Saturday, November 06, 2010

The Edge

This headland rears upward
into the spitting
and bluster of a gale wind:

A wind, like hate, that meets
the rise and rise of landscape into air.

Rising always,

pulling from the waves
the chalk bones
of a giant, a king,
the bones of a country.

Deaf in the whitening wind,
and whipped by hair
and feather spray, here,
straining just to hold the ground,
there is a salty melancholy
even in the leaning,

even in the rising heave of
vertigo and escaping,
in evaporation,
and in breath that burns.

Here is the line,
like a single dry and
fibrous blade of grass,
the cliff-edge, between bone
and aerial existence,
the place we come for coronation.

And these freezing tears
that the wind draws,
that make it hard to see the edge,
are nothing more than diamonds
for a crown.

Friday, March 31, 2006


Putting him down on the bed and putting your body on his, drilling low for a high, while the radio plays Miserere from the kitchen, you are going to hate yourself in the morning because you can already see it in his eyes, that he’s looking for something which has nothing to do with you.

When I grow up I want to be a saint, and he always wanted this. So he kept his hips skinny and his bones brittle and his head always turned up slightly. He was eleven and he wanted to be a saint. It seemed the only way to leave anything behind. So when the boy with the dirty-grey t-shirt twisted his arm to the tip of his shoulder blades, it snapped. And something like the needles of a cold shower gasped all over, like having a body without skin and being kissed on the marbled fat.

And from the moment the boy with the dirty-grey t-shirt snapped his arm he was confirmed in his vocation.

He sought out dirty city churches where, at any moment, thick black-haired fingers might clamp his praying mouth and pull him to the shadows. The bishop later picking relic pieces from the floor would have them freeze-dried and encased in silver.

Look at the family album (actually a pile of photos in a box beneath his mum’s red slippers, resting while she watches telly). Every photo of him looks Victorian and in the yellow albumen he always has his eyes half-closed or closed. He went through martyrdom not puberty grew into its shape like adolescence, avoiding meat to stay as pale as milk and cultivate that ghost-light glow, that insubstantial look, the halo. All grown up he was only half a human, half the plastic, nauseating shape on an exotic lily.

When cancer got his mum he smiled slightly, eyes half-closed or closed throughout the funeral.

Putting him down on the bed and putting your body on his is like hitting a bird with a car at sixty miles an hour. Smack, crack, snap and a slight smile and head turned slightly up, eyes half-closed or closed so all the while you know you’re drilling a hole in a plaster statue to get at the coke the smugglers hid inside. Drilling low for a high of religious proportions because even though you know you’re destroying him (which is all he wants) you can’t but keep drilling. And it has nothing to do with you.

Saturday, December 03, 2005


There’s nothing else like the texture of skin: think about it! So, thinking themselves adventurous, they got out the razor. First from her groin, then from his fell a shower of golden filaments. They planted kissed on the newly naked flesh.

“Do my chest,” he said, she hesitated only a moment, “my legs…”

“My arms,” she said.

“My eyebrows… my head,” someone said, not just short, make me bald.”

Hours later, more naked than babies, they fell on each other, unable to stop touching, kissing and licking, thrilling at the strangeness of skin that had never been touched before.

Big Sister

Through cracks in doors and curtains, pixie-like, Stephen’s eyes flashed over the bloom of his older sister’s skin. He saw her breasts slide over ribs, he saw her most intimate pink colours, he saw the stretch of her jaw, saw the saliva run over her chin. The young peeping-tom would run to his room, grabbing himself, often not making it to privacy before the shameful hot flush of orgasm.

These were his strongest coloured memories of childhood but now he could not be sure; was it her or the lean and willowy penis of her boyfriend that filled his imagination.

Gothic Suggestion

For all the pretence of cynicism, for all the gothic, child-of-the-night regalia that hangs off their white skins, the four friends, two couples are innocent as adolescents when the time comes.

