Ecstasy denied

tumblr_llxw06ogqm1qzn4kzo1_1280Here’s a moment of a girls’ life

it flickers, it flickers like a skirt, caught on a black railing, rented, torn, pried apart, and released, to flap, uselessly and without form

she’s lost her purse, her lipsticks rolled behind the bus and she didn’t put on her hose just right

the seams you see, they’re supposed to line up at the back where her heel hits the smooth patent of her shoe like how the girls in WW2 did it except they used eye-brown pencils because silk was needed for parachutes, oh and who can afford the cost of the worm?

that’s the way it should have turned out, fixing her seams, walking in with a kick and a smile, wooing her audience, beguile them, beguile them and they shall fall helplessly

exercise in futility, that’s not her, she doesn’t do performance art, that’s the image of her projected by those who believe, with her lips, and her green eyes, she’s kryptonite, such a bad bet, she’s a lame horse who prefers the stable, all those shrines to her potential, before she drank too much anxious about oh, more or less, everything in the world

and drinking they say, even in France now, is not du rigor but ruled out, if you wish to avoid your one out of eight women gets breast cancer statistic, what the hell? How to survive without sipping it down? Letting fermentation do its ritual on her guts, lifting her back into the gilded frame

she wished she were a boy, boys can still drink, boys don’t wear hose, they don’t have to worry as much if their armpits stink and they won’t have another boy tell them that their breasts sag when they rise up and clasp the void

if she were a boy she’d want to be a pretty boy the kind that other boys would probably hit on, with a large top lip and gleaming hair, because pretty gets you candy and she has a sweet tooth

if she were a pretty boy she’d try out fucking a girl just to know what it felt like

to be a version of herself with other body parts

would the girl look at her with frightened eyes, hooded and suspicious like a Russian doll, daub her sides with ancient gild, would she open her legs only because she wanted what you held back, in your frayed pocket, tightly wrapped, here it is, take a mouthful, bitter taste, will we live longer in our knowledge? The apple glows in the darkness from its position alone hanging from the lower branch of knowledge.

when she wakes up in the night and holds her singed hair back, hugging porcelain throne vomiting what she’s learned time and time again just doesn’t stay down

couldn’t she purchase another way of coping?

apparently pills have their own set of demons

she learns the art of the mask and strips for the doctor who takes his swab. It’s a painless test he lies, grimacing as he breaks her bones and pries denial apart, you won’t feel a thing

and then everything turned blue and the water didn’t stop running down the sink in the wrong direction and the clocks lost their hands and rolled into glue sticking to the inside of her emptiness, where no life was, sharing its wasteland

on E she danced until the fat at the top of her clavicle, that little jiggle you get when you drink lots of milk as a child and push your little breasts together, grew and people said well … don’t you have a fine pair on you?

not really she’d think if you could see how long it takes to get this look, all the tape in the world, and they’re still not really sticking

a bit like her, unhinged at one corner, asking; peal me back see what’s underneath

her own preference was for girls with skinny chests and protruding nipples she felt they were saying fuck you to every kind of lame expectation, their knife-like hip-bones, shaving her under the sheets like the incisors on wolves, the anger glowing in their eye, a Cheshire cat with blade

but she was too soft for that hard look and wore instead the conicular implements of torture Madonna had cast off

looking back it was fucking embarrassing

when did she learn authenticity? On the way home from the hospital when it rained and the dried blood on her legs, wound down her legs like a cat’s tail and smeared the grass beneath? she saw only mouths open, trying to speak, what do they want to say?

authenticity died between her legs and grew cold in formaldehyde and the rubbing of fingers itching for a cigarette

walking the streets homeless, holing up in an office during night hours, smelling the feet of those who worked there during the day kicking their shoes off

stains on the office sofa that never came off

when he would deliver her bag of drugs and she paid him with herself because she had nothing else

how much would that equate per kilo?

quite a good bargain all things considered, it was like he said, she made him act that way by the tilt of her head

I’m only tilting my neck to get a better view of the strippers on Wardour street she’d say standing at the window, neon blinking in and out, in and out, little panties not yet showing their wear and tear, don’t worry they soon will undo their pretty dark pink bows

he told her you have the smallest waist you look like a french dancer in a Toulouse Lautrec painting

I am a french dancer she would reply and smoke a Sobranie to the gold rim to make the point

gimme a break, you don’t even like Ricard Pastis and those cigarettes are Russian

you’ve got a point there, Pernod is vile, mix me something chopped up, cut it fine, I want to hear music, open your eyes, open your fucking eyes so I can hear

I like the taste of aniseed

I hate it, it reminds me of my grandfather’s fingers and that imported saddle soap he used, when I looked into his throat he had coals burning there, they could extinguish your heart just by breathing on you

change the record / or you’ll kill the mood

he was always in the mood, even when he hated her he wanted to ransack her empty space

lucky she licked the bag clean or her price would be too high, nothing is too much for a fistful of dynamite

I wish I could live inside you, he would whisper, eyes already rolling like a horse about to be led to slaughter, to the exit sign

christ I can’t think of anything worse, she’d reply into the pillow, limbs trembling, her neck aching with his pummel

how long can it go on? can you make yourself wet when you’re faking? Or do you have to run to the bathroom and stick your fingers down your throat? Fake sudden illness to avoid an overdose of you

back in the days when her bladder was strong she could take a pounding and not need to pee afterward, they used to say, you can eat motherfucking hot curry, be given one like a sailor and still walk straight

how many sailors were bent over themselves and filled with whiskey and crab claws she wondered

but you stand up too long, with eyes on your back unpicking your defenses it gets harder

how many times can you shout, oh yeah baby just like that, just like that, you’re the best

he is hard he is inside her he feels like metal she feels like clover and the bees the bees swarm around her obscuring her open mouth the color of raspberries

that’s why she never cuts her hair you can hide so far inside if you carve out a tree and wait patiently for the thorns to do their climb

the wood cuttings of her twins mocking her sins, cooing; what a dirty little girl, you turned out well darlin

