an animal signifies by movement, posture and
sound, and so he had been forced
to work with the stiffened leather of his
face, to adopt a postcard ideal of geniality, a rictus of a grin, softened only marginally at the edges.
he exposed too many teeth, too much
of his tongue. the expression of a crocodile.
behind his face however, his thoughts, and
his concept of himself were crumbling into a black hole, an unplumbed depth of unconciousness so deep that it seemed
without end.
human emotion blisters my inside.
he adopted the wheel chair because he was
astute enough to notice that the crippled enjoyed almost complete anonymity. as he contemplated the
passerbys his hands pushing lightly
on the wheel grips, he found himself
thinking of his mate, his master.
wot a fuckin end for a creature as old
as the
universe, he thought, bonded to a woman by
ritual she don't half unnerstand.
Still, the grub is good, and plentiful.
Pickin humans like grapes from the proverbial
vine.
If only the bitch wasn't so fucking good with
her wards. Only time she let him
near her was when she was hot, and then channelled
like a rutting bull.
her and her cast iron cunt.
imagine marrying yourself a fucking demon.
what a loose screw. even for
a human.
so many loose screws the whole bleedin
world is falling apart.
he suprises himself with a little chuckle.
he wakes up with a leer..
cannot fucking remember what i was dreaming about.. luminscence of the motel sign that turned the sheets
the color of spilt blood.. the walls peeled like dry skin.
feels his face tighten and
his mouth tremble:
the
secret's a beautiful dark ball of vomit in his stomach waiting to be expelled.
he throws back the blanket, wiping
his face with the back of one hand and puts one foot on the carpet.
The ground wheels slowly as he walks into the bathroom.
Falls to his haunches folds an arm
around the toilet-seat and rests his forehead on his wrist, staring down into the water.
on the good ship lollypop...
he could feel muscles contracting
in his throat, bile rising in his stomach. his blood was malaria, feverish.
it's just like being injected
from the inside..
he clamped his lips together
like a vice. he imagined himself as a white encircling wall holding back the black waves of a sea.
closed one eye to look inside
himself and watch the secret approaching like an express train. filling his lungs with fluid, an implacable churning
engine.
he leant closer to the bowl,
his eyes on fire.
decaying organisms surrounded
by darkness. breath like the wind from a gas chamber carrying the ashes of the dead up into the sky.
human fucking flesh, what a waste of clay.
how the fuck does meat generate light anyway.
she could have given me the body of a roach.
one of the
big fuckers, a grandaddy.
half jumping, half in flight.. wings moving
like scissors..
in the apartment upstairs his retching sounds
like a hurricane.
v
..on a soul bender, drinking till the
oil pours from his
skin like a white-hot fire.. a succession
of dream sequences..
.. line of paper figures cut from night stained
paper..
taking liberties with humanity again...
in the end, like a common drunk
hunched up over a bar nursing the clay urn
holding his soul..
waiting for her footfall, the small soft hand
like a dove landing on his
shoulder
why are you still carrying that around
with you?
he traces an arrangement of stars on the bar-top,
small wisps of smoke rise under the blackened holes.
here mate, dont put your cigarettes
out on
my fuckin bar ok? this here is what they call
a -nashtray..
he ignores the bartender & runs his tongue
over his teeth. a slight fur.
dont want some old bitch snatching it up &
flushing it down a toilet, or dropping
it. thousands of years old. priceless.
he sniggers & bats his eyelids at his
own reflection.
what a pretty boy.
vi
It's one of those trendy warehouse elevators
with the heavy iron grille. By
the time the doors slide open you feel as
if you were either entering or escaping
a prison.
isn't like the old days. artists had to shit
out in the street, eat leftovers.
The loft is hardly furnished. Walls hung with
baconesque canvases. Some kind
of middle eastern carpet spread out over the
boards, muffles his feet nicely
as he moves towards the bedroom. He reaches
down to pick up a paint splattered sheet, stares out the bay window into the city. Watches cars tracing the highways with
silver light. Listens to his own breathing, the blood in his veins pumping.
Palms the door open, and moves over to the
bed. Reaches into his bag for the hypodermic. Young man with a fashionable heroin chic, he stirs and mumbles something in
his dream. His eyelids flutter.
Stab him in the neck. He lunges upright but
the drugs already taking hold. Expressive eyes, hard to tell the color in this darkness. Little gone to seed.
my ma had a bent for artists like my wife
has a yen for eclairs.
the more tortured, the more incandescent..
the better.
Arrange the tools out on the table, the scalpels
catch the moonlight from the skylight overhead, reflect it back on the walls.
You've seen my da's work. Thick like
spilt blood. He was snivelling, sweating,
deranged little man. Lives in my marrow
right now.
Not everyone finds finds sex with a
demon pleasant.. putting the feeding tubes into your cortex.. aint a laugh and a giggle.. the ..brain not structured.. that
way.. in the sense.. of pain receptors.
She came to him in the cornfields.. fucked
the living daylights out of him. Set those fields on fire.. Set his blood boiling. Sucked him dry as a bone.
he tried to blow his brains out.. later.. what
was left of em. Ended up shooting himself in the stomach.. Not before he saw the world through her eyes..
wot a fuckup..
I aint an artist but i'm what you might call
a fan..
this here is a bonesaw, but for the purpose
of this here procedure, we'll call it a can-opener... where was I?
You're paralyzed mate. Curare. Bloody hard
to come by. You got a few minutes before it fucks up your breathing apparatus... you just relax and let me do the
work.
vii
im watching the waitress swivelling on her
meaty thighs, moving from table
to table like a vulture in a checked apron.
I can barely keep my eyes open.
My insides are humming. When i lift my cup
the the coffee bubbles into life,
steam warms my face. I'm on fire tonight.
Somewhere in the city theres an
apartment painted with blood.
Her beef-fed face leans over me. Nothing occupies
that face but her blank
eyes, shadowed.. lined with khol.... Her mouth wrinkles under thick red
paint. There's sweat stains on her shirt and
dirt on her collar.
I take her hand in mine, the same way i'd
handle a dog.
"You'd be suprised how easy it is to break the windows of the soul an let the birdies owt. Tools are
good, but above all.. a man needs commitment."
She recoils, visibly repulsed.
Outside the city continues to uncoil. Long
lines of cars. Some rushing to work. Some rushing to shop. Some obessesing about cunt, and some of cock. My
reflection stares through the window, watching my cup of coffee hungrily.
Shifting from foot to foot like a homeless
man he apes, he hoots. He waves his arms.
Hes my human half, my host bodies prodigal
soul. Doomed to live a life of solitude in my reflection. He's wailing now, beating at his head.
It affects me about as much as a bad mime.
