Creating fuckable spiders with clotted cream...

http://www.deaddeaddead.com/gerald/index.shtml

"Where have Gerald Go?" A must-see while it still exists. Strangely compelling tone poem/free association html rant of unknown provenance. Possibly a work of genius. And yes, Jason Nugent is a fag. I have proof also.

Fat-Bottomed Girls

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BOWERY

A fat old broad on the Bowery
reclines on her fruit crate stool.
Her face, a round bulldog moon
hangs between shoulders pinned invisibly to her ears.
Bursting red shoes strain against fleshy cargo:
her feet, cased like sausages in greasy stockings
that sag into a knuckle of wrinkles at the ankle;
A thin chain shapes her name in gold beneath the chins and chins—
not “Helen,” which is true, but “June,” which fits:
yeasty, humid, and loud, ripe as the gesturing arm that lifts her fat homely bosom
before giving me the finger.
Tucked in her stocking
a wad of filthy dollar bills. These imply skill:
ample compensation for her garlic breath,
bulldog face, fat ass.

I am staring.
She shifts away, pulls her knees closed against me
And I look away.
And I think how, in moments, the delicacy of self-conscious shame
can lend grace to the turn of a fat ankle
to round sturdy calves
and conjure a brief illusion of desire.
Mercenary flesh may yet recall the wet
warm pressure of teeth
gentle against her clasped and private thighs;
her arms cramping with the last wistful shivers
of unobtrusive, plural miracles: love and loving,
still framed beneath her skin like sheathed and slender bones
breathing out new blood.
I see her moving in the dark
unburdened by the vision of herself below the waist
her sunburned shoulders limber in the dark
and the man who curves behind her in the dark
his arm around her but not holding her down
and how he cups her breast, takes her hand
and knows the value of each.
A sudden breeze licks along the boardwalk’s greasy planks
sends fingers up the skirt of the fat old broad
and she laughs, smoothes faded cloth back into place.
Artlessly, she conceals her giggling mouth—
toothless as a baby’s—
and bends, coy and graceful
to tug at her stockings.

Cheerleader Angst

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CHEERLEADER ANGST

My world shrinks to a frozen compact sky.
I hold my breath as I labor vainly
To tame the wild and shining rebellion
Of my nose. This is how I deal with things.

You can’t see much in a mirror this small
Or in the bathroom mirrors—stainless steel
Sheets, bolted to the wall, brand-new this fall
Because a senior killed herself last year.
A mirror is a way to kill yourself.

My locker mirror is unbreakable—
I know because I tried. It bends and warps
But never breaks. I’m looking in it now,
My nose distorted, smeared across my face,
The eyes two different sizes, mouth sagging.

I have wrinkles from smiling, from the sun;
They frame my mouth symmetrically, like seams
Around the jaw of some ventriloquist’s
Dummy. I say things that nobody hears—
Smart things, too quiet, ten minutes too late.

You don’t have to take me seriously.
I see myself the way you do. I am
The easy one. My roots are never dyed.
I steam at night in cars parked off the road,
My pretty hands so coyly dangling
The laces of virginity before
The grabby hands of boys and boys and men.
I bite my nails so close they sometimes bleed.
I read my name inside a bathroom stall
In handwriting I didn’t recognize
Until she signed my yearbook. She wrote “Love.”

I saw a picture once of Dante’s hell,
The bodies frozen in that icy lake,
Parts and pieces poking out of the ice—
A path of bodies, human stepping stones.
And I remember thinking, “Oh my God,
That’s me.” But I know better now. I am
The one who walks on your frozen faces.
Your grasping fingers rise out of the snow.
I’m on my way to places you can’t go.

October 2002

A (mildly) erotic sonnet...

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FIRST AWAKE

To be first awake must be held so dearly
As not to be wasted. Examining
You now, my nerves peeled raw and quivering
Still from last night’s exertions, very nearly
Unhinges me. Propped up on bent elbows
I contemplate your form, how best to enter
You entirely, occupy your center
Unfolding instinct—dense, mysterious
As the furled velvet bud shaped underneath
The covers by your body’s soft, slimmest
Contradictions. Your torso, collapsed, thin
Is strangely inviting. I enter in
And carefully unfold your huddled breast
With gentle swellings of familiar breath.


February 1999