I would like secretly to fuck you

I

 

guy’s a real hoot –

saying when he used to visit his girl back

when she was a student

and when he used to visit his girl

in the village he’d

back in the village he’d

always take something “for kitchen” –

seeing as how he was working and that

moneybags in admin

or in mags, the displaying of

smiths, junior retailer, just smiths

uniform, dim grin, name badge

great white silence

though regrettably not

steering cagefuls of spent

publications, scores of kgs of them!,

glossy slabs for pulping

and steering nil more –

and he’d take bread and butter!

thought he was going to say beer or wine

bread and butter

party king

 

 

II

 

 

what a contentsless penis

saviour of the office

I don’t think

and won’t too

“prepare yourself, the wife: initiating phase 2”

he embraced the counsellor

in a slithering manner

a fattish guy playing his own

thickness for touch

beige as a washed potato.

Of all the sex lives of the all

the colleagues his is the one

I would least like to visualise

a peeled Maris piper soused in talcum

and yet there he was

arms at side, legs just apart

hips thrust forward

a gesture of –

we hope –

subconscious lewdness

a step away from demonstrating

his mediocre techniques

 

 

III

 

 

shudder then vomit at the thought of the micro-appendage secreted beneath white folds

 

 

IV

 

 

likes to parade his wife

like a farmer at market

this is the wife

this is the nameless appendage

long-nurtured specks of hair urged

to surface

to take an edge off his

large pale face but

in fact drawing ever more attention

to its forgettability

he’s Mrs-Brown’s-Boys-and-a-can-of-Heinz

or some such similar monstrosity

Lemon-and-a-Lucozade

McIntyre-and-a-supermarket-pie

Flanagan-and-a-couple-of-cheese-rolls

Manford-and-a-Rustlers-rib-sandwich

the little tongue

the little lips

the little tin of balm

the Carmax

in the watch pocket of his jeans

for quick access

the tongue itself a nub of sorts

a taut pointed thing

tough as a bicep

lips as greasy as a pair of eels

the ungrateful prick

I imagine underpants

milk white flesh

soft jazzy tunes

the stench of flatulence

French kissing like it’s 1975

 

 

V

 

 

last night I dreamt I was being driven by a

homosexual to a dairy farm on the edge

of Norwich, near Whitlingham, up a

small lane called Dairy Farm Lane

a steep winding hill that looked

down upon the dead industry

and railway sidings that flank the Wensum

an old Norfolk bloke was gathering small dogs there

Yorkshire terriers perhaps

and slitting their throats and

tossing their unskinned corpses into an enormous pizza pie

saying “come on baby, before someone puts you in a pizza”

even though he was putting them in a pizza

 

 

VI

 

 

I could imagine him in a threesome

with two blokes only

only blokes

a pair of them

a pair of blokes

plus one makes a gaggle

of hard ons twitching

like dowsing rods

scratching each other’s monkey nuts

playing MOR rock classics

wanking onto dart boards or whatever

no wrong in blokes

ask the other

“s’anyone interested in

unusual cloud formations?”

he’d say

and we in silence just “no”

I was talking to him and

he suddenly turned away

and thrust his window open

and was darting his head around

like a sparrow

trying to see the clouds

saying “it’s coming this way it’s coming this way!”

as though nuclear war were in action

conversation a distant second to

unusual weather conditions in this office

explaining to any’ll hear

how wind is the one type of weather

he doesn’t like

“immense potential for damage”

horror, disgust

“plus noisy”

got a good seeing to at the weekend gone

from a 40 year old man

the 60 plus old boy coming this weekend

putting the ‘anal’ in Canal Street

without a single criteria in place

look like him and he’ll hit it

fixated on the nice guy Hugh Jackman maybe is

kind of guy you could have a beer with

and a laugh with

how’s he know these things?

