After we met
I thought of my hand wrapped around your throat
& how you’d close your eyes and beg for pressure
I pictured you crawling my figure
Positioning
Preying and pawing and slithering
I want to watch you thrash
Brand me with your claws
Fill my pores with your sweat
Stick your taste in me
Make me breathe the air that doesn’t deserve you anymore
The pleasure’s all mine
“A quaint Victorian term
widely used in the fifties
to describe a woman who couldn’t
have an orgasm during sex,”
the Psychonaut explains to the stranger
he’s just met at the cocktail party.
Was his name Jim? John?
“So this woman, writing
under the name of Constance Newland,
describes her participation in an experiment
using LSD to overcome ‘specific neuroses.’
Her neurosis? Her self-described ‘frigidity.’”
The Psychonaut takes a long drink
from his gin and tonic,
waiting for Jim – or John – to comment,
but he stands there transfixed,
like a cat watching a squirrel
behind a pane of glass.
So the Psychonaut goes on.
“‘For the first time, under LSD,
I found pleasure in sex,
rather than terror and pain,’
she writes in her 1962 book,
My Self and I.
“Psychedelic research has demonstrated
LSD can enhance sensations,
the pleasure involved
in touching and being touched.
“Which makes me think of the Kama Sutra,
the ancient Indian Sanskrit text
that says desire, sexuality and emotional fulfillment
amount to one of the proper goals in life.”
He was born
to a virgin whore,
who convinced
her own husband
that GOD came
inside of her
in a threesome
with an angel.
At the age
of thirty-three,
GOD’s rape baby
found his best friend,
a prostitute with
the very same
Christian name
as his mother,
who believed
he was the
biological child
of the almighty
omniscient
sexual deviant.
Of course
I’ve had good times,
I told him,
squizing my brain
for a given memory
While wiping my chapped lips
with the back of my hand
Booze and bullshit spilled
from my misaligned jaw
It starts like this:
You grab a bottle of wine
and your favorite dolls
Going off to dabble
in the dark arts
This I can say,
I’ve had much fun
actually,
most of which i sadly
don’t remember at all
But i can tell you,
for example,
about the feeling of lying down
in a field of sunflowers,
as magnificient
as a Van Gogh painting
Or swimming naked in the rain
upon a murky lake
My man watching me enraptured
as the reeds lightly whip
my bareskin butt
He’s too afraid to jump in
(of something entering his meatus)
Funny, isn’t it?
I sure thought so
I know this isn’t wishful thinking
’cause I’m not much of a romantic
But man, these pills fucked me up
What about trying ice skating
for the first time totally drunk
because some dude had his birthday
and he wanted to surprise me
We even went to play pool
with a swinger couple after
I realized that night
I sucked balls
And yet, my very likely best nights
Come as axes to my skull
and the fuckening steeps somewhere
between the second and third bottle
Balls-in is always a good idea
My strongest memories though
fall between arousal and horror
Like the image of some guy
Can’t even remember his name
Washing his face
with my blood
after fucking me hard
in the vintage chair
of a run-down Belgrade
hotel room
I think,
his magic mushrooms
had gone bad, but
his sphincter was quite mighty
It happens to fall
and break your nose
sometimes
when you drink from
green bottles offered free
Me, I’m lying in my piss
in a university bathroom
Which, to be honest, seems kinda odd
and not much my style anyway
More like a fistful of shit
from a trans Russian’s ass
and more good ol’ times
yet to come
it was summertime
she told me she was a virgin
i went over to her house
in the kitchen
she gave me a cherry
with all 10 of my fingers
i popped it
it gushed
she walked up to me
got on her knees
took my fingers in her mouth
her dad walked in on us
what the fuck he said
i had to leave
he said that kind of stuff is not allowed in my house, son
i told him not to call me son, dad
he said don’t call me dad, boy
as i walked out the front door
i turned back and said
ok old man
he came after me
he started wrestling me on his front lawn
my girl
she was screaming
stoppit dad!
he had me in a deeep headlock
tap! he said
never
i could feel myself losing consciousness
but i could feel his strength weakening
stoppit ur hurting him my girl screamed
but i gave her the thumbs up
i got out of the headlock
i told her watch this
and i belly to belly suplexed him
and he went unconscious
and ever since then
she called me daddy
For some reason,
She took offense
At him calling her
A psycho bitch.
So,
She bashed him
In the head
With the plate
Of macaroni
And cheese.
It made quite
A colorful mess,
Mixed with the
Gushing blood
And all.
Still,
He thanked her
For bandaging
The head wound,
Taking that as
A sign of true
Compassion.
