down in me

So what happened was that Ryan Manning of cookiebomb liked a thing and told me he wanted it oh yeah baby he really wanted it. He also wanted a pair of my worn panties I believe I heard him say and I’m thinking of acquiescing while in my mind editing scenes together of him at home—

sniffing them first thing / them half hanging off his head while he edits cookiebomb and eats fruit loops / fitting lanky legs through the leg holes / struggling to keep his boner in the seat of them / picking wedgie handfuls of them / sleeping with them next to his nose / frantically masturbating into them / flinging them aside avant-cum so as not to soil them / his mother stoically tossing them into her laundry basket / his purple blinding rage at finding them downy soft and summer breezy clean

—or you know, could just be me.

I am all about the fourth issue of > kill author, the JG Ballard issue.

I am all about the newness of first encounters: Alexandra Isacson | Danny Collier | Jacqueline Anne Young | Kat Dixon | Lucy Jilka | Marc Lowe | Mark Cunningham | Meredith Legg | Rachel Andelman | Tom Leins | Verity Hill

I am all about the comfort of familiarity: Cami Park | Crispin Best | Daniel Bailey | RC Miller

I am all about this line in particular, from Cami Park’s piece: The other one of us is round and warm. —The Babies

I am all about High-Flying City Fuckers.

I am all about a cloud of chicken feathers, plenty of delicious girls; exhibiting atrocities and minds in Sunday school and poems that do not taste like poems, and wandering the chatty spaces and nothing is at all what you think it would and mysterious editors: I’d like to thank you, no ironies, thank you for not seeing me the way I see me so undeserving.

My evil plan is to be the Chloe Sevigny to (Dogzplot Flash Fiction Editor) Barry Graham’s Harmony Korine, the Uma Thurman to his Quentin Tarantino, the Laura Dern to his David Lynch, the … what I’m trying to say is, second time on Dogzplot! Read it and weep:

GUN PLAY

Just kidding, I didn’t write that one. I wish I had, but no, Howie Good visited while I slept and sucked it out my ear. I wrote:

THAT YOU GOT NOT A LOT

I just grabbed my breasts and whispered I love you baby to myself.

On the train home the guy sitting across the aisle from me started twisting in his seat and the rest of us all looked around at each other. Or rather, the seven men nearest, all laying protective hands to crotches getting ready for the penalty shot, turned to look at me as though I had something to do with it. I stoically wished he’d still and stop. But he didn’t. The large bulge in his pants just kept growing, sending him epileptic near my shoe. I swallowed hard.

He was writhing on the floor between the seats now, frothing a little at the mouth and etc. I was looking straight ahead but knew his eyes were going to start to roll back. This other guy goes, you know you have to help him, right? Wearily I knew it was at least five minutes to the next stop. I mean, you know you HAVE to help him, right? Fucking why, I said. Because you’re the nearest fucking female, that’s fucking why.

One of you is gay, I said. Come on. One of you is so gay. Come on!

They looked at each other accusingly, but quickly they turned back to me. No, they said. None of us is gay and this guy, he’s not gay, look at what he’s wearing. He needs your help, you heartless cunt.

Come on! Fuck! Fuck, I said over again, outnumbered. You fucking bastards, I said. Fuck you, I said.

The train seemed to be going faster but the stop came no nearer. Fuck it, I thought and started toward him, but then couldn’t.

Look it might just pass. Sometimes it just passes. No, no, no, they said. You have to help him, bitch, you have to. Fuck, I grumbled down on my knees and took off my handbag and jacket and scarf and fuck you assholes, I growled as I ripped off his pants and he squealed and grunted like some horror movie, hellbent alien in heat.

Massive engorgement threatened to tear apart his ball sack and the skin across his hip bones. He was crying loudly now and I did feel sorry for him. Fuck I thought. Fuck. I took a deep breath and lunged into it and sucked the fuck out of it, and massaged it and stroked it and gagged and pumped with both hands and my entire body until the others, they had to look away.

Tasted earthy rot, metallic and piss-like you know he didn’t care. He knew he had the sickness and if it came to, he knew some wrong-place, shit-time girl’d have to put her mouth on it, but fuck it if he couldn’t at least try and be presentable for it.

Fuck, I thought on the upswing. Fuck, I thought on the downswing. You motherfuckers! I yelled as I breathed in and lunged right down to the hilt until I drew back with a big kissing sound and he erupted bloody pink jizz on my cheeks and my neck and shirt.

Thank you, he sobbed. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you, he sobbed. Fuck you, I wiped my mouth and grabbed my shit and sat back down in that train seat and waited.

Every word feels wrong in my mouth. Everything is about me. Often so mundane, so real, so ordinary. I want to be happy on the couch. I want the medicine. Children chastising makes me penitent. A sorry gathering, an unfunny lifeless given-up never was a doll in a lovely dress.

Still, did you buy the Dogzplot Flash Fiction Anthology yet? Only a few left, I heard. Somebody gave me way too much credit, which was peaches.

What about QUESTIONS ABOUT LIFE AND SHIT, yow? I got mine some days ago. I am aroused it’s so well done. Green is my favourite colour* when I’m not depressed. Books is my favourite books.

I got a DRUNK SONNETS beer koozie because I pre-ordered the book some time ago. I didn’t think I’d get one but I did. I want to take a picture of it keeping some beer cold like the cool kids do but I am too sullen to take pictures. (♥ Dan Bailey)

Who said I was working on a novel? Eat me.

