SMALL IS THE NEW BIG
This is a love story. From boyish brogues to bigger heels, simple bumbags to serious bling – it’s a love mega-mix. O and the sky the sky black sometimes like petrol and the rippled fluorescent spectrum and the wavy white threads of the tower blocks and the red white black buzzing tunnel and the tarmac and the rain and traffic and trains and Kings Cross as a girl where I was a glue sniffing truant NO when I carved his name in my arm with a knife like the top birds used or shall I wear red NO and how he kissed me under the weeping white threads of the tower blocks and I thought well as well him as another and then I told him with my lips to tell again NO and then he asked me would I NO to say YES my truant and first I put my hands against him NO and pushed him away from me so he couldn’t feel my tits all tiny NO and my head was buzzing like mad and NO I said NO I won’t NO.
This is a wank. Rediscover the thrill of head-to-toe armour, booted and hooded in wank. Flawlessly chic – amped up with crystal and hologram. White leather gloves, red velvet gloves, black fingerless mittens. The long arm, hand, red fingernails measuring the size of the world. Size of an elephant, size of a plum, size of the Blackwall Tunnel.
What she was what she is what she will be
What she wishes she was what she is
Scoffing at one end
Shitting at the other
Kicking on all four corners
In or out of her head
Centre a grimmer gloom
Vulva going through the motions
Muscles shot with warmth
Numbed with cold black ice
Skidding on spindly shanks
Flapping her furry tongue
The sun will bounce off her handcuffs
You will see her for what she is
The dogs sink their teeth deep enough for her to see
THE * RED * HEAT * DRIPPING * FLOWERS
This is a home. Contoured combat gear has an easy hero edge creating an otherworldly mood ideal for sleek service on the home front. Face like dough, eyes like pitch – I didn’t know she was a junkie, I thought she was a witch. Her tits were flopping jugs of flesh held in place with nylon mesh. She had scratch ‘n’ sniff stickers, stinky knickers, she was melting not burning, shrivelled not charred.
Our romance was a rubber duck
Quacking bad luck
We clung to its wings
It flew dizzy high
Up and away
In the sky red sky
Me at the bottom
Her on top
Getting stuck in
With her sweaty man-prop
Hunt the duck of romance
Live on the crumbs I grope for
You can see, you are allowed to see –
Welcome to my artifice
A simulated edifice
Fit for any orifice.
This is a life. Frothy, frilly and fabulous – ultra-feminine life in subtle hues takes prettiness to ravishing new heights. Sliding out of her cot she creeps amongst the deep spangled folds of big dark. Standing beside her parent’s bed she unbuttons her eyes to the night. Holding her hand in front of her face she watches it mutating in twinkle trails. Mother’s head is an orchid sprouting octopus tentacles supporting woodpeckers on ladders scaling cakes. Father’s humped back is a roller-coaster transporting zebras marching snowmen inside toppled bloody buckets pouring maidens crying ‘Enough is enough’ from the rooftops of homes for hell’s bells. Lifting the blankets she nestles inside the warm cave where his legs curl.
This is a game. A rough-cut and ragged game in unbleached shades of hessian and hemp revealing a raw, earthy elegance. She whispers: ‘One night as I slept with my cheek on soft pillows he smashed the exposed left side of my jaw with a mallet – next morning, he couldn’t remember why. He didn’t break me but he loosened my hinges. Now I smile on the other side of my face, I can’t turn the other cheek, all my kisses come out side-ways and it hurts when I say far too much. I say far too much.’
This is a funeral. The beauty of this funeral is that it’s only really noticeable when you get up close – it’s then that you can see the exquisite fragility of the fabric. Tracey is on her back with her ankles behind her ears, wearing a traditional arousal outfit: thigh-high plastic go-go boots, matching armpit-length gloves, a scaffold contraption for her unwieldy knockers, no knickers and a black mask with its mouth-hole unzipped.
She clenches her pelvic floor. Her buttered buns dimple. An ill wind ruffles her beef curtains.
She is immersed in deep, cold love
Love freezes into ice-cubes
Fills her open goblet
Rattles against her tombstones
Melts on her tongue-twister
Trickles down her trinkets.
Love freezes into shafts of ice
Love is pumping her
Big, cold love
Eases into her touch-trap
Plugs her eager beaver
Rogers her hot dumpling
There is nothing
Nothing but more love.
This is a masterpiece. To-die-for detailing and divine drapery in floaty tulle give this heavenly masterpiece girlish embellishments and sugar-coated glamour. Snakeskin loafers – red oil paint splotched on left sole. He bought her those proper silk stockings in sensible shades of ochre with the shaped foot and seams – the seams that absolutely had to be dead straight. When she was arranged to his satisfaction and folded in the magic shag-shape, then he would wordlessly trail his turpsy fingers along her golden section and, cushioned between tight suspender straps, take her from behind. Always the same routine. Each and every time. No foreplay. No afterplay. He liked to do it the exact same way in various public locations: beer gardens, car parks, bus shelters, but most of all in his chilly white space with his camera aimed at her face. So he could observe her later. One time, the smoke from her anti-climax ciggy set the old-fashioned fire alarms off. Everyone ignored the clanging of the bells and they rang for two whole days.
