All entries for Thursday 11 March 2010
March 11, 2010
There was a birth and a death. And a million more. And none were important. And a million more. Pearl lips. Lots. And white legs peal. Blue fingers and hands and arms. Pink cheeks. Everybody looks for trust eyes. Everybody red flushes.
Graham, trapped in lace. Was a birth. White lace, white birth. Christened in gold and drowning in leather. Graham, in the sex club, drowning in leather. And coated in lace with a smile on his face, Graham, deaf Graham, is drowning in leather. Tight smile, yellow teeth, specked tongue.
And Graham writes, “Je te veux. Je te veux. Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je ne peux rien faire. Tu est tout que je veux, l’amour est ma mortuaire. Je te veux. Je te veux. Tu est tout que je dois. J’ai envie de tomber amoureux si tu te fanera”.
To pink no-one. And yellow teeth. And lace on the neckline. He wants you, he wants you. Love is his funeral. He wants you, he wants you. He will want to fall in love if you fade. So fade. Everything is too too close. And in. And in.
Drowning in leather. A cardboard plate on the viscid floor. Panic eyes. Graham always with panic eyes. Away from all love. Lace wrists. Lace neck. Material for men. Black rip. Pink shreds.
Graham never thought about his parents. They polished his glass certificates. They dusted his dusty shelves. They gave his books to charity, and they waited for a call.
And lightning sits on the cardboard. It calms. White legs peal onto Graham’s back. Viscous men with seething bodies peal onto Graham’s back. Eating lightning. Tasting lightning. And thinking about falling in love.
Graham will be a thousand paper statues. When he dies, he will be made into a thousand blank paper statues. And he will be folded onto a plinth in the middle of a green path for a thousand days. He will eat lightning and taste floods, and be white reborn.
"Through the hosiery to the armory. To the nothing. How do you feel when you can't feel nothing?"