A suggestion made in the club where aspirations are pumped up by lights, bass and a screaming lyrical guitar and then they were sprawled naked on the floor of someone’s apartment, touching portions of each other’s limpid flesh.

Now, two slender cocks are squeezed together for the first time with ribs and flat nipples rubbing too while the girls, pale as moonlight, watch and move their hands slowly.


The moonlight cast platinum shadows through the leaded church windows. In the dark there was a scuffle on gritty flagstones and some of the shadows moved. With a low moaning that could have been the wind, the procession to the altar began. White among the black robes was the loose draped body of the initiate, naked in the arms of the high priest: pieta. The chant rose like a sea swell, the insensate, trance filled body was laid on the altar.

Settling to a circle the procession came to rest, the priests of the order opened their robes and a ring of penises filled and thickened with the rumble of bass voices. Hands moved, skins slipped back and moans of pleasure began to weave within the chant. The body on the altar stirred, it arched a bridge of fragile ribs upwards like the vaulted ceiling.

Strands of silver mixed with the platinum, looped into the air and fell in arches. Strings of seed splattered onto the soft skin and in his trance the initiate opened his mouth, darted his tongue. In the dark his body glowed with the sheen of his new life.

The Whole Truth… Not.

“It’s my first time…” She flushed and teeth tugged her bottom lip.
“I know, and that’s why we do it this way. So you don’t get pregnant. Everyone does it at our age.” His weasel eyes shone down. As thin and white as inexperience itself, two lovers ruffled the sheets of first time love. She loved the coolness of his skin on hers, his devil eyes. He loved the soft skin, stretched between her breasts, where his tongue trailed. “Turn over.” Clumsy, she knocked against the hard pole in his groin and they giggled.

She heard him spit and dribble and heard the slip-slap as he smoothed the slime over himself. The end was hot, he butted up against her hole and began to slide. A ring of muscle loosened, spasmed and then something uncurled inside her. Driving down, he sank into heat and deep fire and pummelled. She yelped and arched and dug under to press her fingers into the other place. He lifted and sank, over and over. Too quickly he tightened and fell and she was flooded.

After, she said,
“Mmm… I love that.” Stop, catch of breath, “I mean, I loved that.”

You have to know where to look…

… to see the pack of boys who move like wolves through the night: roof tops, docks and empty parking lots, swerving the trash and the tramps in the allies. A flash of walnut brown, bright eyes in the dark, the streetlight glow of a shaved head… that’s all you’d see without knowing.

But look up and focus. There on top of that building, where the concrete cracks: a small tribe of bodies, naked in the hot night, a bit more than silhouette if you look long enough. Thin arms like cables wrapped, backs twisted, sharp angles of hips and shoulder blades and mouths mashing into tongues; can you see?

Watch for Billy, he’s the leader, you’ll see that spike rise in his groin. Watch him pick his favourite bitch and bend him over the parapet, a strippling, lean. Can you hear it? It’ll get louder as Billy sinks in the bitch’s guts. And look another, sniffing round Billy’s ass, licking at his balls, nuzzling the stubble of his head into Billy’s crack. And now Billy has his, the rest fall in. Can you hear the howling? You’d never hear it if you didn’t know to listen.

Friday, December 02, 2005

Opening of a Novel

Diary – Year Sixteen.


If I die before I’m sixteen, which could happen, I want my big brother Jack to carry the coffin. Not on his own: him and five tranny dwarves dressed as Snow White and all smoking pipes. He’d have to bend double to keep me level.

I want to be laid out too, in the living room at home. Take the front wheel off my bike and take off the tyre and the rim, then spray the spokes with gold paint and put it under my head in the coffin – my halo. I want my dead body to be wearing cream silk panties – the kind of thing a bride might wear. Then over that, I want one of those old-fashioned one-piece gymslips that boys used to wear as well as girls.

And I want my crotch stuffed with a sock or something so everyone who comes to pay their respects gets all guilty when they realise they can’t tear their eyes off my groin.

