Saturday, 31 March 2012

I Remember Feeling Scared

We were in The Anchor with this gang of boys me and Wendy had fallen in with. We weren't crazy about them, but they got us into pubs, and we'd agreed they'd be OK to practice on. When you're fifteen it looks better to have more boys around you than girls anyway.

That night I was trying lager. Someone had snuck in a bottle of cider too, and after every mouthful I passed my glass under the table for it to be topped up. There was one boy I hadn't seen before, closer to my age, Martin said he was a boxing champion. I thought he was cute, blond curly hair, angelic looking, not big like boxers on TV. Word passed down the table that he fancied me.

I needed some air, I wasn't feeling drunk, more dizzy. I realised quite quickly I didn't like lager, not even with cider in it. Me and this boy went outside together and round the corner by the concrete toilet block. We didn't talk much, he didn't say he liked my silver chain or ask what music I listened to, we just got on with some sort of kissing and groping.

I said I wanted to go back in the pub now. That close I didn't like him, didn't want to be out there with him. Everyone was outside now and we all started walking down Moulsham Street. It was icy and the boy had his arm round me. He wanted to walk fast, I had high heels on and was scared of slipping over. He still didn't say much, just picked me up and put me over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, and started running. I couldn't make a sound. He slipped and we fell on the pavement. Wendy helped me up and we left the rest of them.

When I got home the dirt on my clothes wasn't mentioned. I just said I had a headache and went straight upstairs to bed. I didn't see him again.


 

2012

Friday, 30 March 2012

Licking the Foil

Licking the foil

from a baked sweet potato.

My mouth sticky,

bent down to the kitchen counter,

lapping the juice,

wearing a polyester camisole.

We lost an hour last Sunday.

Wood pigeons weaving

a Scott Walker intrigue on the wall.

I wonder if everything

will stay the same?


 

2012

Friday, 23 March 2012

Wednesday

The sun dropped

stars in the sea

on the first day

of spring.

On the beach

there are more people

than birds today

and I'm wearing

my winter coat

protection from the warmth.

Walking uphill on pebbles

again

maybe I should wait

and watch the season change.


 

2012


 

Monday, 19 March 2012

Filigree Emotional

In the dance for

Voyeuristic corners

I'd die for you semi-precious

In this three minute song.

An abstract jigsaw

Of petrous expressions

Its eyes harnessed to

A mandala

As eels escape

From her vanity case

And twine around

This autoerotic savage.

Filigree emotional

Every forgotten wound

In bloom and laughing

Undress her in a mystery

Anti-septic slut

And run races over

Her re-surfaced skin.

Thirsty from confiding

High opinion self harm

Our lipstick smudges

Kiss on the glass

She gave me.

Look down the candle staircase

To a side street

Cobbled with rain.


 

2012


 


 

Candle Staircase

I'm all dressed up and you got me here. Semi-precious in Aubrey's salon. Girl in drag as a boy in drag out on the stone floor. In this three minute song I'd die for you before we're hooked on someone new. I'm not the letter writer tonight. I never once had words for you my courteous Uncle SS, my night porter, who observes as I audition for war.

In the changing room a vanity case opens and eels who came by bus from the East End uncoil and buckle themselves onto a man who piloted Concorde two days ago. Now he's correct to climb the candle staircase with his sergeant major. A human step, spine on broken glass and a thank-you before opening Pandora's door. At ten p.m. I find my place in the abstract jigsaw puzzle suspended between factory walls slick with breath.

The monarchy are here, tail coated Sebastian and his knights. A master enquired if I was for sale. He who she said her lover told her had killed someone once. He who I have heard wires weekend-away secretaries for electrical yelps in his dungeon. No, she's not for sale, someone answers for me.

One eyebrow arched, the Equestrian Lady offers me a drink of Jesus' blood, our lipstick smudges kiss on the rim of the glass. A lizard's ruff aroused, tattoos come to life in the steel ring swing. My seahorse tails untwine, I'm flamed by a cruising dragon, then splashed by Japanese waves. Flicked by the tiger's tail I dance for voyeuristic corners, and shy from the lion tamer's whip. Celestial savage, antiseptic slut. Every forgotten wound in bloom and laughing. Naked alabaster girls dance seven veils in shawls of hair. I said I'd never cut my hair, as I tear away my day time. Rubber flesh armour, permission on elastic, matt black gripper tube, sweat slow running fingers, glossing glue bonded, where all I can feel is harnessed tension. Autoerotic garment deconstructed, undress her a mystery. Sweat races on my resurfaced skin. Speed cop Desmond. Lotus buds enrobed in dark chocolate.

Minty Leigh turned a clockwork eye and flared leg, posing me a tinsel wink. I couldn't hear his deaths door creaking, the music was loud.

We were majestic fake diamonds and mink. Filigree emotional. High opinion self harm. Royal purple prose one a.m.

I'm projected on the wall, he said you look so tall in pictures. We could meet at The Blue Angel, and talk of Theda and Chainsaw, before joining the queue in a side street cobbled with London rain. Watch me Lucien Silver, he works for a bank and I am a librarian, but what it is about Lucien Silver is he doesn't like to fuck. Watch me two a.m. dancers' reward, blind faces held by an amputated limb, eyes extracted and laced into a mandala.

In military shirts and short socks two Susans hunt for Davids to take home to see Barbie in bondage. Pour the tea and send them dry to their rooms.

I imagine the epitaph on my gravestone: Lisa lived for one night. Tomorrow morning I'll wake up with the smell of everyone I've danced with, envelope them safely away before breakfast. I'll write you a letter Lucien Silver. A.m. descending. Watch me as you'd photograph me, a ghost at the coat check. Candles turned to house lights.


2012