Hallelujah for 50ft Women
Page 6
mites, like moths, to feed on flames.
Bad-sex aesthetics
and radical
permutations of feminist art.
My underwear is stained
red – not by menstrual blood –
but by globs of stigmata.
Emin puts her pain on
to attain fame and notoriety.
My tent is covered with names
of friends, lovers, kin…
and drunkenly, even the man
who opened me when I was thirteen –
taught me
not to let the wound heal,
but to pick the scab until it bleeds.
ELISABETH SENNITT CLOUGH
Nuptial Song
I got married
I got married to myself
I said yes
a yes that took years to arrive
years of unspeakable suffering
of crying with the rain
of shutting myself in my room
because I – the great love of my existence –
did not call myself
did not write to myself
did not visit myself
and at times
when I’d get the courage to call myself
to say ‘hello, am I well?’
I wouldn’t come to the phone
I even put myself
on a list of pains-in-the-neck
I didn’t want to talk with
because they drove me nuts
because they wouldn’t let me alone
because they backed me into corners
because I couldn’t stand them
at the end I didn’t even pretend
when I asked if I was there
I let myself know
tactfully
that I was fed up with myself
and one day I stopped calling myself
and stopped calling myself
and so much time
went by that I missed me
so I said
how long has it been since I called?
ages
it must be ages
and I called myself and I answered
and I couldn’t believe it
because though it’s hard to believe
I hadn’t healed
I’d only been bleeding
then I said ‘hello, is that me?’
It’s me, I said, and added:
It’s been a long time since we’ve heard
I from myself or myself from me
would I like to come over?
yes, I said
and we met again
in peace
and I felt good with myself
and myself as well
felt good with me
and so
day after day
I married and I married
and I am together
and not even Death can me part
SUSANA THÉNON
translated from the Spanish by Maria Negroni & Anne Twitty
Rock ’n’ Roll Mamma
They’ve skinned up, chilled, unpacked their sleeping bags
and dirty shirts. They’ve used up all the mugs
and scoffed our hard-earned bread, they’ve blocked the stairs
with piles of giant shoes. The dizzy air’s
well hammered. This is rock ’n’ roll: guitars
propped against walls like casual strangers, vast
monoliths of amps, hard riffs and licks,
the slick of sweat and beer, the scent of sex.
I wonder if they’ll let me in to watch the dawn.
Am I condemned to be some Mrs Robinson,
but fatter, hiding in my pantry
with my garters and my cupcakes? Me?
I knew it once; I still know it; the crash
and roar. Mud, rhythm, skin; no lull, no hush.
I’ll try for ecstasy. I’ll build the fire.
You think I’ll give in to crimplene, retire
to bridge and camomile? No fucking chance.
My acid days are done, but watch me dance.
JACQUELINE SAPHRA
Wolves
She had lived with the wolves till she was three, they said:
to her, time was measured only by the period she was with the wolves
and what came after.
To them the wolves were unfathomable beasts
because they paid homage to the moon with their song
and tore at flesh with their precise teeth.
But to her it was them – the men who stared
at the flowering teenage girls with the hunt in their eyes,
their cold lengths of metal – it was they who were the beasts.
So she narrowed her eyes when they spoke to her
and once, when the odiferous one touched her throat,
she turned and made a hole in his cheek with her precise teeth.
And she was glad that because she had lived with the wolves,
because she spoke few words and because of her precise teeth,
the men never stared at her like that.
BECKY CHERRIMAN
Madame’s Menu
For an appetiser, we have the Luscious Lucia.
She recently turned 21 and is a lean size 6.
With slender legs, our Latino Lovely has olive skin,
a sun-blushed 34D bust and lime-green eyes.
A High-class Escort and Exotic Dancer,
she’s a flexible filly who’ll slip around the stiff pole
to give you one-on-one exclusive performance.
Or perhaps you’ll settle for Lucy.
She’s 25 and a skeletal size 6.
She’s a barmaid and single mother.
She lives with a dealer who is
clever with his fists.
Gang-raped on a girls holiday in Ibiza,
she now uses narcotics and sun-beds
to bleach the pain.
Her gums bleed, her face: leathery.
Her favourite snort is cocaine
but she’ll settle for amphetamine.
Our main dishes this evening include:
Top-Choice Tori who is 24 and a perfect size 8.
