Under Italy

“Tell me some good things,” about the days on the sea, the good days when you tormented me, when we took our time, always tender, in the talented half-honesty ravage at night as the magnets rose and nails shook loose. In the basement of the sonic chambers of the restless queen we mimicked the voices of the soft, easy singers, slipping in and out of plastic and brass, frothing under the wand as the water rises, always burning, marginalized and mysterious in the indecent brusque of the city. Shakespeare – but no clothes – and washing every day, away every day without washing your hands, you can wear my clothes, you can wear whatever you want, wear my own, wear these gowns, use my signature, hang this golden cross around your neck, I do not love you, stripping there, see me dipping into the secret well, with locks of secret hair – I did not love you, standing there, stepping around the dress on the floor. See sleeping with the doves in the water as the leaves fall like gold from the umbrella reach, motherly and grey, without my reading glasses and afraid of the handsome generalities, as the seraphim spilled out of the ship with the breach. “Mark my words,” I said, but I forgot my words, and I dug my nails into my scar tissue and pulled the parasite out of my veins.

“I have forgotten my mantra,” I said, inspiring myself to write a short erotica about the early career of Jeffrey Goldblum, the American tragedian. That would be the only thing to do if I were really a writer. That would be the virtuous thing. It would be production. The all-consuming mass would finally, for once, exhale. Trees would rise up on the slopes of the valley and deer would come eat the low-hanging peaches. Peaches grow in these hills like nothing else. Apples and pears can be tough but a peach tree is meant for it. 

“I’m an apple man,” I say, remembering my mantra. In the kaleidoscope screens of the city production house a man like Klaus Kinski danced seductive ballet for me wearing tights and short shorts with no ass in them. When I was a boy, in a barn in a field in the tundra underneath the aching stars, a young man chased me through the rafters, and pushed me into the hay, and the high north star shone in inconsistent drips through the last of the original window panes.

Beyond two arches and under the alley, there where the sign is just the small plaque on the wall that says nothing, a ginseng and lavender musk drifts over their shoulders. Two good Americans in the soul of their past, like kids, in secret pain with darkened eyes and naked handwriting. They are not holding hands but they could be. The white space of the betweenings is square and the transmittance untouched. Nothing touches, lines do not intercede.

Naked in bath playing chess, drinking wine, smoking cigarettes – a sexual ambiguity creeps in over the glistening skin of his fingers, a bath never shared in the past, warm water – I am cold – my chin is bare and I am starting to cry. I watch him naked, standing there, and in my nervous blues I laugh. I am always laughing. I laugh every time I speak. “I love it when you speak,” she said, “You always get that rascally smile, I know it’s going to be something interest.” But I laugh and I insist that I am not interesting, and that I am suffering a nervous reaction.

When yellow fields of rapeseed rise like rolling breasts and buttocks, the last car through the faulting dawn will park beside the loch-side house and a family will get out and camp out for the night under the stars, and in the middle of the night someone will be fucked in the ass.

My clothes are hanging in my closet. That is quite a feat. I haven’t hung a shirt of my own in years. But when they carved my back up one last time at the hospital my mother came and hung up clothes, every one. She went through my things and I said, “Please don’t go through my personal effects.” To what I meant by personal effects I did not know.

I imagine my friends on a train, barreling between two mountains with snowy peaks, and the chateaus on plateaus and the valleys. I do not like to travel anymore. I have changed. I want to fly first class or not at all. An ancient ghost ship wanders the coast of Alaska, spearing the corpses of frozen Aleutians and feeding them whole to the chthonic recessions.

The sun returns and the ice recedes and monsters come creeping at the windows again. In an apartment overlooking High Street our tongues wrapped up like twisted bows… All that rain, and I never thought to wear a rain jacket. Every time, once again, all that inelegant money tossed around in velvet and corduroy; who used to wear linen in summer, who used to wear wool in the winter, who used to wear cotton all year; now I wear only synthetics. And I can not ever go home, not even in these clothes, no matter how responsible I have promised I am. Perfect extension of the reflected self in the streets with the sun in the glass full of color. With the money, and the talent, and the fat, blond, blue-eyed fraud – wet Americans!

Freak shows, growing cabin crazy, stuck inside the liberated halls – not courageous, filtered through the mosaics and shimmering – hot sweat, “Have fun,” she misses me and loves me and I’ve already missed the train. The sexual tension is ludicrous. I suck her toes and chew on her leg like a bone. The columns of the war-torn past are resting, simply left alone, and colossi of the isles lay, the winds blowing around – amusing myself – all too strangely.

In a fishing vessel, by the ivory coast, I fell into the sea with the bayonets and shells. Now it’s just the boys, and now it’s just me, and I slowly drown them one by one, playing, and then not playing, and then skiing off the cliff into the desert of snow. The pages of the bible flipping restlessly in the wind, her pale legs swinging from pink, seafoam shorts, maintain the willing women in the drunken playboy sea, a strange sound, a familiar melody, like a lullaby, and I am again lost at sea, and I am sinking in the evil sleeping breeze. Under, under, pulling down, and folded into the grains of the coast.

What does the mallard believe? How do you wake up and be a person? What have you ever done wrong? Aren’t you tormented? Have you lost your naked way again in the claustrophobic convent? I pulled her organs wide apart and dove inside her, where the wicked demons lay, a darkness swelling under their eyelids, heavy with the weight of the needles, the flinging doors and aerial drones, voiceless, without a sound. If the wide-necked chariot racer won, and rolled the dawn back towards the stars again, king beyond kings in the wing of the last antiphonal, the Judas Iscariot.

