vicious trap » deform | reform | perform

NaNoWriMo: Day 06.

Total Word Count: 10795.
Excerpts (unedited):

They were at it so long he had to take a smoke break (that’s the problem with tantra, I guess). And when he came back in she refused to kiss him on the mouth for the foul stench, turned her back. But that didn’t really slow things down much, and the morning went on fine from there.

—

Mom asked if I was exploring my bisexuality. What do you say to that?

Which sex is the gay one?

—

There is nothing more frightening, or more existential, than car commercials with the sound off, and a glass of wine, and only three pills left at the bottom of the bottle.

The dog comes in and begins licking my face.

armed with

armed with a sweater and some scissors
i go out in
the world, a mug of
coffee as my guide
and I hear
you talking about
innocence and
violence as though
they’re absolutes

and all it tells me is that
scissors and innocence is about
all we got
most of the time
on sunnychilly Sundays that look
like morning
and all it tells me is that the dreams of
Italy are bitter
and the coffee is to strong as
cuz I’m only fierce after 4pm
and then my midnight I’ve
run outta things to say

but I’ve got dreams and you’ve got violence
tucked up under your youth
up under your naivete and you wear
it like the secret, like the crook between
your thigh and your hip
(that’s not violence that’s aggression)
and I can tell from the way that you talk that you
know nothing about language
and projectiles

you’d be fine, you’d be sweet you-d
be-kind
if you weren’t smug and so muchmuch
thrust
as we are in the way that we are
and you don’t even know that in your innocence with your innocence and your love of innocence
you offend me
because i don’t know what that mean-s or
how it applies to me
and I know I got body that ain’t know-n
innocence since i was two or three

and so out I go with scissors
and sweater
to cut from flowers, snip up petals, drop
leaves
drop panties
the usual sort of Sunday
if you only

NaNoWriMo: Day 05.

Total Word Count: 8705.
Excerpts (unedited):

Jenny was out of batteries, and it was a long night.

—

I’m fairly certain that everyone else is having more fun in bed than I am, but maybe that’s because I only have my own two hands and a picture of you under the pillow.

Oh, and this rag. But it doesn’t bring a lot to the party.

—

We were driving east and the storm followed behind, clearly visible in the rearview for hours. And I think maybe we enjoyed it too much, like storm chasers but the submissive equivalent. I wonder what you call that.

Yeah baby, chase the fuck out of me. Show me your fucking rain, baby baby storm. You can rain on me all day long, if you catch me first.

NaNoWriMo: Day 04.

Total Word Count: 7007.
Excerpt (unedited):

Jolene says she would like a break from it all, so I recommended a camping trip or just turning out all the lights and sitting alone on the toilet with your pants down and the door open. Because there is no better way to prove that you are all alone, and when you are alone you can be anything.

—

Monkey monkey monkey monkey monkey monkey penguin.

Bet you didn’t see that coming.

—

When I think about lining up all the people I know from tallest to shortest, or maybe most solitary to loudest, I always put you at the end of the line closest to me. Partially because you are imagined, so I can put you anywhere I like, and partially so we can hold hands.

NaNoWriMo: Day 03.

Total Word Count: 5711.
Excerpts (unedited):

Jolene only had a small ziplock with two or three mushrooms between the five of us, so we crushed them up and chased them with hot tea, which didn’t work all that well, and William nearly vomited, and then Jenny was crying in the corner, and Martin was taking pictures, and I wondered who I was.

a small boy, it seemed, but from the outside. And I was watching as I giggled, and I thought maybe I would start crying as well, but we went on a walk instead and lay under the train tracks by the river, and danced along the bank.

—

Who came up with dresses and hats and three piece suits?
Who came up with flats and heels and red ballerinas?

Where is my hat?

NaNoWriMo: Day 02.

Total Word Count: 4040.
Excerpts (unedited):

When Herman went back to sleeping with women, everyone blamed his father. But the truth is: people are just people, and Herman was having sex with some of them, and didn’t seem to care so much which ones.

—

It was his second time with a noose, which he made himself from his favorite scarf — the silk one with a gentle pattern in pastels — and he was comforted by the familiarity of the process and the knowledge that no one else was in the house this time.

—

They had a bottle of wine and in the end they were both naked. And no one is sure exactly why, or where her husband was that night. On the Down Low, they say. Which is a euphemism. But this isn’t a story about infidelity so much as loneliness, and the desire to keep things just the way they are so that later no one asks why.

NaNoWriMo: Day 01.

Yesterday I began the wild month that is NaNoWriMo, in which I write 50,000 words in 30 days. My working title is “Variations On Riding Sidesaddle”. There is no editing, so I will not be posting large sections. But I will post excerpts on a regular basis.

Day: 01.
Total Word Count: 1715.

As your teeth dig deeper in my arm, I find that we have something in common after all. I kiss the calm of your neck, and hope we never come apart.

