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Monday, September 14, 2009

Tears for Toro

A dance of death, upon this year’s day of the dead:
Bull with capote de brega in cold blood red
Under the Volcano and colour blinding sky
Lustful for sangre onlookers ask: who will die?
Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías,
For a dead bull, where were poet Lorca’s tears?
Infernal machismo’s death in the afternoon
Gallant glory or gutted, gory: blood pours soon.
Horror of a bull fight, The Disasters of War,
Toro defenceless against the armed Matador;
Endeavour to ban this bloodthirsty so-called sport
Remember the dead torito: spare him a thought.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Orange book group

Orange book group

Chris Border knew no one, had nowhere to go, except home, and nothing to do there, except read.
Today he ventured out to hunt down the book he had hungered to read.
Such excursions were rare, so he had to remember how to get back home, to his cold empty flat in Shoreditch. From Green Park, along the blue line to Warren Street, walk to the pink line at Euston Square, until Whitechapel; walk along the Orange line until home.
As he stood waiting for a seat, he thought how reassuring to live so close to the tracks, aside from its underused logistical commuting convenience.

He finally finds a seat, and starts reading. Moments later, he notices a woman peering at him. Chris also does that whenever he sees someone with a book, just to get a sense of the person, to make a quiet judgement, and think of it no more. However, she was more persistent, and she even looked a little familiar, like a woman he had seen on Late Review a few times. However, people are many, faces are few and bone structures are largely uniform.
Too many ugly people, not enough pretty skulls…
He would often change the words to songs in his head, which intensified and changed the value of the words for him, by making them more in tune with and pursuant to his own morbid and decadent aesthetic sensibility.
He flipped over his book and, on seeing the photo, the penny dropped, it was...
She had seen the book he was reading and used it as an invitation to start talking to him.
She invited him over to her house, and even offered to cook for him, if he agreed to give her feedback on the book, when he had finished it. Like some literary form of regurgitation, only with Penguin books instead of actual Penguins.
So it was agreed. That made a date of it.


When he arrived there, she was not alone.

“This is Patricia,” announced the authoress, in a bellowing tone.

A scary looking woman with dark hair, a ball breaker, he decided. He was sure to be careful what he said, lest he be pounced upon.
However, she turned out to be cordial enough, flirty even, which intimidated him a little. He was not accustomed to the attentions of the scarier sex. For this, he started to wonder if he had been invited there under false pretences. When would this writer start prompting Chris for his infinite wisdom and critical expertise upon her novel?
Over dinner, he presumed. He waited patiently, wondering whether to launch prematurely into his pre-planned lecture, without being asked. Well, she had invited him, and even cooked a meal, the least he can do is wait.
The wine came out, bottle after bottle, and all this before they had even started eating. This is a recipe for disaster, he thought; but they were paying for it so he just went along.
Too much alcohol on an empty stomach fills one’s bladder all too quickly. He asked to be excused, then stood up, looking lost as if to ask: so where are the toilets?

“They are down the corridor, second on the left,” dictated the authoress.

He took a few more moments than were strictly necessarily to collect his thoughts, as he often did when in no great hurry. However, something important was missing from these musings: a rare and priceless edition, he thought.
It was the answer to his preoccupying question: just what did these women want with him?
He flushed, and made his way back to the dining room, whereupon his question may be answered. However, so shocked was he by the sight, that no such thought arose.
During his bemused pondering in the bathroom, they had stripped down into their birthday suits and started eating their food off each other.
How disappointing, he thought, this was not a proper meal; uncooked, like all the food on display - just fruit, oranges mainly.

“So tell me, how did you like my book?”

“What, now?”

“No time like the present. Besides, if you are too harsh, I will not be so upset; I will be distracted.”

Not knowing where to look was a feeling he dealt with on the tube by concentrating on his book. In the absence of such comfort, he settled for a fixed spot by the window. This way he would not be overly distracted by their proceedings, yet he would still be looking in their general direction. He did not what them to think he was impolite; he was their guest. Moreover, if he was too standoffish, he feared they would be more inclined to invite him to their party of two, just to torture the poor soul.
Nervously, he started his lecture:

“Well, it was an expression of Cixous’ Écriture féminine par excellence.”

“Really, I have never read her,” she interjected abruptly.

“And you manifest the feminine voice Woolf described, in her seminal study on women’s literature.”

“I am not a big fan of Woolf to be honest; she is a little too tame for my liking. I prefer someone with a little more passion, you know what I mean?”

“Like her, I suppose,” he said, while looking at Patricia; who was too preoccupied and engrossed in what she was doing to notice any acknowledgement of her presence.

“Anything else?” asked the authoress, curtly.

“I did have more but it has slipped my mind. I should have written it down.”

“Oh well, there is always next time. We will have to do this again sometime. Just tell me when you finish another one of my books. Then ‘shall we three meet again’.”


“You must be hungry, take some fruit for the road, we have plenty, take whatever you like.”

“Um, ok, well I will just take a couple of these.”

“They are not the only fruit you know.”

Monday, August 31, 2009

My wed dream

Here comes the priest
Not late at least
To bless our union till we’re both deceased.