I want my moneys worth, he would say half in jest, nostrils crusted with crystal, beckoning her with dirty fingers

take the blue pill, take any pill, watch yourself swallow, there you go, to bed now child, tomorrow will be another show starting at six pm promptly and ending, never

she’d pretend she was sea anemone, anyone else, the girl outside in Soho gyrating to some euro pop song her long fake nails glittering against piercings speaking rapid Lithuanian into a pink phone

her nipples hurt where he burned them with his need to leave a mark, a tattoo artist without his equipment he improvised his layers of penetration

give me something to remember bitch or I’ll make it hurt more

she thud lifelessly above him like an unmoared boat seeking harbor, half-conscious with sorrow, afterward she lay closed off and drugged, as peaceful as an envelope that has been licked shut

and never, ever, ever did she learn to undo, the need to exclude herself from the world

so where’s her next fix? how does she stop wanting it to fill her veins with code

listening to the grind of the world outside, a room with a view boarded over and willingly comatose, two words inscribed on her tomb, ecstasy denied


91 thoughts on “Ecstasy denied

  1. I don’t mind the length of anything you write..with your skill and artistry it really isn’t something I’m aware of. Redemption and Salvation are beautiful words and don’t exclusively belong to Religion. I understood what you meant perfectly.
    Hope is what allows us to get through events in our lives that would otherwise bury us. Hope is always there. โค Much love, Shieldmaiden.

  2. And you’ve likened me to Tennyson so…im pretty much ready to die whenever! ๐Ÿ˜„๐Ÿ˜„๐Ÿ˜„๐Ÿ’•

  3. I laughed so much at this! Well but truth be told you must and will live a long life so you can carry on writing and encouraging others, doing the good you do regularly in the world. Moreover if you are of your ilk you have a long path ahead of influence and stories. I do think you are of that ilk I’m always reminded of my favorite poems by him when I read your longer ones. Yes it’s a compliment because I adore his work.

  4. Interesting. It would be good to offset some of the dark stuff but it’s not necessary. It’s bleak. It’s hopeless. It’s real.
    I like it, keep it coming

  5. I think I have never heard someone say ‘it’s bleak it’s hopeless it’s real’ I love that! What an awesome comment! Thank you so much! So encouraging as I have been told off many times for being bleak, real and hopeless! You rock! ๐Ÿ™‚ (thank you)

  6. Anyone can write fairytales but writing the truth takes guts. In my darkest moments I need something to relate to, even the idea that someone is as despondent as I am. The bleakness aside it is shocking and shocking makes you wake up and think – it’s exciting to a reader. I am making a huge effort to read more blog posts and I look forward to reading through yours as I very much enjoyed this

  7. This. This took me every dark place I have ever lived or even thought about going. I can feel this like oil on my skin. It is me and outside of. It is the desperation we feel at 2 am when the depression is at its worst.

  8. Maybe it’s cheeky to steal your insight but I feel EXACTLY that way reading you about it taking me to every place I have thought of going or been to. You said it EXACTLY right.

  9. On a completely unrelated note, I feel like we should have An Unbearable Lightness of Being reading group– SK wrote a piece earlier this week that reminded in many ways of your piece After The Devil. I think we are all on the same wavelength and up for a discussion about sex.

  10. That’s a very related note and you are so right. I agree. It is uncanny that it mutually influenced us in exactly the same way! Good idea! What other books/films do you feel really summed up life for you? I have to say that one is at the top. I told you about Sunlight On Cold Water also right? I definitely think you are right about our being on the same wave length some would say that is not a good thing I see it as a saving grace.

  11. (and I reckon why you’re one of my favorite writers (and more importantly PEOPLE) on the planet) This is why your’e a special artist. There are many motivations, layers of meaning, layers of motivation, stories and directions going on in what you do. You’re intimidating.

  12. It’s like a freakin’ tightrope walk and my inner moron is always saying ‘f’ the audience and writing whatever the hell I want. I can’t seem to balance audience and my own inner demons.

  13. Thank you. I guess that’s a compliment to be intimidating! ha ha ha! I am told that a lot for some reason! I don’t see it, I ‘yam what I yam’ and I can’t hardly spell on a good day in English! But yeah, people only get intimidated because they’re insecure. I’m insecure but only self-insecure (the self) I’m not insecure around anyone else, nobody is better than anyone else.

  14. Stephen, it means a lot to me that you think that though, about being a favorite writer, I mean since I think you are incredible it’s like someone you admire (it is this) saying they admire you – full of wow

  15. Me too. That sounds snobby doesn’t it? I do though. I mean not saying they’re worse but just that some of it seems trite. Tell me if ever I do. I will keep the gun by my side.

  16. It’s not snobby, it’s just a reasonable reaction to the general lack of artistry most folks offer.

  17. I equate posh accent with an abundance of coolness and probably an appreciation for tea.

  18. Really natural and realistic sometimes reality is sad we just have to handle it in our own way writing about it is very nice thing to do. And honestly even the post was big but your words had power to hold me till the end it was something far next level thing.

  19. Holy fuck! It feels like you crawled inside my head back when I used to use and teased out all the dirty little secret thoughts and pain and nothingness.

  20. I happened-back to this fine piece of yours and it reads even better the 2nd time through.
    I think that youโ€™re gifted. keep on, friend. g.r.

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