Down In Me

You are the most quite tender soft beauty girl alive! Well, the fifth most, anyway. I give you a dildo called Christian Bale and you tell me it’s a mathematical equation of fact.

I know, but like, who cares, right?

I’m glad the temporal association to this particular aural sensation is a downturn statement of superbly low intensity. What I mean is that it’s intensely low. Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t mean that at all.

But their description of her shaped my idea of beauty; an idea that would endure in me for the next 30 years. They were fuckers, they were. But that’s another time, for another time, to be forgiven and relegated to the box of abstract ideas remembered fondly and vaguely forever.

I suspect I’m not seeing the right colours. There have been clues, but how to know for certain.

I’m cobbled together haphazardly, bits and pieces of everything I’ve ever seen. Though if you disassemble me and inspect the parts, you won’t find me there. No essence, no depth, no soft or hard core, no creamy center. I’m a container and mostly self-contained, just don’t pop the lid. I’m a completed jigsaw puzzle, pictures of a destination wedding, a journal of selected memories carefully recorded in my sleep.

Dear Ex-Boyfriend,

I was utterly shocked to discover that you posted our special private video on YouPorn! Well, I mean, I didn’t discover it. Someone sent it to me, of course. Fortunately, not everyone shares your love of watching me stuff a juicy bird. For Christmas.

Festively yours,
Your (Top Rated) Ex-Girlfriend

I would like to tell you it’s all good, but the truth is I think you fell on the wrong side. There was a split, you see. Unknowingly, I walked in and stepped in it and split it, down the centre, more or less, with a trusty pick axe and a bucketful of gin. More or less. And the thing is, is that this was supposed to be the good side, and I don’t know I mean, I still think this is the good side. And that’s good. Right? But when I look over there, over the gaping chasm, I see… I don’t know, you know I see them and they’re cool, too and whatnot and things. I lapse into vagueness because the nothing creeps over the painful bits, and that’s good, too, you know, that’s as it should be. I am here to protect me from it all. I am here to protect me. Only me. Because no one really wants to know how itchy this suit of armour really is.

Often times (some times, most times) I think in curses:

It’s become cool to reference contemporary figures. I pledge not to reference anyone doing anything or being anything after the 90s as a knee-jerk reaction to your reactionary tactics. You’re young and I’m not and so I must pretend that it is better this way, that things are exactly the way they were meant to be, and that I have something you don’t, I have the wisdom that comes from experience. And I don’t fucking care if I sound like your grandmother, your grandmother is right, as was mine, as is mine, as will be mine. I can say that now, because said wisdom of experience gives you the knowledge to know. The force of reality thrusting its dick into my spine, won’t stop me writing what I have to say, specially in the comfort and perceived safety of my middlebrow dwelling in my western-civilised, policed, high-walled, barbed wire cell. Whether or not it’s true. Whether or not you believe me. This world is fucked. You are fucking it. I fucked it and now you’re gorging on my sloppy seconds. I was here first. I spat in your bassinet before you were born. I peed on your mother’s placenta. I ate her skin. I was here, she was here, you weren’t there so how do you know what we did and ate and shit. Fuck your Britney Spears, feed your Amy Winehouse a fucking sandwich and Kate Moss’s clothes line at H&M sucks. Fuck you all. I’m going back to the eighties. No the sixties. No the shitties, it’s all shit. You were fucked by the one who fucked me, and the one who fucked him, and the one who fucked him, and the one who fucked him and the one who fucked him. And still you feel no empathy. That’s fucked. I’m pissed. Self-righteous, elitist, entitled American-style pissed the fuck off. I’ll bend over and take it tomorrow. Right now I’m going to scream like a girl for a while. Fuck you.

Other times, I’m serenity incarnate:

I see a boy who is scared of growing old. I see my younger brother, if my younger brother could write. It’s not just because his references are also my own, by proxy through my younger siblings. So eager to shock, so willing to compromise everything; aspects of my own youth. But rather than tell him how wrong he is, how short-sighted, how inexperienced and unwise, I buddha-smile. Because he’s already half-dead. So it already half-matters.