In a playboy’s mansion, like a Ridley Scott movie, like Harvey Keitel’s in it, like a desert that sweats into blue moving cumulous clouds, lumbering mammoths that float through the sky and cool the burning sand.

“That is the last of me,” the schoolgirl cried, “you’ve really fucked me now.”

In those days in Toulouse, lost in the towers and sleeping on floors, I watched the collection of old American films with strong women characters, like Thelma and Louise and The Way We Were. I reacted emotionally to The Way We Were on the fifth viewing while the sacred French snow fell slowly over the heads and the hips of the prostitutes standing underneath my window.


White Limbs – White Flame Of The Furnace

Hannah came back and we fucked all doped up and we were clean and I ate her alive. “All that stupid worry,” I laughed to myself, cumming merrily like Henry Miller again.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a ghost. “I will gain thirty pounds,” I said, lying.

I am six foot and one inch tall. I weigh 122 pounds and wear an American size 11 shoe. My eyebrows are heavy and my lips are delicate and my eyes are blue. My hair is light brown but I do not have any hair on my face or my arms. My thighs are naked.

My face is long, like a horse, and delicate.

I have not slept in weeks. “Sleep paralysis,” I said to Hannah, as I looked for a movie to watch. “Have you ever had sleep paralysis? They call it the devil on the chest. Sleep paralysis. It’s like an alien abduction. It’s terrifying. You’re just completely paralyzed. There’s a heavy weight on your chest. Like you’re behind held down by a black body of night. It’s impossibly strong and present and it’s a darkness through and through. Why am I talking about this? I get carried away sometimes.”

She fucked me and went back to the city. Alone in my valley I laid on my couch underneath Orion and watched the cars drift slowly between the hills, where the river runs dry in a sun-bleached bed of concrete.

The dog came in and sat down beside me with his head cocked. “Nope,” I said. “I’m still not sleeping.”

We ate a piece of cake together and watched the morning news in Scotland. Listening to European radio early in the morning gives me a good feeling. I feel connected to the world. It is at least a feeling.

When I finally fall asleep I wake up to the Saturday afternoon rambling of the great American rhetorician, Garrison Keillor, on the greatest show in America, A Prairie Home Companion. “I am just in time,” I think, and I listen to the wonderful broadcast and I laugh, and I tap my foot to the music, and I fall back asleep as the last handful of pills kicks in.

“Come fuck me, eat me up and pull my hair, choke me – I’ll wear anything, I’ll do anything you want. Humiliate me. Film me. Fuck me in my ass. Fuck me without a condom and cum deep inside me. Let me suck you off. I’ll suck you.”

I ignored her messages and remembered instead the innocent past, in the fields of the famous pastoral as the orchestra rises, lowering its golden brim to the fall of the hecatonchires, fully iconic as though made of stone, cast in bronze and re-melted; the plucking of the golden tooth, the spinning of the titanium screw through the muscle, tissue, and bone. Solid bone – the skin will never look the same. His very skin is destroyed. It is a quilt, patchwork, and the threads are coming out of the seams in pus and plasma.

The thought of plasma makes me agitated.

I begin to fixate on the thought of plasma and obsess…

Something is banging on the door and the dog is barking. My gun is at my side and I am ready to fight.

They pass on… The dog remains vigilant and alert.

When the last titans made their demonic pass through the village, they took the souls of the sleeping children right out of their chests and tapped grinning on each window, looking for something to steal. There was nothing you could do but hope they did not come for you.

And for twenty four years, they did not come.

“The picture becomes darker as the number increases.” – Pioneer Plasma Display

In the courtyard of the courteous lord I took my place and kissed his wrist. I could have shot him on the spot but I am by nature good and good men do not shoot lords for fun. He unzipped his pants and showed me his 12-inch cock and told me I wanted to suck it. I looked at him with dreamy eyes and the sweet scent of frankincense and sandalwood rose from the unfurling flowers with their faces turned up towards the sun and I tasted in the back of my throat the distinct taste of amber, but I did not suck his cock for him. Instead I gave him money for a Tijuana ass to fuck and carved out his tongue with my teeth.

I traveled than as any sleepless bloodied wanderer would, dragging my entrails of victory behind me over the rocks and the mud of the desert, vast and cold. When the gentle creatures of the forest approached me I would chew their heads off for their souls and sew up their bodies inside one another, smallest to biggest until I carried a sack on my back like Saint Nick.

“I come bearing gifts,” I had said to the children, but it was a horrible lie. Instead I sat down, and I took off my crown, and said, “What kind of shithead am I?”

The cameras watched while I licked the sweat from her elegant legs, starting from her hip and ending on her toes. I developed a fetish for feet on my 23rd birthday but only when the feet were right. My own feet are fucked. Perhaps that is why I developed the fetish.

From the middle of my foot to the entire ankle is a web of barely-accepted grafted skin and scaly scar tissue, stretched thinly over pieces of metal and heads of screws. My entire right calf was sliced right off in order to donate muscle to my ankle, but was instead just left in place to slowly reattach itself. A 6″ by 9″ patch of my thigh is missing, shaved clear off for my ankle.

A scar five-eights of an inch wide runs down the length of my spine, punctuated at the base by four long cross-scars.

There is a scar on the right side of my face, my right fingers are misshapen, and I have a dry scalp and am prone to dandruff.