With honeyed hair and baby-blue eyes,
she’s a High-class Escort and Glamour Model.
She has succulent breasts and curves
in all the right places with a busty 32C cup.
She is bronzed all over.
She’s a spicy, saucy, sexy lady
who loves to tease and aims to please.
Or, there is a second choice of Toni.
She’s getting on a bit at 32, and is a size 10.
With peroxide extensions, blue contact lenses,
she’s a cam-girl and cervical cancer survivor.
In a Wonderbra and tutu she models for favours.
Abused by her stepdad then evicted at 14,
she turned tricks to survive.
But, with a convincing wig and a painful smile
she’ll give the infamous Tori tit-wank
and say it was just for you.
For dessert we have the Naughty Nikita.
She’s only 18 and is a slim size 6.
With a tiny waist and a pert bust,
our Russian Princess has
hot-chocolate hair, full cherry lips
and sweet almond eyes.
She’s a student nurse and
a high-class escort.
She’s a girl-next-door type.,
who’ll give you a one-on-one
full girlfriend experience.
Or perhaps you would rather a Natia.
She’s 19 and a pre-pubescent size 4.
Originally from Prague,
she worked the stag scene.
Arriving in Britain just one month ago
she finally escaped the grip of her pimp.
She has frizzy hair, sallow skin
and a Meth Amphetamine problem.
Livin
g alone in a bed-sit hole,
she can’t speak English.
But for a little extra she’ll swallow,
and moan convincingly as you drop
your load in her mouth.
Finally, for wine, we recommend Wines Ruby
who is one of our more mature ladies, at 29.
She’s a curvaceous size 12 and a buxom 34G cup.
Deliciously voluptuous, she’s a High-class Escort
and Plus-size Model.
Full-bodied with fruity notes,
auburn hair and silver eyes,
this lady has ripened beautifully with age.
With class, wit and style,
she’s the perfect accompaniment
to any occasion.
Or perhaps a bottle of Rita.
At 42, she’s a mother of 5 girls.
Due to a diet of cider and processed food
she’s diabetic and overweight.
A part-time cleaner and dinner-lady,
she has greying hair, flaky dermatitis
and scarred wrists ‘from the fryers’.
Her fella is on Disability Benefits,
he calls her a fat slag
and drinks twelve cans a day.
She’s been on the game
for over a decade
and can’t give up
because it puts food on the table.
GEMMA HOWELL
Dowry
A car, a house and ten lakhs.
Initial outlay for a virgin deal.
My share in a co-operative,
invested to the maximum
in a nest and egg –
a hopeful future.
I have paid into this scheme
pledging a mortgaged body
on a high yield fund.
Fingers crossed, counting
on multiplying his shares
increasing his stock
promptly.
My deeds lie locked
in his banker’s vault.
And he has the power to foreclose.
The tally-keeper, abacus leader,
tracking my course in a monthly audit.
Flowing into the red
is not an option for him,
or for me.
For he can abuse a profitless bond
in kerosene, liquidate a capital loss,
and released, speculate again
on another’s portfolio.
While I am staked and branded
worthless, in a graveyard market.
SHASH TREVETT
The Green
D’aller là-bas vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble!
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
I’m bleeding out on the Green
and there are ass bandits standing by waiting for someone better
with a hole less unpredictable, less full of teeth and silent screams.
I am bleeding out on the Green waiting
for a whole human being to emerge. But it’s too soon.
Maybe I am that human. Maybe you are half of it.
Maybe there’s nothing even
about what we might make.
Maybe I’m making human being
seem too important.
Workers are tossing gold geraniums into a barrel
pulling them whole from the ground
and I keep seeing the same guy
wearing a dog collar everywhere I go. He has mud
on his velvet boots and he looks me in the eye
as if to say the mud is old mangoes and the mud is old
hearts and the mud is old books that I gave away or let rot.
There is space and there
is space
I tell you.
And there is disgrace.
In Germany they scrub out
their trashcans.
Old nature didn’t ask for this.
To be the receptacle of our fantasies. Old nature didn’t say
pick me to be the woman
turned into a map and charted and uncharted
for the sake of what you think you don’t know.
Her mons pubis is the treasureland and her breasts the entryway.
A good thing cartographers knew something about foreplay.