—

She looked deep into his eyes and found the lack of woman inside. The lack that she was looking for.

He is not a girl, and sometimes he needs to be reminded of that.

—

When you hold my hand, you are my only man. And, in bed, my only woman.

These words have no meaning.

pitiless and strange

pt.1 the harrowing of hell

I’ve seen the ocean split wide and sway drunken
retch vile bluegreen creatures from the deep
their frenzied eyes consume this foul earth
and the rains come heavy that day

I’ve watched the mountains rise up
from bare salt sands
heave and scream for mercy
summon life from dusty seeds
and birth the torrid sun
day after day

I’ve seen my by blood sister drip red
prostrate and still on the ground
in ecstasy or death
and the stench of her own sudation

the stench also
of an old man
and the puddle forming between them

supple and supine
she turns
under the rise and fall
of the old man’s arm

shadows chase across her breast
and I’m seized with a sudden ache
wet heat soaks my inner thighs
hands slick
and back pressed tight to stock and bough
legs clenched and toes dangling

I shift back
close my eyes
and rub gently against the branch
throbbing out a metre in verse

the demon will come at the sound of the drum
the demon will come, the demon will come

when I open my eyes they have gone
and the tree shudders
under the weight of my tears

pt.2 grapnel and groundwork

I can’t sleep in this drowning heat
lay still for hours
then lurch in sudden panic
cough condensate from my lungs
and come to rest in my own foul chunder

upstairs the virgin mother
all lard and apron sweat
black ink puddles and rabid eyes
works wisdom into riddles
and dazzling charades of yarn

I visit her on nights like these
when the mind is numbed by answers
and I’ve forgotten
the questions they contest

she opens the door
tall and angry
covered in black feathers
wire, candle wax and whiplash
her hair thrown back
she laughs when she sees me
pulls me over a stool
shreds my clothes
and explores my depths with her crooked claw

I cannot scream but dream of you
I cannot breath but see the light again
chasing shadows from your curves
her breasts are yours
and mine are yours as well
and these staccato moans
our gift to you
my sister

we lay together afterwards
barren mother, jealous maid
I behind her and both arms around
we fold together like cloth
warm and wet
and whisper soft
these visions that we have

the old man dead
and you in my arms
and sappho as our guide

I your giovanni
and you my annabella

come closer child
my sister sweet:
no more sister now
but love - a name more gracious

for thus hung Jove ‘round Leda’s neck
and sucked divine ambrosia from her lips

in other dreams
I’m falling still
brought down on both knees to grovel
beg heaven cleanse my leprosy of lust
release this wretched heart
this worm, this nothing
and wake screaming
washed in my own blood tears

I’ve lost you now

she wipes my eyes with her tongue
licks me pure
and tickles me till I scream

later, I trace a scar across her back
the wanton woman, the wild
her feather hair surrounds me
as I cling fast
her smell, her waxen wings
my final moor and grappling hold
black lace and raven bones
her weft and warp tangle delicate
to soothe my boiling blood

I hold on tighter
lest I fall for good

pt.3 deft shuttle-tooth lies

I will not wear my scarlet coat
for blood and wine are red
and each man kills the thing she loves
and each loves that she kills

naked still I wake full-sudden
bound or pinned down
her eyes hot and white-knuckled
against my skin

some kill their love when they are young
and some when they are old
some strangle with the hands of lust
and some with hands of gold
the kindest use a knife, because
the dead so soon grow cold

I’ve lost feeling in both my arms
all feeling but pain
which shoots from her nails
direct into my skull

some love too little, some too long
some sell, and others buy
some do the deed with many tears
and some without a sigh

my heart stops
caught fast
and the world spins slowly dancing
red blood drifts soft
like smoke into the air
and we are falling
and gravity is only a shadow
forgotten

for she who lives more lives than one
more deaths than one must die

pt.4 one vigil too late

he comes to her at night
cloaked and smelling of must
but the gate is closed
and I’ve hidden myself
behind the shed
in the shadows of broken wood
and discarded iron apparatus
some tools of war and others
implements of more benign purpose
a dog’s collar
garden hoe and scythe

I grab the latter
only for the sense of safety that it brings
like holding your hand
as we lean out beyond the cliffs
to see the lapping waves below

the spray of diamond tears
up the rock ledge
make us giggle and fall back

he’ll call out as he does
three times
a low whistling howl
from deep in his throat

I am not fooled
I hear no loon
and my sister is not for sale

her door is barred tight
and I can hear her struggling now
to pry free
and answer his lusty cry

but know this:
that nothing in life is left to fate
not one thread hits the loom unplanned
I do only what I must
to protect what is mine
what is ours and what must be

and she is locked away now
for safe keeping and he

he is a dead man.