I want my mate Xoren to do my make up, something with lots of silver and glitter – because that might convince him that he is good for something. And the hair on my head should be died pink with little model butterflies all over.

And I want four of those seaside windmills stuck at each coffin-corner and a fan in the room so they move a bit. I want silver larmé to lie on in the coffin and just enough fairy-lights round the rim to make it sparkle.

Oh, and someone’s got to shave off these three hairs on my chest because I hate them and there’s no way I’m going to my grave with them. How long does it take for hair to stop growing after you die?

Monday, November 28, 2005

Young Man Dancing

Its a small club
but the light-filled
smoke beams move quick

across the floor.
And you are small,
but not in this

of space and sound,
caught in circles

of light you seem
to rise like an
ascending Christ;

flesh with this much
power must be
turned into light.

Remember Me?

Remember me. I was the boy
who exploded with the diamond
river of sweat between my shoulder-blades
and the cords of my neck

on New Year’s Eve when the strobe
took me and you watched my back
all night: hard and dented
like the metalwork of a beaten car.

You sucked on frosted vodka and orange
and I was exceptional!
Lean meat, skinned and marbled with fat
supple as whiplash and glittering

like windscreen glass
as gay as the rainbow swirl
of petrol being washed into the
gutter by the rain on my broken face.

Pilgrimage to Dungeness

(Dungeness was the home of gay saint, activist and film maker, Derek Jarman. In his last years he built a famous wilderness garden there)

Here is where a saint lived
but there’s ‘nothing to see,’
sign says, ‘move along please.’
Here there was a garden
spare and hard as driftwood,
wild as ragwort, iron
rusted homage to all
that pushes and survives.

But there’s nothing to sea,
beyond the single bank,
laid out in Zen patterns
around the reactor.

In the mizzle distance,
which is either the end
or the world’s beginning,
varieties of grey
are as beautiful soft
at the world’s dissolving
as the sound of one hand
applauding the saint’s life.

Next Trick

My eyes were drawn to his thighs
to the bruises, blue inside.
The colours and the silent cries
on swollen lips and hips wide
open hung out this question.
Had this been pain or pleasure:
the pain of too much pressure
or the pleasure of a wince?

Sunday, November 20, 2005


Boys on wheels (boards or blades) scuttle the cracks of summer heat in the hard-court backing the beach with blades for hips that barely hold the jeans above the V and summer cracks of sweat where bodies split. Boys with coffee, cocoa, walnut tans of indolence and naked sun with swollen nipples darkening until they scream out ‘ripe! ripe!’ And puberty is hanging like a wire mesh around the ramps and dips and shoulder blades and cracks of bone through wooden skin. When dusk has lowered sunlight to the tone of tans and made the boys invisible they slink away but one at least tonight will lie on damp and sweaty sheets fingering the thought of what hangs heavy in the trousers of a man.

Carried Away

You rub your cock that some poets call candy-stick and I call iron spike along the angled groove my groin provides your lips a limpet grip around my collar bone. Your toes are digging trenches nailing holes against the bottom of the bed. Your iron fingers make a fist of sheet an eagle’s talon-grasp and push to force our chests in curves apart and driving hips together mashed. And only in your eyes a clue that you are startled being carried off along a line so straight so mathematically pure a drive so new it tosses gravity about like wings and you fall upwards shooting into air. And only in your eyes the steel a fractured feather of surprise.