I am bleeding out on the Green
and the Green could be anywhere
suffused with whatever meaning I say.
Like the Green is Florida’s sea grape trees
with roots that trip me up as horseshoe crabs
flee my heavy Fleurs du mal step
and old women toss grapes into a bowl to make
sea grape jelly to scrape onto crackers for schoolchildren
to make them see the land is important, to keep them from building
more high-rises and boating over more manatees
and refusing to turn out their lights that make turtle
hatchlings march toward Wal-Mart
instead of the sea.
Or the Green is St Stephen’s in Dublin
where cops with long capes once shielded
men pissing straight liquor onto the grass
but never the women with blood on their thighs.
The best I could do is enter a pub
where the snug’s walls have been taken down
now that women can be trusted to mingle
in the whole space and order their drinks at the bar
instead of through a little window with a sliding door.
But the snug is in my mind as they say.
A painful dialectic. The snug
is where you cut yourself down to half. Where you say no
to half, where you can say anything at all, and it’s
of no consequence. There is space and there is
space I say. A useful dialectic. The snug is where you go
to talk about bleeding out on the Green. The snug is where you go
and keep yourself on guard. The snug is only in my mind. It’s not real.
Right. I can do anything, go anywhere
and no one will touch me. Least of all when I am bleeding
out on the Green. Least of all when I am the old woman
picking sea grapes. Least of all when I am helping nature refuse.
When I am taking this blood right out.
When I am taking out a whole human. Being. Or a half. My half.
Or the Green is generality. As though that’s possible.
The Generalife gardens of the Alhambra
where the flowing water is louder
than my mind where the snug is still built
louder than the ping of sea grapes
in the metal bowl. Step onto the Green.
Bleed out. Breathe out. In.
KIMBERLY CAMPANELLO
Anuva Bun inee Ovun
A’rite? Nairmz Rhiannon,
an I leve on thuh Rock.
I luv drinken ciduh,
an I luv sucken cock.
I wanna bee yin college,
buh I go’ uh lickle kid.
An-uh crèche in college
aint tha fucken big.
My muvva wun elp me,
cuz I nict er tellee.
An my ole man iza preck.
Ee puncht er in th’bellee.
Nutz in skool, I wuz.
Chucken chairz un sellen fagz.
Expelled ut firteen, I wuz,
f’robbin uh teachuz bagz.
It wuz f’thuh best ough,
I wuz pregnunt wiv Levi,
Mist all uv my examz, I ded.
Tuh my life I sed g’bye.
My felluz shaggen round,
iss bin gor en ona wi-yul.
Iss bairbeez bout t’drop soon.
Weyull gor on Jeremee ki-yul.
Sor, I angah round uh shops,
tuh see oo eez shaggen.
All-uh boyz cum on tuh me,
finken I’m out slaggen!
My boobs uh fucken killin
An my belleez rock ard.
Bastad duzunt giva shit,
now eez wiv iz new tart.
Anuva kid.
Anuva Giro.
Iz tha all wee-yuh werff?
Iz ent air more too wis yere life
un givin fuckin berff?
Anuva drink.
Anuva fag.
Anuva spliff,
or pill.
Wee-yuh fucken ewmuns yuh,
not pigs in fucken swill!
GEMMA HOWELL
Rock: Slang term for Graig-Y-Rhacca council estate, in Rhymney Valley, South Wales. English translation: Rock of Dawn.
Rape Joke
The rape joke is that you were nineteen years old.
The rape joke is that he was your boyfriend.
The rape joke it wore a goatee. A goatee.
Imagine the rape joke looking in the mirror, perfectly reflecting back itself, and grooming itself to look more like a rape joke. ‘Ahhhh,’ it thinks. ‘Yes. A goatee.’
No offense.
The rape joke is that he was seven years older. The rape joke is that you had known him for years, since you were too young to be interesting to him. You liked that use of the word interesting, as if you were a piece of knowledge that someone could be desperate to acquire, to assimilate, and to spit back out in different form through his goateed mouth.
Then suddenly you were older, but not very old at all.
The rape joke is that you had been drinking wine coolers. Wine coolers! Who drinks wine coolers? People who get raped, according to the rape joke.
The rape joke is he was a bouncer, and kept people out for a living.
Not you!