having survived the equinox

pt.1 whisky from strangers

we recline together silent
skin soft from sweat and kneading hands
your every wrinkle and crease a chasm
formed by the flowing streams of perspiration
now puddling in the grass around us

our daily toil
these mortar and pestle loins
grinding wheat to bone
for bread that will never rise

I tickle your feet
forcing spasms of near-laughter
roll you face down
and scale you from behind
my breasts against your back
and fingers up your ass

my old man
my socrates

we have this then if no other:
time spent and the touch of our hands

as we fall still again
I smile and wipe away the nectars
the tears and sweat and semen
spilling to the ground

the waves below us
crack and peal against the rock cliff
and the whole world turns to melting butter
slowly washed away

pt.2 the nymphs of spring

the smell of lilac
pungent
hovers through the fog and filthy air
plugs my nose to bursting
and I become lost
to the dull thud of my fore-brain

the soft repose of winter-white down
has hardened now to bare earth
and the budding flora
reckless for growth
poison my lungs with their coital dust

spring erupts a cruel geyser of activity
events of consequence
that portend later lament
and countless months of gestation
regret and revenge

you burst forth
incarnate tribulation
deformed from the earth
(some say a serpent, others a bird)
hunched-back and uncertain loins
abandoned as still-birth
and compost for the soil

the grass is soft around you
and a small vine wraps your torso
for warmth or restraint
I can’t be sure
(safe-keeping can have many meanings)

I lay with you till sunrise
and find the dew refreshing
as it settles on the edge of an eyelash
and slips down my cheek

dust to dust and so forth
ashes into clouds

Then ferry you home gentle in my arms
meager and mangled, my orphan child
wrap you in black cloth
to hide your misfortune
and construct a casket of oak
to be your bed for the night
and the home you call your own

later I will nail the lid
for your protection
and commit you to the barren sisters as a gift

pt.3 arrival of the sun

these oak walls hold no interest
what they have to say was said
their grain runs east-west
with knots at quarter three
and just below my elbow

the wood has begun to warp
just enough to see my hands
as a splinter of light
burns through

my eyes adjust
and I spend the morning listing words and phrases
that rhyme or evoke isolation
like the rain against the window pane
or the gentle sting of summer grass

the sun is lonely too
I imagine
and birds of a feather
and lions in winter
and sheep for the sheering
and so on

strange events are taking form
just below my waist
the coiled flesh which gives me name
chameleon-like transforms itself
now soft, now solid, now trembling for my touch
while further down an ache sets in
announcing the day
and week
and impending deluge of blood

always so much blood

and in my spare time
I conjure up giants
half-human god-swans that ravish and plunge
and bring darkness to the earth

but life is a tragic imitation of the arts
only language embellished
without rhythm or harmony

and this is all I know for sure
only rotting flesh
this carcass
this sack of blood and shit
this corpse we call ourselves

and afterwards no one will remember
as we flitter invisible
among the indistinct dead

pt.4 let slip the dogs of war

eventually a box must rot away
or be smashed open by the envy-mad sister
of your accidental captor

every Dolores Haze
must have a Humbert Humbert
to carry her away

on impact with the ocean waves
these oak walls splinter and shake
and I am borne under by the tide
pushed back towards shore
to be released against this rock

again the darkness
again the sulfur smell
again the arriving panic
the sweet incessant scent of home

every tour of hell must begin somewhere
one cave is as good as another

pt.5 a lyre and a crown of roses

I discover the old man by the cliffs edge
naked and wet with cum
his play-child at his feet
and the lantern in it’s tower
casting a slow light across them both
now here, now gone, now here again

his form shifts
as I watch their copulation
now wizened boar
now billy-goat ram
now gelding, stot and steer
I know his smell
the raven stench of his fornication

I know my birth
ripped untimely from the soil
and I know my source
my hooded crow progenitor

and I hear the ancient muse
the nymphs of spring
rise up behind me from the foam and froth
the broken waves not yet to shore
offspring of the night and daughters of castration
winged creatures, whip in hand
blood drips from their eyes
and snakes
ghastly and gorgon-like
cling to their scalp

These aweful sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus do go about, about:
Thrice to thine and thrice to mine
And thrice again, to make up nine.

the angry ones
wings of a bat or bird
and the body of a dog
all curves
all sex and juices
all cursing vengeance
all anger of the dead

and in their wake: justice
myself, the serpentine

thick blood drains
from the mangled flesh
I call my groin

come closer, father
come close to me
embrace your serpent child
thrice damned
this daughter of Dante’s brood
console your broken son

for we are one, I whisper
as I slip my dull blade into place
between his open thighs

once god, once man,
once onan’s swan and rascal rake
once confessor, now confessed
he faints from hemorrhage as I rise
this fallen giant, barren by my blade
infertile infant sister by his side
and I, his serpent child
watching over as he dies

when the blood stops
I toss his genital remains
into the sea
for safe keeping

from dust to ashes
and fire to feed the furies