hagiography

I'm nine–> I'm a nasty piece of
work–> I know this because he's screaming it at me from between
flaccid drunken lips and nicotine stained teeth–> I'm sitting in
a chair–> It's brown–> The heels of my feet are tucked up
against my bottom–> To my left is a kitchen–> To my right
is an open window, nine floors up–>

There's a bookcase, teak, plastic
moulded circles covering the screw-holes–> I've read practically
everything in it, including Deep Throat–> There were pictures,
black and white, shiny in a dull way–> She had curly hair, wavy
Linda, and her face was all distorted, sandwiched between those two
men–>

He's spitting on me–> Fry pan
anger–> I don't move–> I don't say anything–> I don't
even breathe–> Inside me is a black marble, right in the middle
of my chest–> We had those bottles, and when you filled them up
the marble blocked the neck, stopped everything coming out–> I
can't speak–>

I'm nineteen–> There's pink neon
glancing off mirrors–> Peacocks–> And everyone's strutting
their stuff–> Out on the pull–> Laughter connects like
clinking glasses–> Like ice in glasses–> Splicing faces–>
Julie smiles–> It drifts across the dance-floor–> Metallic
tinsel–>

I thought I wanted to come–> I'm
sitting at a table on a red velvet stool–> There's heat in my
face and last night's cum in my pants–> Drinking beer from the
bottle makes my lips move in a way that reminds me of speech, but all
the words are stuck–> I'm mute–> I nod–> Run my
fingers through my hair–>

On the back wall a light dis/play
negotiates with a cheap print–> I could wear that frame, feet on
the bottom rung, head pressed up against the top rail–> Imagine
me in silver, in sliver, slavering–> I nod–> Someone's just
told a joke–> I laugh–>

Julie's staring into my face–>
Anson's got his hand on my knee–> I had my legs open for him–>
Miners used to wear denim, hard and protective–> I can't
breathe–> There's something red winking at me–> I think
it's the siren of happiness–> I suck at the bottle neck–>

I'm twenty nine–> I don't know who
that person is in the mirror–> Why is she looking at me? Her
eyes are so worn, like she's seen so much, cried too much–> I
think she's trying to tell me something, with her ears, her lips, her
scary hair–> She seems blue, azure, unsure–>

There's a sink in front of me–> A
toilet on my right–> A bath behind me–> Razors in the
cabinet, white laminate–> Fresh blade serenade–> I don't
want surgical precision–> Fingernails are good–> “Organic”,
announces a half-fucked-bitch–> As if –>–>–>

My head bled, along those furrows,
ploughed by worry and indecision incarnate–> Yes sorry?
Scratching–> Scratching as if it were possible to remove the
detritus of a million years–> A non chemical skin peel–>
This is what happens, but space and time won't carry my load, back to
the man–>

I know I'm a nasty piece of work–>

I'm thirty nine, and there are no
steps, just that huge fucking clock, threatening to strike–>
Disconsolate worker neurons fold their arms and shake their heads–>
Somewhere a brazier burns bright on a picket line of dissension, in
attention to detail–>

Oh yes, it was a good weekend–>
Music–> Brandy–> Passion in spades that we built into
sandcastles on a beach with a rapidly encroaching tide–> I
tried–> To not be a nasty piece of work–> Flying in the
face of slashings and crashings–> Bottled–> Glassed–>
Black marbled crassivity–>

I know this because he's screaming at
me from between flaccid drunken lips and nicotine stained teeth–>
I'm sitting in a chair–> It's black–> The heels of my feet
are tucked up against my bottom–> To my left is a kitchen–>
To my right is an open window, nine floors up–> I should've
fucking jumped way back–>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

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