Mrs “Mother-of-Hugh” Jackman

Norwich truly has it all

they should cup each other’s balls

the pair of them

cheer themselves up further

 

 

 

 

VII

 

 

he and I rode a train

this is a dream

he and I rode a train

to a station in the SE of London

something like Lewisham

or New Cross but different to both

where we then attended –

do recall

this is still a dream –

a Sainsbury’s car park

air heady with the orange of the signage

to be briefed by some rep

on some vacancy that we neither of

us wanted but would apply for still

and learnt very little

the vacancy reference code perhaps

and so hurried to the station

for the last train home

and as we did a bearded male emerged

from a hedge

carrying a car wing mirror

breathing heavily in great stereotypes

and I ran on ahead towards the platform

and the man was trying to convince him

this real fucking hoot

bread and fucking but-the-fuck-ter

convince him I’d abandoned him

in the night

he appeared frightened

though by then I had checked the timetable

and returned and he was visibly relieved

his wan skin aglow with sweat

and I was struck by a feeling of

imminent violence waiting

and to my surprise

he pulled an empty pint glass –

ostensibly to glass this bearded stranger –

but was so pitifully weak that the glass

remained in tact

until I took it from him and smashed

the bearded man in his

bearded face and we descended

to the platform

 

 

 

(earlier in the dream

I’d been running

through unfamiliar

Norwich streets

allusion to reality

without trousers

and also without

knickers but

with the rest

of my clothes

and I’d draped

a hand towel

around the area

as I ran

and it was dark

and two yobs

on bmx bicycles

tried to swat

the towel away

to unearth my little cock

and I bought

some boxer shorts

in Sainsbury’s

tearfully

but had to pay

for them before

I could wear them

served by a tattooed lady)

 

 

 

VIII

 

 

revolution fuelled by nothing but sugar and uncontrollable rage

 

 

IX

 

 

you and your Basque separatists!

great to get off with

could never resist a Basque separatist!

draw the faces of crushes

upon their white hoods

I must imagine your presence

behind my wall of monitors

by your mouse clicks alone

you know you’re irreplaceable

I might have said

not funtime cannonball donuts are all good

which I did for sure

in a moment of wild indulgence

I bought two custard slices

and a pack of raspberries

on my way to work

I’m powerless against myself you know

these messages are not morally dubious

the lips of the boy

and the flute of the boy are haunting

fucking brain rotting on its stalk

what’s her name – Barbara – is unbearable

bucking around with squeaked laughter

at shitty innuendos

when I see

what’ her name – Janet – I imagine her praying

sobbing too

holy yep

tall one loitering like the shadow

of a monolith

smirking at his own trivialities

making the same joke every time

he gets an unbranded biscuit

 

 

 

X

 

 

this could be my future

mapped out in the intricate vein

and blood vessel networks

of the human penis!

f’it’s any consolation she

makes no sense whatsoever

like listening to a malfunctioning turntable

every time she opens her lips

a barrage of misinformation

while she stuffs a sandwich into her gob

and nods like a dashboard ornament

hiding it behind her hand as though

she’s going to finish

her mouthful before speaking

but then stuffing another one in

my face hurts from grinning

by the time she’s done with me

throat hoarse with artificial mirth

I like the idea of you being

designed for potatoes

the western working week is so

arbitrary and outdated

and crushes the joy out

I only don’t want to drift until one day I realise

that I’m old and will die

 

 

 

XI

 

 

it’s a terrible paradox of life –

terrified of change but yearning for it constantly

is this an existential crisis caused by

creating like gods new life

I feel somehow bereft

and this job unsustainable

can barely sit through it

and it

– life or whatever –

must amount to greater than this

 

 

 

XII

 

 

this is true

 

 

 

XIII

 

 

Manchester

& song have become a drychiineb - and it's angau

Lock Concert, you must answer

With song to one of foes

Sound not hate advanced noise

 

 

 

XIV

 

 

I remember it was a Valentine’s day

or around there

when I must have been, like,

10, a girl called

so what, it was 1991

1992, something then

those weren’t the days

called Rachel Dorrington

a girl

red hair and face

had her father bring her to my house

bright blue Bedford and

matching Levi’s

the other half to our other half

brought her round so

she could give me a card

a lame teddy bear

of course I found the whole thing

awkward and of course I longed

to cry during the exchange on the doorstep

(I didn’t even invite her in!

so thick!

we were 10!)

and in unspoken revenge

a year or so later she and

a friend were grilling me

on risqué topics of the flesh

in the classroom

trying to humiliate me or

have me demonstrate my inexperience

or whatever

and she asked me

“you know what horny means?”