Parting her flaps with one sure thrust, he heaves his dip-stick out and in and he’s scumbled.
This is a child. From loud animal pockets to safari feathers and beautiful batiks, this child is swinging to a tribal beat. You will never be able to kiss her again. That was when she loved you – all over the kitchen sink. You watched her taking a pull on her fag. Calmly, she stubbed it out and approached you, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. It was the time of your life.
This is a flower. Ride the body-con trend with sporting surfer pieces in skin-tight neon flower or rubber scuba-black. Two heads bobbing out at sea. Underneath the calm surface – synchronised slow-motion hand signals – their private parts, ready salted. Geezer with stuttering stick of rock. Girl with stargazy eyes. Leaving you on the beach with the sandcastle and his enthusiastic son – who came out with that old chestnut about you show me yours show me mine. That novice winkle nudged inside his trunks. That budding bush sulked against your gusset. Feigning instant sunstroke, you skedaddled: singing, moving those tiny fingers out and in your roaring ears. He sent you a postcard from Butlin’s of a red white black model railway.
This is a stain. Off the catwalk, look for sculptural cut-outs and symmetrical corsetry seaming for subtle stain credentials. And the train shunts in and out the round mouth of the tunnel. Louise is tied to the tracks. Father is shut in the cupboard upstairs with the women who burnt down the house. Mother is floating two inches above her princess-size bed, spread-eagled and shrouded in quilts, yodelling adult riddles. Black smoke is billowing from her aching cake-hole, her tongue is blistered and scorched, her eyes are swollen red slits – one staring up at the ceiling, one staring straight through Louise. The floor is tilting to meet Mother’s claws. Mother is running on the spot. Mother’s hair is on fire. Her crowning glory is a white wall of flame. It is her fierce halo. She is a sainted martyr. Mother is croaking like a bullfrog. Ninety-nine soggy white pellets are gushing out her gob in a stomach pumping projectile smacking Louise full face. And the train shunts back out and back in the tunnel, in time with the history of orgies.
This is a dream. The modern spin? To primp for a dream employ: strategic zips, swinging tassels and many menacing studs. Doctor Martens – fringed with sawdust. He always insisted on supreme coital cleanliness. He did not want the whiff and tang of sex. Odd then, that the only position he truly enjoyed was the legendary 69: her on top with her deodorised pussy poised above his freshly shaved chops, whilst her scrubbed and flossed teeth sheathed by glossed lips gobbled his sanitised member. She mastered the art of gulping his goo in one tidy motion – to preserve the pristine sheets and avoid losing her concentration when imagining he was somebody else, like maybe her Uncle Arthur, or sometimes, Shirley Bassey.
Parting her flaps with one sure thrust, he heaves his sugar-stick out and in and he’s dove-tailed.
This is a warning. Warning makes a victorious return. Wild but polished – aspire to poncho unpredictable and forgo excessive frogging. Frida is lounging on mounds of fruit. Cacti tickle her toes. Sticky with juices, slick with oils, flirting from behind her orchids – she fires apple pips from her punnet, her botty swells raring and ripe, her melons are overgrown booty – she’s a prize-winning hot-house cutie beauty.
She clenches her bony fist. Her bruised banana splits. A rotten wind rifles her papaya.
This is a chorus. More than a blank canvas, chorus focuses the eye on form and line and runs the gamut from innocence to power. The ghost of the girl who died in your bedroom stands guard at the foot of your bed. She smooths your covers. She strokes your brow. She blows dragon breath wreaths above you. She watches over your fumbled confessions. She says it doesn’t matter any more if your dreams clothe the poor – you shall be resurrected.
This is a woman. Don’t be afraid. Pile on a dazzle-belt, a glitz-bag, an ad hoc clutch of gilded chains. Make this woman your own. Suede desert boots – pigeon-toed. He used to deal whiz cut with vitamin C, to keep the punters healthy. He took hefty snorts of his cheap nasty medicine, so did she. The focal point of their room was the massive round mirror throwing wrong shadows up the wall. After the pub they’d stay high all night – him on his throne of razor blades, her in front of the mirror, executing intricate amphetamine gyrations – watching her, watching him, watching her. He told her convoluted stories about his double-jointed ex, the extremes her limbs would go to and the length of her double-barrelled name. He always wore Marigolds, favoured a cucumber, seldom used his tool. Each dawn brought the psychosis chorus and down came the thundering downer, pelting heavy metal sewing machines with rusted serrated needles stitching seams criss-cross her brain, as she struggled in her stubborn corset, tearing at her own flesh. To avoid apologising to the neighbours, she pretended she had lost her voice. She had lost her voice.
Parting her flaps with one sure thrust, he heaves his joy-stick out and in and he’s yapping.
