by Steve Finbow
Z steps back, closes eyes
at signal,
door back of room opens,
hooded figure enters holding dog on tight leash
frenchy & gourd 2 nowhere to be seen
dog snarls,
shows teeth,
foam flecks muzzle
short hair,
dead sea of rose & bubblegum stubble
eyes lock on me growls
“pinker!” Z soothes “good boy”
Z kneels in front of beast,
holds powerful jaws,
whispers in ear,
“woof,” says dog, “woof”
from same room appears another hooded man
carrying tubby puppy with large head, floppy
sand-colored fur hooded
man places puppy in pit Z stands
at edge, looks down at puppy,
puppy wags tail at sight of Z, opens
mouth, out pours series of whimpers, yelps
“quiet, sven,” Z says “ssh!”
hooded man lifts pinker into pit
pinker circles sven, sniffing
at puppy’s quivering anus pinker licks walls,
tastes blood & saliva of previous victims, snaps
head forward, grabs sven by neck, crushing throat
another bite
sharpened canines pierce sven’s soft skull, softer brain
pinker shakes massive jaws—sven a rag doll, a chew toy
“good boy,” Z says “here” throws bone to pinker
Z turns, walks forwards
body lithe, slim, transfixing
made catatonic by Z’s smile,
zombie before Z’s eyes
blood on chest dulled to rust
Z traces hand around shape,
nails digging into flesh
“if I hadn’t already eaten it,” Z says, “i would have it for dessert”
say, “i really want to kiss you”
Z throws head back, laughs,
laugh both pure & tenebrous
Z leans close
smell Z’s smell—
white rose, think, say
brushes lips with hers,
breathes
a word
cannot hear
says again
thru veil of chestnut hair,
hear dreadful poetry,
“neverness,” Z says, “neverness”
flash of abandoned site empty buildings
railway lines going nowhere high in mountains
snow dusted crow hunted
feeling of alien presence
splash of dark red urine
strange faeces
Z’s favorite place place of hiding
hiding place hidden place
do not see it do not feel it
Blackness neverness
neverness of history history of neverness
know words no words
light now back lot, on knees
amid cigarette ends, spent
condoms, bullet casings, princess puking, carcass
of dead puppy attracting butterflies & beetles
to sunset debris dumpster
the gourd 2 sits on steps
sharpening knife on leather strap
“what is your problem, my friend? huh?
you never learn
you want synchrony or diachrony?” he says,
heavy accent making words almost unintelligible
say, “give me what you got”
the gourd 2 spits, stands
“i draw you picture,” he says,
takes out primrose yellow, baby pink,
& powder blue chalks from shoulder holster
“i am sender,” he says,
writing on back door of roadhouse
“you are receiver,” he continues
“this,” he says, kicking ribs, “is context; this,” he says,
kicking jaw, “is channel; & this,” he says, kicking genitals,
“is code Z does not want anything to do with you,” he says,
“you get message? you go far away”
he laughs, tiny black stubs of teeth, ends of burned matchsticks
say, “so far away to come back again?”
roll into ball he steps back
jump up, up
roundhouse kick to temple, connects,
goes down, stomp his heart, want to make it stop,
say, “every linguistic sign is located on two axes:
the axis of simultaneity & that of succession, so fuck you!”
open door hear
roaring bass line of pumping thrash-metal track
ex sitting at bar dressed in lilac satin shift,
purple feather boa, scarlet six-inch heels
say, “where is Z?”
mex licks lips; sweat breaks thru thick pancake foundation
mex opens mouth whatever words are there shrivel, die
say, “again, where is Z?”
“if we choose, we can live in a world of comforting illusion,” mex says
“Look, baby, one more time, & tell it straight, come on, spill, where is Z?”
mex dummies up
slap mex
mex won’t break
hear Z’s laugh
turn
Z’s beauty blinds
“i have to go now,” Z says
say, “please stay we need to finish this”
Z laughs, says,
“i have not been a good friend this is the last time I will talk to you”
head spins Z laughs again
feel nauseous at thought of not killing Z
Z steps towards,
closes eyes & opens mouth
lean forward
feel Z’s breath on lips,
smell honeysuckle mint
close eyes
honeysuckle turns to brimstone,
mint to rusted iron
flash
open eyes,
see trail of grey smoke
no Z
music stops
lights come up
mex says, “Z said you did not have the cojones to kill her”
say, “just grown a new set”
leave
night
two grey-blue stars visible in sky slip quicksilver,
fall &
fall again
see a squiggle of black whiplash over hilltop, smear
of slime caught in moonlight
hear Z’s laugh
follow along highway, twists
& turns just out of reach, just out of touch
stop
look back
should never do
splash of dark red urine on rear window
roadhouse’s neon sign blinks on
in hiss of static
with night as backdrop,
read words
the broken heart
watch lights plink,
blink,
click off,
night engulfing…
Roadhouse Blues
…the roadhouse, the still of the desert closing in
as I watch the backlights of the Thunderbird paint
liquorice lines in the darkness.