Unknowing Glance

You have no name for what you’re feeling now a flock of birds inside your narrow chest is blustering. Your breath is catching sudden shallow fut-fut on your tongue. All this when you see me see you across the street before you know my name. You have no name forgotten as the quarter moon which hangs in morning skies dissolves to blue. I’m hoping I can be there when finally you pinion all those birds against your ribs wake up and spread your arms and howl the names against the moon. For now you have no name for what you’re feeling…

The Bedside Table

Everything is ready for you. The cigarettes you can’t yet buy but smoke because they tighten your expression into urban prose and gravel-up your milk voice. The glasses that you left behind last time waiting balanced like a bird beside the bed clear eyes thin legs like you. The chewing gum the condoms and the cream the tissues and the crusty towel. And even now the metal smell of your first burning in a bed the air you moulded into curves with spinal twists and bony claws is waiting for you… the whole room waits for you.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Scab and The Virgin (Part 3)

It had been raining for twenty-four hours when we got home, footsore, still clasping our trainers in shivering fingers. We walked all through the night. We hatched a plan, a hysterical, freaky, Scab-style plan.

In St Andrew’s, by the time we got there, it was light, a thin, grey light and a small Mass was going on. We sat at the back and listened to the prayers. The front two rows sufficed to hold all the worshippers and by the time the words travelled the long aisle down to us at the back they sounded like the bass on a Flechette track. Scab put his head in my lap for while, making a hiding place of dark wood. As the air around him heated up I could smell his unwashed clothes and the furniture polish. He slipped a hand under his head, which meant it was over my crotch, thin fingers again, massaging. Eventually, as I swelled in damp denim he slipped the zip, cold fingers wrapped me up, plied the spongy underside of my cock, slipped the skin back. Then it was his hot mouth and it seemed like a perfect blasphemy, Scab’s phone rang: the polyphonic theme from some kids TV show.

Heads turned at the front of the church but he was down below the pew and I just shrugged at them. Scab didn’t move so I hooked it out of his back pocket and flipped it.

“Hi mum.”

“You both together then?” she said, sounding pretty slurred, “where’ve you two been honey. I’ve been missing you.”

“What do you want mum?”

“I don’t feel so good honey. I want you home. Come home for a while eh?”

“Mum I’m busy.”

“Oh, it’s like that is it…” and it went downhill from there till Scab’s battery died.

I don’t know exactly what they do at Mass, but they were all at the rail eating and drinking at the same time that I was spilling into Scab’s mouth. We grabbed her when the service looked like it was ending. They barely noticed until we cracked her head off on the pillar and the first yells came as we sped through the doorway and into the rain.

In St George’s we had to climb carefully over the broken glass of the vestry window, kick through the door into the church. Scab found a statue with the dragon writhing under George’s meaty thighs. For a moment I thought Scab would change the plan, his hand strayed over those thighs and then up to the pecs under their moulded breastplate, all the while rubbing the flat of his other hand over his groin. Both grinning, which made it difficult but funny, we kissed and rubbed, didn’t even bother to hook our cocks out. Rough cloth and pressed crotches got us off and we took her head without any trouble out of the same vestry window. Dead painted eyes and tope skin and the remnants of a blue headscarf, she looked happy to be coming with us into the rain.

In St Anne’s we almost got the wrong girl…

In St Francis’ there were no statues at all.

“Shit,” said Scab looking at my crotch. But the game had made its own rules now and Scab seemed reluctant to break them so we moved on.

In the Market Street church with no name outside…

And still the rain kept coming like a shower of forgiveness and still we were barefoot like it gave us something to feel the wet grit underfoot and by the time it had been raining forty-eight hours both our cocks were sore and red, and our eyes were red round the rims and I was grinning sometimes as madly as Scab…

On the afternoon of the third day we rested. Naked on our bed, spooning, my arms wrapped round his shoulder and my cock thick but limp in the valley between his cheeks. I didn’t sleep but I could hear and feel his purring snore and snuffling noises. Every now and again I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror across the room: pale and looking pretty wasted. Mum looked in at one point and I kept my eyes closed. I don’t expect what she was grumbling as she stepped back out of the room was very kind but I couldn’t hear the words, only the sound. When we left again, into gathering shadows, I knew for sure we were never going back.

We made the evening papers. In the neon spill from the QuikStop they’ve got those bill boards with the crossed wires. We were there in damp newsprint: vandalism, blasphemy, sicko kids, desecration.

