Poetry: Selections from Tempest Miller
Wrench
Rupert Crash murdered 28 people in a university plaza with a wrench.
He wore Priest clothes.
After, he returned to the 24-hour-gym he lived in,
and duct-taped the reddened wrench to his wrist
and matted it with red-pink bubbles.
Flowing bubble broth from shower dispenser,
as he sudded lymphoma lumps and intersex parts.
Red, spiked hair.
Tattoos of dogs fucking goats on human beds
on either side of his mohawk.
Red dicks everywhere, like Flemish punks on a Saxony boulevard.
Now Crash massages, wrench-facing, his left-wing Latin American
nerve plexuses.
He swallows soap to say he hates arty graduates and painters
and whores and Blacks.
The wrench bruises with mulched, liver spot hand cream.
He severs the wrench from the soap with reckless abandon,
parting his cheeks and shitting and imagining
he's shitted on the face of Good Morning Britain host.
What for the weekend?
Feel like a trip to Poundbury
just to get away from this enema-like house/gym.
Must refresh psyche in a steampunk Dudley leisure centre
watching water polo for old Disraelian Englanders
hunched on diabetes, EpiPens in hot car windows.
These are his banal cosmopolitan twitches, deep in his villager cecum
thinking about Allende and Franco.
Pink-faced, attracted to wraith-like cleaning ladies walking past.
Rubbing a TV control over locker pictures of M Monroe
saying you are a balding faggot and a bigger cunt than George Orwell.
Life alone, silent - left him blind and resentful
and sexually-stunted and waiting for fire to rain from the clouds.
Humpback
The humpback saddles me mare-like
after making me lick the blood from the marlin-patterned shower curtain.
He cut my dick off
and he stopped the bleeding with his daughter’s bed sheets.
Now in the room where they have Christmas, he strokes my red-blonde hair.
He prises me open with his acidic tongue, then one finger.
He puts his teeth to my buttock.
He has scattered Bibles on every sweat-smeared La-Z-Boy.
He fries my penis in the deluxe kitchen en-suite
and steam enters through the gap.
He has to take himself out of me and mute the hob
before coming back.
He says the meat is turning daiquiri-red -
he likes that.
He says he received a burn from my dick’s fat jumping from the pan
onto his neck.
Two fingers, three,
a full fist like rummaging in a burlap sack.
He pours bilge from his mouth to mine when he kisses me
and rubs it into my scalp as hair-gel.
We lick each other’s teeth and tear off enamel.
He remarks it would be hotter if I sucked his dick
given I now don’t have one.
I should tell everyone the truth, he says.
But what is the truth? Besides a pearly, red-haired boy who liked it,
who liked the oil massage/assplay lead-up
and the bubble bath culmination with PJ Harvey on the portable radio
and the velvet-pink Fairy Liquid bursting in my eardrums
and popping over my fluoride torso as he castrated me.
After it was done and the bleeding had stopped,
he sat on the toilet lid in his horn-rimmed glasses
and touched himself awkwardly.
He asked if he could plug in the electric knife
or his drill or chainsawer on an extension lead and work on me
and electrocute the both of us in the bathwater.
So we could die together and no one would know
what he did to me.
I said I wouldn’t tell anyone what we’d done together.
He could trust me.
The humpback jousts into me
with his flensed whale penis
mossy and covered in genital herpes barnacles.
His stomach, meshy with paddlefish, breathes out
and catches a ride on my straining spinal column.
He passes wind.
He gnaws on the egg-white mole on my back,
sinks his teeth in trying to break the skin and access my spinal fluid.
I feel like I’m about to heave up my spleen.
I reach around to grab at him.
He says my dick will be chewy
and it will fuck with his recommended blubber content
and he will need to buy low-fat milk for breakfast tomorrow
when he consumes it with butter and ladyfingers.
And how would I like that?
If the humpback fed me milk from a pail
or vomited it straight to my mouth?
I catch my image in the reflection of his alarm clock
set to 04:10 Tuesday 18/7/2006.
Wraith-like, dickless, disembowelled.
But those lips still red.
Robin Hudd
Robin Hood - barefoot, leather trousers
lingerie freshly removed
holds a wine glass and pushes back greased hair
has face fat, swollen under his eyes
very large cheeks
ill and kind of choked
two years before, he said I’ll give it ya
and he broke an Aldershot man’s nose
and he fell and hit his head on the curve of the road
and got brain damage and Hood was arraigned
big backlog in the courts though so
he went about his business, smoking in pebble-white fingers
sitting on stairs with knees up to his chin
sitting with knees in jeans with holes
bad bowling shoes
he fled England and went to Peru
he changed his name and moved back to Europe
undisclosed location
he mixed in the wrong circles
he liked to be shirtless
and even a good looking man has pathetic nipples
and even a foolish man could see through him
and he wore these black shades to conceal
dead black saucer rings under his eyes
he moderated his voice
he worked as a window cleaner
you go from house to house
knock on doors
say
“want your windows cleaned?”
more often than not “no”
people want their windows gleaned not cleaned
they want someone to see their wonderful rosy windows
and live behind them looking back
anyway, they put a bounty on his head
by this point he was a Maoist according to Ben Elton
that hurt a bit
taking from rich to give to poor
he’s social engineering and his goatee is greying
takes a lot of upkeep
he gets it bar fights as well
he’s a lapsed moralist
he starts at the floor creaking up to his bedroom
he thinks about living without money
getting gifts of food and shelter
for sweeping out barns and stables
for milking cows
or maybe lactating himself - freckled and milk filled with cancer
he has a backwards way of thinking
he doesn’t like buses or trains
he likes to walk to be more in control of journey times
shame his legs are so dalpitated
shame he has desecrated his whole body
for the moral disgrace of just being right
grey beard and he returns to England occasionally
Interpol seem only slightly interested
the European Arrest Warrant is defacto inactive
it’s like just taking a slight left off a Milton Keynes ring road
or something like that
if he drove and didn’t walk
everywhere has city status these days
even these little cobbled villages of UK derision
and a GB News presenter leads an army of
people to take back the cathedral from the food kitchen
anyway if you’re ever around Birmingham
God forbid maybe Dudley
up a bit perhaps to Stoke
around and down and back again to Northampton
where the sinks have run dry
and a beard swings in the breeze like beads in a door
you might see Hood
he’s desecrating a motorway sign that says
for instance
Liverpool 28 or M6 Only or M62
he is a dedicated vandal because sawing
a ULEZ sign in half is really no big thing
relative to something utterly inaccessible on a
grass verge
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