Always I’m inclined to think the worst, because I tripped and fell on deaf ears.
Sometimes I think about you.
Sometimes I think about me.
Sometimes I drink about us. To escape.
But make no mistake… it is always unequivocally and without reservation: All. About. Me.
Just like that’s all about you.
We all have ourselves to contend with.

Bottom’s up.

Cat piss and cunt ass-lickers
Those bitches don’t like me
That’s okay
Nobody wants to read about
Bullshit and banana muffins
I’m not writing it
I’m taking the boys
To town
Tonight
Picnic under the stars
In my best dress
And you
Off my checkered blanket
Pimm’s spit spray
from my mouth to yours

I got melted chocolate all over the cover of my copy of Factotum. Not the vodka tonics, not the fucking Berbera, but chocolate. Somehow, I don’t think he’d approve. I’m a failure as a writer. I do what I’m told, like I go to the races to try to bet on this horse, but he takes off before I’ve committed to him. He gives me that deep sideways stare that says whatever horses say. Frankly, I would prefer a straight up hind kick to the chest to make it stop pounding when the many drinks pass through me. Still too sober. Always too sober. But I didn’t pay for a single one, not with cash. I gotta dump this load of Superfluous I’ve been lugging ‘round my neck, but I’m not quite sure where. I’m environmentally conscious, I say. You don’t care for your body or your home, he says, before putting my copy of Factotum to his nose. It fucking stinks, he whinges. I love that I can still turn anything to shit just by believing. This paragraph has been brought to you by the colour burgundy, the number three-hundred and twelve and the stench of self-loathing.

You know I love you
With your hand squeezed tight
Between my legs

They know I love them
With their skin, faces tight
Unwashed, unhurried
I skitter
down
anxiously

You know I love you
With your fists wound tight
‘Round my neck

Blood-suckered, angered
Hollow, following
unknown something ideals
Marxist, socialist
Take a shit-ist
We don’t care-ist
They know we love them

In my infinite self-delusion/aggrandisement, I have seen it fit to single-handedly and single-mindedly and mind-bendingly begin. A new. Literary Movement. [Cue angelic choir.]

This unprecedented movement is so elite, so exclusive, its principles and high ideals so extreme, so far from ordinary, so above your tiny minds, so extraordinary, so magnificent in their power to affect change in this war-torn, ravaged earth and turn the publishing industry and the art world completely on their asses [deep breath] that I cannot even tell you what they are (naturally).

PIFFLE.

(Remember that if you do not click this link, the terrorists have won.)

A new dawn breaks. A new world order. A revolution! Or um, another irritatingly confessional and narcissistic blog. Oh yeah, there might be some writing by some other people in there, too, or something. I think.

Alice, she’s so pretty
Walk a little ways away
Then come back
See you move, Alice
Your name’s been used, Alice
Like you were used, Alice
How long’s it been, Alice?

Alice, she’s a surfer boy
Writhing on flesh waves
Alice, don’t walk away from us
You know you like
Our heavy press junket
Heavy breath
In the backseat of your father’s
Rickety, old Mazda Miata
Fuck him.

I created a world out of bullshit beans, a bag of chips and a packet of crisps.

I’m confused.

I don’t know which end is up, which gap to mind, which mind to make myself of. Up. Whatever. Envy fuels me.

I set out intent on unmasking the injustice, the tripe; but always end up unmasking myself. So it fits. The glove lands on the other shoe and I for one never look a gift pony up the asshole. I mean, that’s just rude, right?

I know when I’m doing it, but I’m powerless to stop.
I am fragile, but it’s nothing to do with my gender.
I was somebody’s baby; now I’m somebody’s darling.
I hate loud noises.
I am sad and lonely and spilt cup-o-noodles will send me into a spiraling tailspin of despair.
I feel violently in love.

What they neglect to tell you is that once you wash them in hard water, lace turns to sandpaper, chafing your most tender, intimate bits. Yet you continue to don them, because you deserve - no, crave - low-level discomfort at all hours, because it’s what you know and what you know is more precious than what you could know. Because you like it rough and the color is still saturated, and the house is still warm, and your panties are still on, and your hope is still shattered (except for the fuzzy bit you keep way at the back, in the corner of the room under piles of dirty white linen, chipped china and back issues of New Scientist still bundled up in their protective plastic).