The strange thing was, that even though we now needed a bag to carry all her heads, it didn’t feel like desecration or any of those bad things. It felt like stepping out into warm sunshine in a never-ending field of tall grass.

“Hey, look at that,” said Scab grinning.

“Yeah. Might make tonight a bit tougher.”

Then fuck me, it was the priest walking down the road towards the shop. He saw us but there was nowhere to go. He had the white collar on too. We passed in the same pool of light where we first met up. He slowed down some, wary.

“No trouble now lads. Right?”

We didn’t say anything but Scab stuck his tongue out and waggled it like he was licking something obscene. An old lady came out of the shop right then and saw, she made a noise like, ‘awww’, and hurried away. I was sorry she saw that.

We passed. Father Dominic disappeared into the night. We still had things to do. It was Scab who’d decided on twelve, I don’t know why but I guess it was one of those ‘significant number’ things. If I’d thought about it I could have made a guess. So we were only half-way. There were some cop cars about but nothing serious – how many churches in a city this size? I guess too, no one thought the sicko kids would go at it again.

In Saint Agatha’s everything was gold and mosaic and we had a hard time telling which one was Mary. When we got her head off and tucked her away in the bag Scab got a bit agitated again. For the first time since St Aiden’s, to calm him down, I got us both naked. We got silly then and chased each other round the aisles like kids, cocks bouncing, balls like weights on springs. When we finally collided with a crack of wood at the corner of a pew I hooked my fingers into his hip bones and pulled him down. Scab looked like he did when I used to tickle him till he couldn’t speak. I straddled his snaky waist and held his arms down, bent down and licked a long line up his chest. Flat tongue pressed nipples like small beads and he tasted of salt and biscuits. His cock – long, thing, brittle – was under my ass. Just because, I reached back and pointed it up and then sat on it. I’d never been fucked before and it hurt, like stomach cramps, but I didn’t mind. I stayed on top and didn’t let him do any of the fucking. I knew I’d never be able to take it like he could but there was something satisfying about proving that we could plug in this way round if necessary. There was a hot tug somewhere down by his balls and something coiled and released and suddenly his eyes were closed on his smile and he lay still. Inside one of us there was a gurgling noise. I knelt up, wincing, drawing off his cock. It was only a small move from there to lean and angle mine right into his mouth. Maybe I was overcompensating but I fucked his head so hard it banged the floor.

What you need to know about Scab and getting sucked off by him is that, although he’s nothing but sharp angles and lumps of bone, he’s got lips like Botoxed cherries, they’re the only fleshy part of him. Feeling them grab at the base of your cock while the head end is buried in the wet mess of his tonsils is better than anything I ever called a blow-job before.

When we got up, there was an oblong of sweat and rain and sperm on the tiles.

St Nicholas’…

St Mark’s…

St Mary’s… of course, St Mary’s. I don’t know why we didn’t think of that sooner. Three heads tumbled into the bag there and between us we managed three orgasms, but mostly dry now and chaffed skin was beginning to weave a rawness into the pleasure.

The rain had been solid for three days until the streets were rainforest thick. It was the third day (maybe). The roof of the multi-storey was a shallow, painfully bright mirror of water. Steam rose across the concrete pan. Everything was light and rising. The heads of twelve beautiful women fell out of the bag and made cracking noises as they hit the ground.

“Shit,” I said, “what’ve we done?”

Scab grinned…

We took six each, bundled into crossed arms. The car park was on the dockside. From the top, up there, we could get a clear shot. Each one took a different trajectory; each flew through surprised seagulls in a different way, some spun others flew straight. Some splashed lightly as they disappeared beneath the gunmetal swell, others made deep, deep plopping sounds.

And when the last one was gone I looked up and nudged Scab to do the same. There was a rainbow. And I laughed because I knew that story and it was too perfect.

“Time to go?” said Scab, grinning…

The End