“We capture people for sex…this story is for ’Frank’…I like to call it Crème De Menthe…colour between my legs is red…I’m a snapper…she gave me six on the ass…fist fucked my hole after it had been anointed with orgy butter…be near me when I fade away…I guess that is at the root of the following…there’s me and two other guys and a chick’s head positioned on a waist high rostrum…the head rotates, at its own bidding, like an armchair in the front window of a furniture store…it doesn’t leak and belongs mostly to Farrah F and Marilyn C, it has the esteemed feather cut and the wholesome countenance…the untrammelled snow…now the head is perfect, I don’t really know how to describe it…it is a great head, superb product…see I can’t get out of the thinking the neck has been cauterised, that it has been kept in a refrigerator…or a bell jar…in order to stave off decomposition…no red orchids here…just a hothouse blossom…zilch formation of adipocre…fuck the serological study…topography of a phantom fuck…a dental chart is a verifiable dental chart…this head is delivered perfect, contingent to an internal whim. Farrah hair and ondontology, well, I’m a seventies boy, Marilyn C eyes and face…Betty Blue lips before she got junked up…and no it isn’t artificial looking, a synthetic facsimile…this is the very certain stuff…the craft of the Japanese gardener. Let’s jump cut to the set. A shitheel flat on the outskirts of an hellhole housing estate…the kinda place Jason Swift’s last tear trickled…dog faeces…throwaway syringes…polystyrene fast-food boxes…squashed green bottles of white cider…all the accoutrements of modern gothic…Hammer horror courtesy of the welfare state and She who said there was no Society…the animals are outside…milling…unsocialised and virulent…they are less than human (I’ve been an animal too, I’ll admit to that)…we need to define a new category…or get Al Speer out of retirement…a sojourn round here breeds an interest in eugenics…so there’s me and two other guys…buck naked…one short, fat and hirsute…he can be ’Ginsberg’…the other tall and lanky with a dick you could club seals with …Mr Holmes, I presume. Me? I’m Gillis of course. The baaadest of them all, who left Sandra Chase’s buttocks looking like an impromptu assemblage of strips of kebab meat, sheared from a revolving charred torso…dropping The Story of Joanna from my rap sheet…where Gillis, an unlikely aristocrat, is being massaged ’naked and supine’ by the male butler, who leans over and blows him…fellatio was not on the menu…well, I prefer to believe it was unscripted…a manly, decent hand on the shoulder prevents the scene culminating in orgasm. Hammer, anvil. I wish, you wish, they wish. Maybe we’d all be much happier as faggots. So me, Ginsberg and Holmes surround the head, which makes a silent inventory of the variegation in size of our respective genitals. We take alternate swigs from a bottle of Stolista; cheapjack vodka that makes absinthe look like a scrub bucket thrill like cough syrup or codeine…we circle the head, smoking hash. The head comes to rest, lies still. All is freakily loose yet it smacks of the quotidian…I cradle the head lovingly, hands cupped underneath that divinely flawed jawline…she addresses me telepathically.
“I act with my eyes. No word of dialogue. Once something is inserted in you. I thought you cannot go back…and I never did. Scared to spring my lids, but I did, electric charge, I loved it.”
I kiss her eyelids, her lips…I cannot get hard…why not the fuck…what do I require…the exhortation of a Georgian choir…remember me. Spying a khaki suit with loathing, missing the medieval grace of iron clothing. Her lips upon them; and it was her mouth saying: Sluggard! Ginsberg yanks the head from me. Smashes it on the side of the rostrum…nose bursts…Marilyn shrieks to me, only to me, I am alone in her psychic favours, “I am not an automaton. I dug it! I sold washing powder. As white as ivory snow.”
“The old coke whore,” says John H. The editing is not limited. Knowing he has overheard, I am devastated. Ginsberg reveals a pair of pliers, formerly secreted up his sweaty arsehole. Through me forbidden voices: copulation is no more rank than death is.
“That low rent cocksucker forgot Passion Pit so I’m no Little Oral Annie but my jawbone don’t detach so easy…”
Ginsberg pulls out her teeth one by one. There is no blood.
“It’s still too real,” he chimes.
Gentle…I get awful queasy at this point and hide behind the armchair.
She with ivory fingers, spinning long yarns out of nothing. John.H gets all phallocentric…hosepiping the feather cut born of the medium, not the message…we are all screens. So Big Al’s fucking the toothless mouth, his hairy arse pumping away…John H. rabbit punches him…Al falls with a bang not a whimper…on the yellowed pages of The Daily Sport…laid down like so much kitty litter. John H. with a tablespoon…scoops out an eyeball…then another…gobbles them up in the manner of an Alzheimer’s patient gorging on strawberry trifle in a residential home. Threads his wang through one eyesocket and then out the other…Big Al licks the emergent crown…then drills his cock into the left earlobe…pummels the ersatz cunt…I rejoin the fray…We straighten and face Product…It conveys the image onto our screen…”
Cross the wounded perineum; pretend an interest. Love of black and white stills.
I shall not have, do not need, a story.