He’s gone.
For now.
I walk around the bar turning off the jukeboxes,
breathing in the smell of sweat, alcohol, and moisturizer.
I sit on a stool, pour myself a sweet cider,
look up at the ceiling, the slowing fans,
the chasing flies, like children running after a carousel,
know that beyond the tobaccoed ceiling, in my bed,
beneath dark blue satin sheets, Mex sleeps,
her clitoris buzzing with the thrum of her thumb,
her shaved labia a dusky pink,
her asshole a black hole sucking in her little finger,
the sheets
beneath stained with vaginal juices and KY jelly,
the
thin stream
of her pubic hair flowing into the shallow lake of her navel,
the scorched valley
of her sculptured abdomen lying flat before her augmented breasts,
the slightly wall-eyed nipples,
her tongue lolling on her chin,
her mouth
open in a perfect circle, the shiny white teeth,
Arlington gravestones,
her tiny nose,
her long eyelashes, her eyes dark and sparkling,
her hair
spilling over the pillow
like an oilfall.
She waits for me.
The sweet cider reminds me of X. Shit…
The cockroach exploring the dropped peanut shells, the spilled beer,
the scrunched and semen-sodden tissues, remind me of X.
The rocks and stones of the desert remind me of X.
The small scars.
The bruises.
The only way to get it done is to do it myself.
I know that now.
“Take him to the theme park,” I hear a little voice say.
Say, “Take him to the beast.”
We met for the first time a million times. That’s what it felt like.
I asked him the ultimate question and he answered,
“Yes”.
He asked me his version and I told him,
“Yes”
when all along the only answer
to any question is “No”.
A negative corollary to an over-emotional interrogative.
Love must always be answered negatively.
Instead of the auxiliary verb “Do”
he should have asked using the preterite modal verb “Could”
and never the simple futurity of “Will”.
The future is never simple.
From the moment I met X,
our twinned futures would always be complex.
Time to put a stop to it.
Time to return to the present.
Forget the past
and the future will take care of itself.
I should have known
to take care of this.
“Take him to the theme park,” a voice says.
Says, “Take him to the beast.”
I sip at the sweet cider,
feel its sugar in my throat.
The dress I’m wearing, the denim one,
poppered along the middle from knee to throat,
is his favorite.
Was his favorite.
He’d run his hand over my neck,
softly stroke my throat with his tattooed knuckles—HOPE—
encircle it with his strong hand, squeeze,
his other hand—my name—
holding on to the neck of the dress,
then he’d pull, the pearly poppers bursting
open, revealing my nakedness, my skin
flushed pink with arousal.
He would stare at my body, my small breasts, my long legs,
stare into my eyes, turn me quickly, throw me
over whatever piece of furniture was at hand, pull out
his cock, me wet and spreading, or one knee up,
calf muscles stretching, and then…
Then he’d put his cock away,
run from the room sobbing
followed by my laughter.
Later, he’d return and we’d lie on the floor
and he’d raise himself on one arm and say,
“I really want to kiss you.”
And I’d reply,
“That wouldn’t be a very good idea.”
And he’d roll on his back and look at the ceiling and say,
“I’ve spoiled things now, haven’t I?”
And I’d say, “No. No. Just give me time.”
Huh, time…
“Take him to the theme park,” a loud voice says,
A loud voice says, “Give him to the beast.”
I tiptoe upstairs, open the bedroom door,
Mex is now asleep, her golden thighs clutching the sheets,
a rodeo rider hanging on for dear life as the satin takes her on a night-time ride.
I stroke her hair.
She mumbles something in Spanish—Muerte.
I take my leather hold-all from the bottom of the wardrobe,
throw in various dresses, some underwear,
the scalpel set I bought from the faggots,
the black surgical twine,
the steel scissors.
From a box,
I take the coals from the rusty stove
I found at the theme park.
Someone told me coal was lucky.