I am the groom,
Love soon to bloom
Into a flower that will not consume.

In a Gothic church, an organ sings
Married with church bells’ dongs and dings.

There’s the best man,
Rings in his hand,
Not like the last time when I married Anne.

Two rings: twenty-four carat gold,
But that was just what we’re told.

Here comes the bride,
Mouth smiling wide,
Parents are crying and bursting with pride.

She lifts her white deceptive veil,
She is no virginal female.

Here comes the kiss,
Not one to miss,
Does she still feel for her ex-husband Chris?

Down comes the rice,
We’ll cut cake slice,
Which better taste good for that high-rise price.

Consummate vows on honeymoon
In Malibu, it ends too soon.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Letter R.I.P.

Dear reader,
I’m going to let you in on a dirty little secret. I haven’t told my lover yet, but I will eventually. His name’s Juan Pablo by the way, or J.P. for short. I just had to tell someone, to offload, or I would just blurt it out unintentionally, and that might be the end of it. Indulge me for these few moments by playing daddy Freud while I unleash some long suppressed catharsis upon your listening ear, perchance to be cured, or at least be temporarily relieved of the emotional burden. At this early stage of our relationship, I’d rather not place the pressure of excessive responsibility upon your shoulders.

“O fool, where art thou?” This is what I say to J.P., as he likes me to call him Odysseus; and because, like the mythical hero, he is also a fool, he is easily fooled, a naïve fool, but a lovable one. And he is all mine now.
Even though J.P. compared his ex-wife with Penelope all the time, hoping that she would become like the mythical Frau Fidelity, perhaps such idealisation of her was the very same reason why she turned out so differently. She resisted what her husband wanted her to be. Not because she didn’t love him, nor because she loved someone else. But just because she wanted to be herself. What she considered herself to be was not the woman she was born as, nor the manmade maid and woman made maiden she had become, but the womanly self she chose to become, a self-made woman.

Ironically, she ended up being what she didn’t want to be anyway, and with someone, or something, she didn’t want to be with; just as her husband has. Therefore, it looks like I’m the luckiest one, or just the least loser, if not the winner.
No winners in love affairs and warfare,
Fucking and fighting are more foul than fair,
As we hover through the thick and filthy hair.

J.P.’s wife was not like the mythical Penelope, she was no weaving woman, she had no loom on which to weave, and no thread to weave with. She didn’t stay at home, like me, the ever faithful wife, waiting for my man, the hero, to finally return home, from the home front away from home. If anyone was Penelope, it was I, only without the lust for weaving.

I was never a whole woman, but when my husband died my sense of self became more divided, not resulting from mourning, but because of others’ expectations of grief from me.
I had to balance the concealment of my private, buoyant break dancing and the unveiling of a public pseudo-breakdown, just to keep up appearances, for the sake of family, friends and nosy neighbours – I am not the only one of those round here. To prevent further fragmentation of my psyche, I resolved to avoid everyone by roaming no more outside, during daylight hours. I threw to the wind those dead, dark, depressing duplicitous days, and ventured beyond my front door during the enlightening night-lights of the shady streets. I had always been a night owl anyway, which helped me catch them at it, in the act of the double backed beast of betrayal.

Thankfully, I had plucked up the indignation to stake out the crime cum scene, to indulge in photographic detective work. At first, they were blurry, from a distance. I needed to shoot them from a good view; otherwise, they could have been any old adulterers.

After a while, I began to get in tune with their sexual biorhythm. First, I got the hang of capturing his horsey hung manhood. Then I focused my lens upon her horny performances.
Penelope never put any sexual effort in for J.P., even though, or perhaps because they were married. Only for Eurylochus, my husband at the time, did she dress as a whore. She wore a tight white latex miniskirt, red high heeled kinky boots, and a silky royal blue chemise, with the top three buttons undone, revealing her wonder bra supporting her wunderbar bosom, bulging out of the frame, and wobbling around like those of a drunken Bavarian beer maid on the last of Das Münchener Oktoberfest.

Gradually, I became more courageous. I even stalked by night hoping for the jugular. They habitually humped each other upstairs, and had their thickly woven curtains drawn. One night, however, a fit of lustful passion must have overcome the sickening creatures. They were dying for dirtiness, debauched diversion, and pleasured each other with la petite mort in the living room instead. The telly was still on, fortunately for me, so they didn’t hear me positioning myself and getting pricked by a rose bush. They would look lustfully at the telly all the while. At least his clit licking, buttock banging and finger fucking took their attention away from me banging my finger away, up and down rhythmically, on the clicking camera button.
Who knows what filth they must have been watching, during this multimedia ménage à trois? The TV was adding some primitive spice to their saucy, salacious, insalubrities. Maybe this disgusting visual diversion helped ease their guilty consciences, or just distracted them from what, and whom, they were doing. They were doing each other, like naked apes, monos desnudos.
The crab claws of her nimble fingers pleasured his testicles and phallus Capricornus, before she took the Capricorn by the horn to ride upon him like a whore form of Lady Godiva upon her horny horse. This sound and spectacle accompanied the sounds of the savage jungle, the Tristes Tropiques, between crab dance of Cancer and the porn horn of Capricorn. Their harmonised, high hormonal moaning was disproving the alleged incompatibility of these zoological zodiac signs, and affirming the daily dampness of a female Cancer’s ever eager beaver.