When actually,
She just didn’t
Want to go
To jail.
dumb. goal-post dumb.
he didn’t have a learning disability.
he wasn’t let down by the education system.
well, at least no more than the rest of us.
no. he was just dumb. a big dumb fuck.
he farted when he walked.
he’d come farting across the school yard
farting footsteps
and grab you:
cum sniffer! he’d accuse. sniff your cum, you, don’t you?
or:
mum perv! perv on your mum, you, don’t you
and:
dog wanker! wank your dog off, you, don’t you?
his chin against yours because he wanted a kiss
and the only way he could get one
was to find an excuse to kick off on you
and it was in maths class, or science, one of them
and Mr Harbour had nipped out to put some Irish in his coffee
and you don’t know what happened:
you saw the big dumb fuck
sitting on his own there
mouth breathing
and you thought of all the farts
brewing inside of him
and it suddenly really pissed you off.
you were bored. you were so fucking bored.
bored of him and bored of school
and the two of them together? same time, same place?
nah, that was too much, mate.
so you went over
and you said:
YOU sniff YOUR cum. YOU perv on YOUR mum. YOU wank YOUR dog. YOU sniff
YOUR cum after wanking off YOUR dog of a mum. it’s obvious.
that’s why you accuse everyone else of doing those things. so fuck off. fuck
the fuck
off
and he hit you
and you went down
and you were lying on the floor of the maths room, or the science lab, one of them
declaring: I hit a nerve! it must be true!
and you could see him standing over you
with his leg pulled back at the knee
like he was going to kick you
but he was hesitating:
even that big dumb fuck
had the foresight to know
that if he started kicking you he wouldn’t be able to stop,
but then his eyes went glassy
as he saw his whole shit life before him,
realising he was probably going to end up in prison anyway
and his big mushy face seemed to
relax
as he decided: fuck it
might as well get a head-start on my shitty prison life
by getting some revenge here and now, eh?
when Mr Harbour came back
with his cheeks all shiny
and yelped.
the big dumb fuck got chucked out of school.
or he was just suspended, and forgot to come back. who knows.
but you were looking over your back for a while.
and then
well, shit,
you were dragged into adulthood
and he kind of faded into the back of your mind
until you forgot about him completely, like
that nugget of data devoted to him
just fell out of your ear one day
when you were
sitting in the dentist’s waiting room
or fisting someone’s grandma,
as you do.
and you just got
this job
bringing the deliveries in
at the frozen food place in town,
and who’s working alongside you?
no, you think, looking out the corner of your eye
as you strip a pallet.
no. surely not. how’d I end up in the same place as him?
then he puts down a box
and comes farting over:
his farts, matured like cheese,
slapping the warehouse walls …
you brace yourself
for another kicking.
for the lifetime of kicking
that he’s backed up all this time.
probably got lots of practice on his prison bitch.
you brace yourself
and the big dumb fuck,
he leans over you
and he sniffs his finger
when he asks:
cover my shift Tuesday?
gotta walk my mum’s dog.
I will take your hand like a mountain
an impossible climb, time passing
we know this, never so gently
as the song playing in our heads, four ribbons
outta four winds, snow in the lung
shovel up to the door of your sadness heart
tonight I am a huge fire,
you’re the thunder roaring under
motel floor boards, six-pack eyes
call the owl to bread, let the garden sink
under autumn rain, listen to the dark highway
hum a sweet little song of pain,
Yes, I’ll take your hand, try very hard to understand
what the poem tried to say, what my eyes couldn’t find
all alone anyway, out here in triumph or drown land
low edge blur of town, I just want to pause the hurt
be a fixer-downer
back to the roots, inside the seed
ride the wind, let the wound bleed
back East West North South
anywhere but nowhere
everywhere the poor heart lands
yes, in your hands…
I was walking with my vagine when a man stopped me and said,
“Oh, what a lovely vagine! Do you mind if I pet it?”
Looking at his face, I could tell he was a decent fellow
though his expression seemed a bit anxious.
“Sorry to say no,” I answered gently but firmly.
“I used to let people pet my vagine, but too many of them–
mostly men–have done so in a manner that made my vagine
feel very uncomfortable.”
Obviously disappointed, the man looked down at my vagine
and said in a sorrowful tone, “I perfectly understand.
I once had a beautiful vagine like yours, but then. . .
well, it’s a very sad story. I’ve tried to get on with my life
but it hasn’t been easy. Whenever I see one like yours,
it always reminds me. . .”
Feeling sympathy for the guy, I was just about to reverse my decision
when I suddenly remembered that I’d heard the same story before.
After wishing him well, me and my vagine continued on our way. . .
I’ll try once more to be
buttery
sweet and soft
let it all go
start anew try
deep breath
come undone
try
calm the nerves
seep into deep space
melt stars
I never get out
of my head enough
to realize
I am nothing
save the few bits of
blood and bone
I’ve left
squandered all the rest
on something
radical
I believed
as love
call it madness
I go again
***
Originally published in Anti-Heroin Chic