I don’t know what I’m doing. is this okay? Someone tell me this is okay.

UPDATE: It’s okay. I just stabbed myself with the mascara wand.

*I write it Brit ‘cause I like it. Cry to your mom.**
** I write it ‘merican ‘cause I like it. Fuck your dad.

Yeah you’re not so great but you’re all we’ve got. Not the best we’ve seen certainly, but we’ll take you. I can see you listening to that, in your shoes and your coif, at night. Yeah, it’s not that great, or even very good, but you’ll hear it out. It’s like that, sort of. We take what we can and discard the rest. I mean, this kid was pretty good. I mean, he wasn’t the best but again, we took what we could get. It’s better to have something and that kid, well he was something. Not something special or something proud, but something that we had got. Like you. I can hear you reading that, definitely sounds like something you might like to read. Plus we have it so why not? That’s what we do certainly. I mean, like if you asked us we might say oh yes, it’s very nice. But you know how you feel about that word nice, huh? I mean, some people they might think very nice is certainly nice enough and I mean, well, they wouldn’t be wrong would they? To the British a cream pastry might be very nice, very nice indeed. But well, you’re no cream pastry.

I crush on this boy like mad
like my laden ovaries expand to fill my feet
like my swollen fingers expand to fill the air
between me and him, like I grab him
between lips
and swallow him until his mother
forgets she had a son

It’s easy to get into boy’s poems. All you have to do is imagine you are there and there you are. When you are old and gay, this ability will come in handy. I think a lot about the things I like. I like Daniel Bailey so I interviewed him for Writers’ Bloc. I read THE DRUNK SONNETS he wrote full in a moment, which is weird because I don’t read as much poetry as write. A lot of it shits me. But not Dan. Some people just have puppy power bursting out of the drawing on their goddamn bellies. I’m sorry I’m not a more critical reader. By which I mean I’d like to point and say, look there, that’s where it is perfect. Instead I navigate with my fingertips. Poetry is salty piss and backwash and heart. So much heart.

I kept telling myself: you would be very correct. I kept telling myself, TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT THAT SHIT HAPPENS. Tonight is the night. I started singing Bella Notte badly. I kept telling myself: when I was alone, I looked away! when I was together … I was never together! Ha ha, I kept telling myself.

I kept telling myself: FOR ONCE THE WORLD WILL BE GOT!

My shoe smelt like dung. I had stepped on a pie. I kept telling myself: this is okay, it must start out shitty if it’s to get better. I kept telling myself: STOP TALKING TO YOURSELF, MYSELF! TURN YOUR POEMS INTO PROSE! TURN YOUR APPLES INTO ALBUMS! COLLECT ALL THE SWEETS OF THIS WORLD! HIRE INFANTS TO NURSE YOUR BOOBIES! FIRE YOUR BREAST MILK INTO THE SKY! SAY HELLO TO SAM AND DAN FOR ME! Stop carrying on like a birthday cake. Stop hoping.

The house that Tony Blair would buy has sixty-seven rooms and a copy of Hustler in each of seventy-two bathrooms. That’s all I know about that. Oh well, that and that the knockers are fat, wrought-iron twisted motherfuckers with a grin that says HALLELUJAH! You knock one of them fucks you’d best be ready to run: down the hill, through the trees and into the small cemetery in the old churchyard behind the church. You talk about Tony Blair’s bathrooms but that ain’t his house, he never did buy the house. The town is a small town and the house is an aberration and Tony - well I used to have a crush on Tony and on Bill. I like my men older, powerful, deceitful (obviously), with Napoleonic wives and big fat wrought-iron knockers on the doors of their would-be homes.

i am a girl that needs to be babied. you are a boy that needs to baby a girl that needs to be babied. likewise, i am a girl that needs to be disciplined (sometimes). you are a boy that, well you get the idea. what i mean by babying is possibly simple. what i mean by discipline is possibly not so. if you are the boy that needs etc., you will know innately what is meant by these terms. you will know, for example, that whether babying or discipline occurs the result is always sex. this does not mean that babying or discipline are an excuse for sex or to in any way justify sex. this does not mean that sex does not happen of its own accord because it does very much so often, one hopes. it simply means that b. and d. are intimate and therefore arousing. it will be of course, for you to decide the terms and even the follow through, if such is to occur. as a boy that needs etc., etc., you may well be in possession of a larger amount of willpower, physical power and self-discipline than a girl that needs etc., etc., and so there are several ways - pacifiers, if you will - to get a girl that needs etc., etc., to shut up, including but not limited to: a throbbing cock or a large plastic gag or a well-placed palm or a combination. As in everything, the punishment should fit the crime and your response as a boy that etc., must be tempered with love, and appropriate - not borne out of misplaced anger. which is why it is also important that you are a boy open wide, a thinker and an artist. that your fingertips can feel skin electrifying and know whether i’ve had too much, whether i’m breaking or i’m talking too much, when i myself don’t.

Gonna show you what you’re doing to us, Maria. Maria mewls like a rotten child and bucks. All slow flesh, all pliant oooh, discarded self. A tangle of limbs and bends and sleepy night rollover push back and rub. A slappy shake, a quiver, a quake. The urgency of one hundred and forty-seven sirens. What are you doing to us, Maria. A grip, a grasp. A grab, a squeeze, a dig, a bite. A bit, a bind. A bidden slap.