The cyclonic speed of his fingers in the clitoral eye of her hurricane triggered tidal waves and tsunamis of orgasmic, paroxysmal pleasure, drowning all signs of intelligent life on the mainland of her highly sexed psyche.
He was worshipping at the tit totem, and tabooed buttocks in his private fertility cunt cult. Plucking the forbidden fruits from the golden bough of her sexy smooth body; digging his teeth in to her pulpy, fruity flavoured, juicy flesh to the bone; salivating, savouring and sucking her juices dry to the stone. Drinking the nectar of her golden shower streaming down from a summer storm cloud of cumulus congestus lust, forming the thunderous thrusting, lightning longing and storming sparks of a cumulonimbus cumming climax.
She sucked on his rhythm stick, semen seasoned, salty and smelling of Swiss cheese, making him yodel like a high Brown hyena on helium while humping a Striped hyena with her hymen still in tact.
While copulating and copying soft-core porn performances, he poured his cornu copiae, full horn of plenty, with its milk and honey into her basket, she then suckled it, as Jupiter once did.

Although I had private viewing access to this live and direct sex show, I couldn’t spy with my less then panoptical eye what was on the TV, but it sounded naughty. The unmistakably sultry scream of a howling melancholic monkey, which I imagined was pleasuring his penis, entered the fuck cacophony caused by that Penelope woman wailing wildly. Like ethological, wildlife sodomising documentaries, such sexual sights, of fright or delight, are free viewing for anyone bold enough to behold the neighbourhood randy couple, or swingers club. These shrieks of the wilderness ejaculated some exotic sperm over their Amazonian amorousness as they explored each other’s intertropical zones, getting ever hotter with no ozone layer between them, intertwining with their erogenous zones, humid, hot and steamy. Their climatic tropic of caprice is still without climax. Their demented desire is deep, dark, damp, sweaty, sweltering and moist, leaving them breathless, panting for oxygen and carbon dioxide. He makes his way through the forest, the thicket, until he finally reaches the golden stream, shimmering under the blinding sun’s rays, plunging himself into the ebbing and flowing waves, drenching his burning and boiling bronzed body underneath the waterfall. She cums under his breath, until he hears human voices and drowns, oblivious in the oceanic nothingness; while the waterfall she has become carries on through it all.

One of the voices sounded like a prominent wildlife presenter, but I couldn’t be sure, such is that low seductive whispering tone he always talks in, as though he were Oedipus whispering sweet nothings in to the ear, and other orifices, of his beloved mother nature.

After about quarter of an hour, I was running out of camera film, but I still had enough I thought.
The lace net curtain obscured my vista, so I tried to get right up close to the window, and look through the little cracks and holes to get a good view, a good G-shot. I felt like a perverted, pornographic photographer. I was voyeuristic in those moments, when trying to get the most devastating criminal evidence of orgasm, to gain justice for their jouissance, while ensuring their, or at least her, recognisability. Men look the same whether having sex or not. They seem to want it all the time, at least this brute anyway. Whereas women’s faces tend to transform completely, as if they had turned into another woman. I imagine men must get off on such sexual mistaken identity, if they can keep their eyes off the tits and look at their face or into their eyes even. Although this facial façade is tempered, so I’m told, by the occasionally off-putting glare of moronic oblivion, which casts the wrong kind of dampener upon the proceedings. My unfaithful and now thankfully dead ex-husband, Eurylochus, told me that once, the idiot. He didn’t tell me who he was referring to though. First, believing him to be talking about me, I worried. I’m so vain, I would have bet that he was talking about me. This was before an even more troubling thought started to preoccupy my disquieted psyche.

After I had found out that he’d been doing the rounds, with Penelope as well, I realised that he was referring to her. She didn’t look too clever, lying there like a dog having its balls rubbed, licked and fondled. Even though that’s what she was doing to him. I saw that for myself, for me she was just a bitch. However, for my former husband, Penelope was his dog, the man’s best friend, even though Eurylochus had been J.P.’s best man at their wedding, as J.P. had been his at ours.

It looks like things turned out happily ever after, for J.P. and me anyway. We weren’t a match made in a celestial special of Blind Date. Yet, what is a match? A match is absolutely nothing but a war, a competition, a fight, a boxing match, a good combination of punches, not a good combination of people. Good matches don’t exist. God doesn’t match make, even if God did exist. Cupid doesn’t match make, and there are no matches made in heaven. The only metaphysical matches are with Mephistophilis, keeping the infernal flames of chthonic love firing.

It didn’t work out so well for Penelope though. Now, as a punishment, which she had earned, all that remained for her was his tombstone to cry on, all she had left to do was water the roses, with her salty tears, at the grave end of my ex-Eurylochus. Moreover, still being his legal wife, I made sure that I chose and dictated the script of his epitaph:

Love and marriage don’t go together like a horse and carriage
Rot In Purgatory

Yours writerly,
Simone de Buena Vista
A.K.A. Circe, to my lovers