This is a moment. Indulge your exhibitionist streak. Decorate the shortest moment with eye-popping patterns that demand attention. She sees a pair of bare feet way below her, dangling above the cold deep, and closer but still at some distance, two tiny hands cupping the world. Her neck must have been all of a rubbery mile long – tubular, jugular, retching.
This is a lover. Harness that bubble of excitement. You’ll be hankering after powerful blasts of dip-dye madcap beneath hardest double-faced lover offering waxed alternatives to coquettish milkmaids and nudes. Eva is doing the dog on a breeze block with mechanical repetition. Cloth covered cord circles her targets, her pubes are matted with glue, a web of latex stretches from inside her gloopy pudenda, looped in hectic tangles right across to the far brick wall. Looks like a team of drunken confectioners have drizzled toffee hallucinations in a brawl. She is stuffed with expression, eccentrically abstract, reeking of chemicals and industry. She is done up like a dog’s dinner. She is all in and all out for you. She is a raging robotic dog releasing the membrane cocoon.
Dog croons at the strutted beams above.
She bares her bleeding gums. Her buffered bumps wrinkle. A toxic wind gusts about her strudel.
This is a celebration. Counterbalance all the flouncy celebration with wooden clogs or a ballsy pair of love-handles. Mother’s heart is a splendid cut-glass grenade spinning in her starvling rib-cage, flashing black white warnings from its fancy facets, revolving in go-faster circuits until its flashing red – that’s when the train has a nervous breakdown, crashing to a halt in its tracks. Father is sealed in the cupboard upstairs scrabbling with his id, muttering about morals and morons. Louise is doing her homework. Louise is doing her Saturday job – sticking price tags on underpants in Littlewoods. She’s squeezing her spots, smuggling biscuits to bed, writing in red ink to a pen-pal. Louise is watching the clock. Unwinding white bandages of broderie anglaise wave from Mother’s erect bullet nipples. Handing Louise her fat leather purse, she spits out a succulent riddle: ‘A moment on the lips, forever on the hips – go get yourself fish ‘n’ chips.’
This is a man. Man to fall head over heels for. Utility underwear, towering collaborations, inside-leg ultimatums. Cheapest trainers in London – anti-fashion stance. He got sent down from Oxbridge all because of her – she hid his essential equations in her well-preserved vanity case. On their abacus fingers, his too clever friends counted the ways up her extra thick double cream slot, while he calculated on her one poison belly, using four squeezy tubes of coloured icing – the six reasons why he could not fall for her. She was:
- Too shallow
- Too trendy
- Too painterly
- Too common
- Too much of a fish
- Too attached to her favourite pillow
Too late – he was smothered in smitten.
She called him her dream-boat mathematician conversationalist. He only talked to her when he was pissed. She writhed to be worthy of his intellectual perversions but she shrank beneath the severity of his illogical stiff upper lip. He longed to see her used by strangers – suggested she write this story. She wasn’t quite up to it then.
Parting her flaps with one sure thrust, he heaves his memory-stick out and in and he’s saved.
This is a memory. Sheared and frayed memory, ripped and peeled back as though made from sawn-off arms with unfinished edges. Go ahead and come undone. Georgia has grown a show-stopping flower. Uncoiling her legs she parts the furred petals and investigates her stigma and stamen. It is an unfurling gigantic new flower. She is Our Lady of the Labia. She is Queen of the Quim. Her flower is the size of an elephant. Her flower is the size of the world. Her flower is the size of your brain.
This is a breakdown. Well, it had to happen sometime. That fiercely aggressive breakdown, stacked as tall as tower blocks, pimped out to the max, pumped up on platforms and digitally manipulated. Naked flame-haired teenage girl with palest freckled fried eggs holds a silvered toy Concorde against the greenest grass, bluest sky you’ve ever imagined, dreamed of, seen in your blind life. With eyes like saucers of wonderment. With eyes like UFOs.
This is a picnic. Delight in a mind-blowing, international picnic of redefined looks and all out gorgeous boudoir people at a sartorial smash. The family’s black dog must die. Louise is obediently watching the vet administer the fatal injection. Louise has been chosen for this task because it has been agreed Louise has no compassion. Louise has a derelict heart. Hers are the stains and wrong shadows. This is the morning of the day of the night of the adult riddles.
This is a tourist. A versatile tourist goes all the way. Travel anywhere, making an effortless evening entrance in a strip of sheer embroidery. She often falls in love. She was cut on the bias. Fear slips liverish down her legs. Loss thrills from her fingertips. Defeat twiddles her thumbs. Classic examples end above the knee. The tulips die. The sugar runs out. Her ten cavorting toes make complicated doodles with the crumbs.
This is a love. Sun-ray pleated lies enter love supreme and cleverly coordinate with everything. She will wear her stargazy eyes. He will descend in his cowboy heels, using all his worst words, probably wearing a suit.
And for those occasions when love is too little: red the thread of the buzz, black the thread of the tunnel, white the thread of the undulating tower blocks.
And for those occasions when love is too much: night the nylon shift, sleep the dog electric, dream the fibbing wild card, love the big cold deep.
Hold me close, I’m very small.