Ancient—the solidification of death.
I place a coal in a waxed paper bag, and then another,
and then another.
I stroke Mex’s hair,
close the bedroom door
as she turns in her sleep.
Pinker prowls the stairs waiting for me.
I take him into the bar, grab a towel,
wet it and wipe his muzzle still thick with the puppy’s blood.
Drip the blood into each waxed paper bag.
Maybe I should take him with me.
Let him loose and watch him go.
Nah.
X would kill him and I wouldn’t want that.
I need to think how to do it.
Use something that he loves.
But what?
Beer?
Drown him in a bath full,
watch the suds spurt pink from his nostrils—
pilsner and blackcurrant.
Bourbon?
Tie him to a chair,
funnel it in,
bottle after bottle until his liver explodes, his blood
turns to alcohol to poison.
Books?
Break his spine, rend his skin into pages,
tattoo him within an inch of his death—
King James’ Bible, Pilgrim’s Progress, Don Juan, The Cantos, Ulysses…
or the Americans: Moby Dick, The Complete Poe, Visions of Cody,
Executioner’s Song, Gravity’s Rainbow, Underworld,
Infinite Jest…
Or those Japs: The Pillow Book, Forbidden Colors,
Woman in the Dunes, No Longer Human…
Nor the future be.
Use the scalpels as pens, the blood as ink,
the surgical twine as punctuation…
Use him as a blank page. Use him.
I take down the book, open it, check the gun is sleeping tightly there,
smell its oil, its contained heat.
A noun pulsing to verb.
I know where he’ll go.
I know where he’ll be.
After months of not
wanting to be followed it is I
who will do the following,
be the follower.
The motel.
I go to the kitchen out back,
open the fridge,
take from it a T-bone.
Pinker sits at my feet, looking up, his yellow
eyes more cat-like than dog, his clipped
ears alert, his stub of a tail wagging.
I scratch his frowning, inquisitive head
and lay out the steak in his bowl;
cartoon-like, it hangs over the sides,
a flop of flesh dripping watery blood
onto the stainless steel floor.
Over the rooftop,
I hear a slithering,
a rattle,
wet teeth chittering.
Chattering.
I throw on a denim jacket,
heft my bag onto my shoulder,
put on my Queen of all Insects sunglasses,
open the roadhouse doors
and step out into the night.
The Gourd’s brother stands by my car
that’s ticking in the road, itching to go.
He opens the door,
“Instead of following one another the sounds overlap; a sound
which is acoustically perceived as coming after another one
can be articulated simultaneously with the latter or even in part before it.”
“I know that,” I say.
“Thank you.”
I slip into the seat, look up at The Gourd II. He smiles, says,
“Everyone, left to his or her own devices,
forms an idea about what goes on in language
which is very far from the truth.”
“Fucking A,” I say
and gun the car, wheels squealing,
sand thrown up like a cape behind me.
Splash of dark red urine on rear window.
I plug in my iPhone, turn up the volume,
The Kings of Leon’s “Use Somebody”
throttles the speakers.
I drive and
drive and then I drive
some more,
until…
Pterodactyl Waltz
…hours later,
on motel room bed smelling of stale tobacco & staler sweat,
walls a color only seen on consumptive albinos,
window blinds zigzagging mess of seismic disarray
it starts like this
itch
tightening scab lifting at edges, crust
a darker red than new blood beneath
but can’t help myself confrontation equals language whichever way always chasing
the full stop fulls top period stare into mirror, look at reflection ghost of Z always
there beside me shadow being, being shadow shaft of light cuts across murk,
shifts seductively around chair legs, garbage bin,
brings with it sound of car engine, slamming of door, jangling intercourse of keys stand, room reels, hold on to air
roll with it, open door an inch, look along walkway
to motel reception above car engine air ripples with heat, tiny yellow butterflies combust & fall on hood leaving grey snow
Z steps out of office,
large brown sunglasses making Z look like the queen of all insects, mouth
pouting always in anticipation, dusting of freckles across delicate bridge of nose, chestnut hair caught in breeze Z carries a book the book
can barely make out title
but know its hollowed-out pages & can see x-ray shine of Z’s gun
that straining of energy,
that will to transform matter
Z takes off denim jacket, Z wears a sleeveless floral dress, cowboy boots,
on Z’s left arm, tattoo of black rose surrounded with Z’s keyword—my name—
scored out & scarred, terrible ridges of white-hard flesh surrounding flower