James Mc Laughlin
Muff
Not a Co-entanglement of vapours. Taste. The form. Whiff teasing at the juice. Desires of intermingling. A distillation of molecules, vibrations, frictions. Flesh orange and fascination, obsession’s simple equation: One must find the other. Sensation and centrifugal winding. Earth sent. Grip finger. Blood bone. It was the tight that did it - the shape - the fragrance. Just a touch. A look a weight on my crotch. Was it the anticipation, the wet, the damp, dripping. It was always face and flesh. Smell. Bog weed. You wanted to cut it always. Regret. Loathing. Fear. Hoary my chestnut. Catholic disgust. Finger flagellations. It was a symbol of the sex. The hood. The control. The life giver. The warmth giver. The milk giver. The suffocator. Muffler. The one that wouldn’t let go. That put a no more black shoe you do. Mummy. Or something less tangible – never a simple act of love.
Spring
Never an obtuse something akin to hysteria in the insect beds the flowers a green baize apoplexy of vapours colours stripes candy bright abstract lemon red endless blue a sun drenched nausea vectors of indecision and heat how the skin cools and forms on such days a sort of sense euphoria mutations of inclination a morbid affirmation from the air Gods and white those crimson rays the tongue curl of rainbow angles a black pool a sodden field all gone alive now golden reborn we arrive under the feet of foliage and parkland amble the water glint see the future oh and rhythms everywhere like desire on the texture of being a deity and never never flat all alive all fleeting all going all clinging amber flow liquid mire silver drip tear queen honey green slow juice orange light signal red pillar box magpie blue hop bump ignition spark and on on angle glass liquid dew tear sleet meadow dank globes
Bluebells
Something so articulate the way the colour motions unlike any bluish adjunct of seas and horizons how cautiously the mind meanders as in a trance with druids and primevals tiny blue men in wode and skimpy trunks made of leather with spears and stuff such a distance away that the eyes rejoice in what eyes rejoice in like a stone massage everything moves and vibrates with sound the sun the yellow God above with his one eye on the mercury she moves as a distracting finger through the fragrances of memory a young girl with perfect skin and so supple and beautiful she sways there can you see her there just below the larch and the birch that recalls something gone the river too gets a word in through the branches between the thin boughs of saplings all nodding and bouncing in this pure endless April light they all come at once again the desperate calls of time and regret in my guarded wood my sanctuary my little fatigue of isolation not perhaps a dark prison the walls dripping with stagnation and indecision oh not fear ah come again come again stab me through the eyes till I become blind and all that is left is her fragrance which I feel might just at this very tip of the moment do
One
Often in dreams I’m flying. I’m a bird. Not to be a bird in reality is the thing. I’m good at it, an expert, gliding - hovering just above the ground, waiting to fall but never doing so. The landscape is the landscape of dreams, flat pack and pure colour. Vistas of hope, notions of disdain, chthonic disclosures. A large silver tunnel. That anyone might walk through. Do we want this analysed? He used a whistle and a smile. You had a pale blue dress on. She was playing in the sand or the dirt with two plastic cowboys. One had a white Stetson; the other had a bird in its hand that flew. A sun shone through the flower beds. She could feel saliva on her lips. It ran onto the old slaughter house where the ghost cows lived. It alighted in the dirt. Sweat fell on the cowboy, he opened his arms and moon dust coated her. The silver wall was a thing of beauty - so large - made by craftsmen - Hallmarked for London - that anyone might walk through. You said you needed to own me. She rubbed her knee. A taste of alcohol was the thing. You thought you had a chance to escape. There were black dirt balls or sausage roll shaped dirt balls from his hand? Rubbed on perfect clean skin. You didn’t like it. On a thigh. He used sit in the bathroom all night for fear of confrontation. Do we want this analysed. A gull takes flight it plays the piano in the air – Mozart I think. Come over - come near. It cannot settle. It leaps from tree to tree. It is distorted. She unpeels his foreskin, smells his flesh, takes his penis in her mouth.
Two. Oh earth! Oh mother! Let the rope go! Become new. A sky blackens with starlings - waltzing as they do - a black cloud going one way then the other. You dream of Santa. They spit down the close and down the windows and a scraper is needed. It is dull - the sky is overcast and cold everywhere. It is full of water. It’s a Wednesday afternoon - life is hateful. It’s like that. I’m flying now. I am bird. I am horizon. Oh earth! Oh mother! Let the rope go. The sky blackens and distorts a man looks up. He says to me quite casual like. Hey you. Mister! Mister!
Three. Such a cheery strange little thing with red eyes and a Manchester United top on. Oh poor poor Robinson says the dubbing. Four. And back again. It is a sunny day. There is no need to let the rope go. Fly little one. A tower. A lady. A field of corn. You said you loved me. I bought a ring with a diamond. You threw it in the river by the slaughter house with the ghost cows. She casts her hair over the window sill. A man climbs to her bed chamber. A bird alights on a silver arrow Hallmarked for London. A magician taps with his wand and poof they all disappear. And up and down. You should never eat stilton before bed. Where was I? Three or four. Who gives a fuck. And back again. They re-appear in a magical land. The little bird pecks at her nipples. The little bird sings and loops the loop. She whispers in her ear - they caress each other. Sweat oozes from the little birds pores. We will not forget them. You will see in the morning. Could we imagine it.. It’s here in my afternoon.
After he fucks her he wants to run - run from the slaughterhouse. He is me. And back again. She puts her dress back on. She can smell the river. Mist comes at once, she cannot and will not speak. Do we need this analysed? What do you think? A rat runs to the river for safety. Oh earth! Oh mother! Let the rope go. She sorts her pale blue dress. Mother will be angry she thinks. She can still taste the alcohol. His skin.
Five: Oh earth! Oh mother! Let this rope go. Everything is quite. The river is quite. The air is quite. She is a thing of the air. A thing of beauty. Perfect from top to toe - like a little bird. She sings and does the loop the loop. Bread is fed to her from a straw. She looks me straight in the eye and says: Hey Mister! Hey Mister. Hey you! Hey you there with those crocodile eyes. Aye you!
Hey Mister.
Let the rope go.
Abstract.
Pale. Powder. Sky. Yellow dash. Red. Blue. We need some texture – sap twigs, pushing. Anorak sound scratching. Take it somewhere. Sensual intermingling an uplifting. Joy. Sight. Dispersal of rayon. Curvatures of imagination. A pastiche of everything. Swirl lift. Something to do with friction. Flavour colour. A tang of rind. Strawberry sent. An emulsion of vapours. Inhalation of remorse. Signatures of disclosure. What can it be about. Though it is before us. De-construction. Does it run in straight lines. Does it have and index for memory. A thesaurus of disdain. Does it have a ready reckoner to collate joy. Does it flit from thing to thing. From nano to nano, from molecule to molecule – from love sonnet to ink spot. From Saturn to Sundail. Does it meander like a drunk, booming. And can it STOP. I know it can. Justified, aligned, margined, put into blank verse, binded and bound, hooded, controlled. Or can it - like the wind - move unseen through the trees and clouds. Can it transpose matter set it’s fazer to stun. Are there tiny nuclear fusions that bust into colour and shape. Electrodes buzzing through a billion receptors and unknown liquids. Disseminating into a million spirits and ambitions? Darting like an egg brain under lamps. A thing of wonder. A magical abstract. A spin painting that exploded at the graveside. A fart in the chapel of contrition. Take to the air. Jump from the elevator shaft. Over the cliff like a bird in advance. Digitise my remains please.