)

Optional no it’s not – stay classy motherfuckers: A slice of lime to serve.

Method:

Grab your highball, fill it with ice and let’s build some adultery.

First the Cordial.

Sweet Lady Gimlet.
Sweet Lady Gimlet.

Then the lime juice. Traditionally a Gin gimlet ingredient.

Married young, the union went sour.
Married young, the union went sour.

Then your gin. I use Tanqueray because I’m a gin snob it’s magnificent.

She hit the bottle.
She hit the bottle (look at that gorgeous green – urgh, Tanq baby, I love you).

Then the dry ginger ale. Traditionally the main ingredient in a Gin Buck.

She met a young buck.
She met a young buck.

Then the White Wine (that’s what makes it all so dirty because wine tastes like shit)

and they got all birds and bees.
and they got all birds and bees.

Give it a stir and you’ve got yourself alcohol’s answer to a love child – a Dirty Ginger Gimlet.

akjbdkwdbf
and pop goes the weasel – she’s preggers with a bastard. The horror!

Now that you’ve taken a bunch of pictures of liquids imagined yourself awkwardly drinking at home alone on a Thursday night while you blog about affairs between alcoholic beverages sipping the bastard,

getting drunk home alone on a thursday night.
Adultery never looked so fresh.

you can put shit away/get back to work marvel at its makers.

Add a touch of class to your shitfaced afternoons cocktail hour.
Add a touch of class to your shitfaced afternoons/nights/lunch hour after work drinks.

and imagine yourself hypothetically maybe not having any wine stoppers, causing you to do something impractical classy like make your own out of aluminum foil an appropriate medium.

Nailed it.
Nailed it (mushroom cloud).

Or alternatively you could snap out of your psychosis just in time to learn a bunch of real traditional cocktail recipes (including the traditional Gin Buck and Gin Gimlet) from Monotone Josh and the amazing peeps at About.com