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Thursday, February 04, 2010

Who was that.

27,000 selves in this head alone.
All wearing identical smiles.
Pretending not to notice each other.
Pretending to be shy
as they undress for the 57,000th time.
27,000 attitudes and opinions later
and still this man here.

Monday, February 01, 2010

Pornograffiti

Scotland tonight

Personally I can't stop looking at gay pornography.
I'm looking at porn or the porn is looking at me?
The ego is afraid to answer: I'm afraid to say.

The sphincter is the ugliest part of the body
for many it's the feet, the nostrils, the armpits.
The sphincter is the ugliest part of the body.
It's like the tight chocolate smeared mouth of a child.

I've seen it on display, a mouth opening, as if to utter a word.
It appears again and again in the most cheap horrid sites
littered with ramshackle Russian porn, hosted by a man
known only as Yakov, though no one knows who he is or where.
Everyone viddys real horrorshow waters their hose cuts their cake.

Pornography streaks throughout the land and mind.
In secret people sing the word - debauchery.
In secret all the middle aged men/women are guilty
of a voyuers lechery eyeing the school girls/boys sitting
in traffic jams, in the shopping queue, in a day dream.

In secret they change tab or window gaze or page
so wife-lover-dominatrix-psychiatrist won't catch
that bright eyed lo-lee-ta on the screen, in the school,
in the street, in the shower, on your mind.

Porn runs its long obony finger up and down the Nation.
Poor unzips the morals of millions of genetials and labia.
It's the last first temptation of the secret armies of midnight.

Pornography is to sex what the microwave is to food:
quick cheap and utterly without nutrition
- au contraire, fast easy and so morish.

(Mess of a piece, much like the content, not sure whether to castrate this, or leave it as it is....)

Friday, January 29, 2010

One fine Morning in Fife.

Elie, Fife by Bill Alston.

The sun is up, ripe as a bag of Clementine’s in summer, the juice of its light pours across rock and sea, upon the great vegetable earth, and the whole natural kingdom. Cormorants and Shags, squawk and hover over the sea, out for the morning market hunting for fish. Eager to return to their families, who at this moment, are huddled in their warm nests, chirping like an amateur choir in rehearsal, watching the great wide screen of the sky, waiting for news of breakfast.

Mr Holliday is having a jaunt along the shore line, naked except for a tweed hat, a pair of binoculars round his neck, and a plastic bag containing a red thong, a pink vibrator a beach towel, and a pair of shorts. He allows the water to caress his ankles and feet. He enjoys the playful sensation of his toes sinking into the mushy sand. He eyes a small enclosure between two large rocks looks like just the spot for him to settle down for the afternoon and sun. This quiet beach is ideal, no passersby this early, least they be affronted by the castle ruin of his body, and the uncommon sight of a naked pensioner. Slowly he jaunts to the rock alcove. Holliday whips out his towel, a hideous bright number, with two red parrots on the front, both perched on a branch in a luminous green tropical jungle. Holliday places the vibrator and thong and binoculars upon it carefully.

Exercise follows, star jumps, invigorating in the nude, even if his member and testicles, bound by gravity, swing up and down, like a dosing rod in an oil field. Best not to be embarrassed by these things – the body is the vessel for life. No red cheeked, shy eyed, God bothering about it. Like the tree is to the branch, the head to the beak, the grass to the ground, it’s all a part of a part of a part of it. The despisers of the body – he’ll show them. Now he stretches: touches toes; loosens the leg muscles, inflates the solar plexus, and runs on the spot, warming himself up, getting the old circulation sailing.

Holliday moves onto the towel on all fours - arse to the sea head to the land. He stretches his leg out, back and in, as though pedalling in the air. Back and in, breathing in unison, out and in, left leg ten times, right leg ten times, deep breathes, exaggerated breathes, like a panting horse. He concentrates, staring down at the red parrots, with blue and yellow and green tipped wings - ah, to be tropical, he thinks - locked into his routine. Suddenly, there an anarchic scurry of leaps behind him. He lets out a sporano scream, jumping into the air, clutching his buttocks, no hot poker, no cruel twig, nothing but the moist nose of a Golden Retriever momentarily inserted and sniffed where Apollo don’t shine.

Holliday startled, turns to scowl at the dog, which is joyfully bounding about licking at the air, trying to clamber up his body, while he, a man not easily scared by dogs, raises his arms in a cowardly manner, as though avoiding the flames of a fire that has suddenly broken out before him, pleading - 'Down boy, down boy.' Round the corner comes the owner jogging, she shrieks, her delicacy stunned, by the site of this nude man. She slips in the sand, landing arse first. She staggers to her feet, halts, mouth agape, averts her gaze, like a voyeur caught in the act. She catches a glimpse of the towel, the bright parrots, the pink vibrator, the red thong, lying out in bold accusation. Where to look! Her eyes widen, shock turns to fear, fear to paranoia. She backs off slowly, ‘Don't come near me. ' She warns. 'Daddy, come here, come here now, Daddy.’ The dog is sniffing around Holliday's privates, he is tries to shew it, can't get back to the towel to grab his shorts. ‘I’m calling the police! You are perverse, predatory. Daddy, here boy, here boy, come on.’ The dog dumbly obeys her, thinking it's all a game, oblivious to the shock - no shame for a dog, they'll shit on the street on busy weekend, without pretense. The lady turns and runs, grapling to get her mobile out. Holliday, runs after her, round the two rocks, then realises the horror of such a scene, ‘it’s not what it looks like’ but how could he say that. It is what it is. ‘This is the nudist section.’ Who would believe that? This is over, he rushes to get the shorts, hopping, leg for leg, stuff the things into the bag, and power walks the hell out of there. There's a hell of a charge for getting caught with your clothes off.

(Work to be done.)

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Strawberry of the imagination.

Rows of body bags: the fruit of war drying in the sun. - Saiom Shriver

When will families dance around a strawberry like a bonfire?
Only when the last fruit has been picked from the last tree;
how unreasonable. Distribute all strawberries immediately
onto the grass, let the dew cling to them like the residue
of a wet kiss. When the children and the wives and the
husbands have awoken, the strawberries will be giant.
The families will dance like there was no yesterday and
is no tomorrow, infinity being only one day in summer
that everyone is able to enjoy without hand grenades
falling from the branches.

*Something about strawberries.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Love poem read by lamplight.

The stars are the street lights of eternity. ~Author Unknown

My bed side lamp is crying. She threatens to leave me in the dark. I caress her curved spine gently with my hand. She tilts her head away casting the love poems in shadow. She hates love poetry: 'love is foreign' she says. It's wicked, I plead with her, not to shine your self upon the love poetry. The world is only bone and tombstone. Her filament trembles: Sentimentality is a funeral parlour, she hisses. You love poetry, but you don't know how to love me, you bed lying book possessed fool.

Stunned to hear these words, mouth O shaped, I speak to console. Then, without warning, she jumps from the bed side table, cable and plug trailing behind her, bursting the bright 40 watt bulb of her self, face first upon the wooden floor. Shattering into smithereens. I lunge out of bed, startled, dropping the book of love poems upon her thin twisted body; I stand upon the hot pieces of glass in the darkness, wince as they slice into the soles of my feet. I fall to my knees sobbing, raise my hands to my face in mourning. I grope blindly in the dark searching for her corpse.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

High brow.

The rain pisses down from the sky.
Swollen clouds amass like armies.
They have the look of two large
scholarly grey eyebrows crowding
into a frown of disappointment.