(this at a time when youths used the term to mean ‘attractive’)

and instead of saying that I blurted

“desperate to fuck”

and they laughed at me for ages

even though I was right

 

 

 

 

 

XV

 

 

I was with Maya at dusk

in half-empty shopping streets

something like Woolwich

we were kicking tin cans around

and waiting for a cohort of acquaintances

it felt like a Sunday

and was grey and slightly sad

in the way that British

shopping streets are in the dusky hours

we went into a pub for a drink and crisps

and sat to wait on high stools

along a bar by the window

after a time passed I saw a huge lion –

near elephant sized –

in the street outside

staring at the window

furiously

as though it may charge at any moment

at first we and the other punters

were captivated, awestruck, thrilled

or whatever,

then I started to panic

and tried to lift Maya away

to run or hide

but nothing seemed to work and we could

only slump to the floor

and cower under the bar

as the lion began to run at the window

and shattered glass fell

and I answered my phone

and it was my friend Conrad asking

“where are you where are you”

and I could only say lion repeatedly

its teeth sank in

and I don’t know what happened to Maya

 

(After some indeterminable period I was

with a former nemesis

[a Portuguese called Simao

from whom I had seduced a Russian girl

 in 2003

{she would become my girlfriend for a time}

and who then seduced her back from me

a year later

in 2004

{she would become his girlfriend for a <longer> time}]

in the same pub for inexplicable reasons

when I was fired for gross incompetence

of an unspecified nature

then beaten up badly by the director

who punched my face and kicked my ribs

and stomach and smashed me up real bad

I managed to punch him once or twice

to call him repugnant and little

but I was left pleading for money because

I had bought a new house and

he was a cruel weasel

I walked with my Portuguese nemesis

out for retribution

but found none

then attended the office –

then a vast commercial enterprise

housed in something like The Shard –

to demand reinstatement

but was instead told to fuck off

by a slick suited marketing type)

 

 

XVI

 

 

does he really believe in pixies and gnomes?

he is slightly gnome-like himself

but always seems to want to present himself

as some bastion of rationality

not simply a tiny prick in a giant suit

who murders cats and eats their ball.

 

 

guy like that has a pliable jaw

I imagine he can dislocate it

like a snake or something

so he can ingest large items of absolute perversion

items greater than his own meagre mass

and just keep adding more and more items into it.

 

 

It’d all be:

 

\white buttocks flecked grimly with hair coarse like flies legs

     \angry gestures

  \cruel kissing

  \debit card payments

       \UKIP propaganda

 \lynchings

\skipping ropes

         \off-kilter penises

  \grey socks still on

 \cold carpet

     \bacon grease

\breadcrumbs scattered over loose pectorals

\trafficked Romanians forced to gnaw his scrotum

 \stench of flatus

 \UHT milk cartons

\great big suit

\little chair

      \withered body

   \turkey sandwiches

\orange in his gob

    \£5 wine bottle up his arsehole

\writhing about on A3 excel print outs of financial data/budgets

\stabbing convincing fruit effigies of colleagues with old biros

                \drinking lambs blood

    \slaying virgins

 

all the above

all of it

 

 

the detritus of the senior figure

 

 

.

XVII

 

 

as a kid I used to cut

pictures of eyes out of

the glossies and collect

them in a little book

it was only when I

found them years later

that I realised what a

psychopathic thing that was to do

like something you’d see in

a hard-hitting drama

 

 

 

XVIII

 

 

mumbled piss-taking is the very foundation of this office’s limited unity

 

 

 

XIX

 

 

and

/breathy

come here

and I would like secretly to fuck you