Saturday 22 January 2011

Nothing

Here he is: something found, small, insignificant. Something smudged to the point of illegibility.

Here folded between the barrels of salt fish, sleeping sort of, almost.

The deck smells of blood, piss, come. Maybe it's the fish, or the remains of a shower curtain - or whatever.

("Smile for the camera")

"It's too – fucking - small"
                                                                                                                                               Shh

This is him: again.
Not for long, hopefully.


He could sleep forever here, with some help.

Slapping his cheek, insistently, repeatedly.

Hey, hey

Slapping his cheek, then here, the crook of his arm, tapping for a vein.

Now he smiles, full of bliss.

Smudge him out.

Beneath this shower curtain the sea, beneath that the universe;

hums  whispers
sweet  nothing

"                   "
                                                                                                                                                Shh



Whatever gets put through his veins,(FUCK) engenders some stupidly dramatic revival - a resurrection - pulling him by the hair from the sofa, to the floor.

There's a storm maybe, he doesn't remember - just the cold shock of the water - being pushed, by the sea, onto this shore.

He is furled in this neat ball, he is all survival instinct.

Retching, choking, sea water and bright.

Wow

(shakes head repeatedly)

Here he is.
                                                                                                                                                Shit
"Ow"

"What?"

Trying to uncurl him. His toes, inside his shoes, more or less delicately.
Coughing still, blinking,
holds up one hand. It's a really beautiful hand.                                                            STOP

"Please? Just give me a minute, OK?"

 He's talking to a man in a tone reassuring, but firm, close by the man's ear.
It's just a hum, but he can hear everything.

This man listens to him, but looks at him                                                                   Nice

He looks not at the man, but at the ruins of starfish, blue, once yellow maybe orange? Obliterated by - ? Ugh - something. But still recognisable as starfish. Sort of.

He is walking unsteady across the beach, away from the water.

 Looks at the man's cock, first, like it's some victim of a terrible accident, then with the realisation it's wearing a condom the colour of necrosis.
And then laughing because it's funny and because there is nothing: a sweet void where there is supposed to be definition. A gap where the delineation of his beauty and desirability was supposed to be written.

The man shoves two, maybe three - fingers inside him, kind of unceremoniously, now that he's there.

Hello                                                                                                                                  
He rests his cheek on the sorry starfish, says:

"I want a cigarette" to no-one in particular.

6 comments:

  1. I revised this some in the light of a comment. not sure how much it works.

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  2. If you ask me - I think I'd more or less say pretty much the same again... starfish/anal sex, cum/smell of fish, drugs/drowning, etc. all strung together on alienation, meaninglessness and vaguely bored longing for death to one big "yep, pretty fucked up, what's for dinner?"... (I don't remember the academic "delineation of his beauty and desirability", is that new?)

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  3. no it was always there. i don't think it's about any of those things - and i know you find the allusions pretty crass or something? but those pairs weren't in my head - i don't know - a slightly embarrassing coincidence? starfish huh ...

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  4. What did you change then? I searched for the old version but you seem to have taken it down.

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  5. i cut stuff mostly - like the last lines you hated so much. i mean, i didn't like them either. i still don't like this piece. it seems stilted and contrived. i was thinking about how identity and knowledge is created in some space between experience and imagination - like how the big stuff often leaves you empty - it doesn't tell you things about yourself you've been led to believe it will. i guess it doesn't really say that to you? it says - lame emo asshole euphemisms. oh well

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  6. Hmm. Nope, not even with the cliff notes. though I like the idea. Maybe this one was too cryptic for me, or just too far from my experiences to conect with anything. There seems to be some sort of porn shoot, or prostitution. But why are there barrels of salted fish? A shower curtain? Starfish? Was there a real storm, did "he" really nearly drown? Are those memories from some earlier time? What sort of a sleazy porn star would have these memories... it feels like someone from today having memories that are a hundred years old... I can't make it meet somewhere.
    So I cannot find the "big stuff" (first time putting out? first time being filmed at sex?) or what exactly makes "him" feel what. (I do get the sense of being empty... at least metaphorically... ^_^)

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