hagiography

I’m burnt by your pornographic stare.  Motorcycles and monocles.  It’s circular, as you roll your eyes and I find my feet.  There was this one time, when he looked at me and I looked at him, and I didn’t understand the flattery of his attention, because his nose was so perfect, and many girls in their flapping adoration were falling over themselves, but he saw my boots and thought maybe I could run, or catch rabbits, or stand on my feet for eight hours solid.

I can wurk.

Embarrassed I am.  Underneath your gaze I am.  And I must perform right and righteously.  I feel in my heart flutter, the butter of scones, perhaps with jam, and small inflated inclusions of raisins … yum … the cream in my panties is not of the pasteurised, whippy variety.

Blessed with shame I am, good Catholic and straight backed, all the better for lying on.  ‘Spread ‘em baby’, but I don’t have no knife.  Your eyes glint with the blade.  Light slices.  Lips lick.  I never knew I had a pulse there til now. 

Hotness creeps over my body like a million ants in hobnails and steel toe caps.  Wurker ants, wurker bees.  The reference is Russian, but you’re not rushin’, cos you’re occluded, maybe like a diamond with a flaw, still cuts both ways though.

No-one understand what I on about here baby, I should give plain and simple, a recipe for disaster … Look ye here … I can see his face, the rape in his eyes, the power twitch in his body, he can’t help but get erect for me, cos he knows I know his filthy.  Yeah?  I feel his electrickery of fuckery.  Big, hard man wants me and his cock do the talking, his one eyed torpedo, his monster mothafucka of destiny, for as it was, so shall it be, forever and ever, amen.

Always in the eyes.  Sometimes they milky and wandering like a full river, past verdant banks and slight shacks.  ‘Hey’, he says, ‘Just cos I look at Van Gogh it doesn’t mean I want one hanging over my bed’, and I watch his eyes slide, over breasts and thighs and into another woman.  I not enough.  It’s what we should all know, we don’t satisfy.  Their loin lust is indiscriminate, even though he love me without the word saying, drip, drip, like a tap, why would I need those words?

But when he look, like a lust that make no matter, I am stoned.  Adulteress they scream, with their rocks and indignation, but I can see the sun, and the custard stones of their temples, cut square and built to last.  The sands of time do not run through the hour glass of this particular desert.

He look me straight in the eye and I avert, down to the floor, down to zero.  Floor never looked so interesting before, with its wooden stripes, spreading out like chaos veins.  ‘Hello floor.  You are below.’  I daren’t look up for fear of sky of endlessness.  Evacuation in this instance only reminds me of abortion.

He take me hard, his fingers on my flesh.  I been waiting an eternity for him to come to me like this and hold me stern, his eyebrows locked and determined.  ‘Hello my master’, I say to the creases in his face.  He greets me like I an angel in disguise, but I can see from the curl of his lips and the wetness that skims his teeth that he no god.

I want to kneel, to show servitude and some chance of obedience, but my knees are locked in the method of standing.  I never forgot I had to die on my feet.  I’m planted in serpentine earth, belly sniff and heaven concentric.

He take me headlock, but still I resist to exist, thinking that I must show a defiance, ‘Look at me in my knowing of you,’ I mouth without words, cos they all falling at my feet, with the angels, damp and somehow tattered.  He look me.  He look me and in his eyes I see the man searching for obedience.  He try find me there before a punishment and I try see him like Solomon, wise whipping with his tails and nine lives.

You wanna know how he takes me, how I want to be taken?  On my knees, like my sex is my sacrifice, like I must pay, bent and subservient, hair knotted and ache blasted.  I want him to take the belt from his carriers, to hear the leather slide against his jeans.  I want to see his velvet lips, last licked and left plump, hint of hair and red as blood in veins, plumped with pleasure as he studies my flinch.

And then, breathless with insanity, locked in depth death, I want him to find place escape where I am lost, crying for him, swollen eyed and begging the question, petitio principi, choked in my world of pain.  I want him to find me, in anticipation of the first kiss, and tell me I am a good girl.  ‘Good girl’, he says, his hand palming my cheek, ‘Good girl’, as he is satisfied beyond desire.  ‘Good girl’, he say, because I can be something no-one else can.