the focus of attention is on the words, how they meet, change each other, react. the focus of attention is my breasts. they are larger than usual. they are solid and round. my friend points this out. your breasts are enormous she says. this is definitely an exaggeration but still they are larger.
i am ripe, ready for the picking. i will fall into your lap. you can’t remember a body for long, you can’t remember a kiss. i feel sick. my palms are sweating. i am a collection of patterns some of them unpleasant. i want to penetrate, to break apart. are you the doctor? i am smoking a cigarette. i need a whisky, bushmills, blackbush, a rope between two rocks, hexagons or pentagons, fifty pence pieces, the water beneath, the ground swelling.
who invented the clock? he asssassinated time and for what? this noisy machine incapable of travel? this measurement of pleasure?
there simply aren’t enough hours in the day she said as she turned towards the window and flattened a fly. they lay their little eggs and rub their little hands together. i’m sure one of them is my ex. he flies around all night buzzing buzzing buzzing keeping me awake and when i open the window he won’t fly out.
i draw a map to my heart. i fold it up and put it in my boot.
the focus of attention is your right eye. i lick the lashes. my tongue is strong it presses against where the lids meet. and your ear, i take the lobe between my lips, i let my tongue find a way inside. it pushes between and around, i hear you breathing.
the focus of attention is here, in these words. what do they make? a mess. i must clean them all away. erase the bad stuff.
you don’t want to open the book
too much, don’t want to crease the pages.
i walk down the stairs with rigid legs. i won’t bend my feet. my patent shoes will crack, my shiny patent shoes.
he is my friend. he massages my shoulders. we talk about sex. we arrange an orgy. he designs a machine which will squirt lubricant into the room. everyone will be naked.
the focus of attention is my mother. she has small hands, pale hands, freckly hands, not small red hands that do everything in the right order. she makes wheaten bread like my grandmother. grandmother’s gone to a hole in the ground. said goodbye. looked inside at a red cloth and scattered earth. don’t bury me in a box. set fire to my body push me out on the river.
and my father? he shakes now. he has white hair. he is fragile like you. you are tender and easily broken i suspect.
touch me in the right places. we’ll find them yet. you have an hour to explore. you have an hour and then we’ll see how well you know me. expect nothing she says, expect nothing and i agree. i cannot tell you a story if that is what you want i cannot oblige. there is no begininng besides last born child of edward and kathleen mcnaulty, 1973, female. but what a beginning. the light, the dryness, the touching. carry your umbilical cord around in a bucket.
the focus of attention is what i am talking about. can you see it on the horizon. close one eye. close the other. watch my finger, left eye, right eye, see how it moves and yet stays still. this is not a love story. this is not a story at all.
how much have i written? let me count the words. language should stretch further than this.
trust no one. not yourself. you are fallible. i look up doubt in the dictionary: an inclination to disbelieve. what do you expect? i look up faith in the dictionary and find it blind. i ask my mother—why is it wrong for boys to wank? a waste of sperm. i don’t ask her about girls. a pool of sperm is drying on my stomach. it will peel off like glue.
more patterns to put down and
remember as myself.
trust me you say. a whisper a doubt a reason for disbelieving. i squat among the trees. dense blood drops down and slides. i rub it into the earth.
i need to touch something solid to know i am alive.
the focus of attention is my feelings for you, your feelings for me, your feelings for someone else blah blah blah
pack away your feelings, entertain
listen to me, can you just listen to me? listen to me, can you just listen? the focus of attention is not possible to keep, is it?
the focus of attention is the prize. i win the prize for the biggest fool. should i stand in the corner? should i stand in the corner with my head against the wall? lightly bashing, not hard enough to break the skin, not hard enough to break the skin. should i stand in the corner with my back to you? you watching me, watching my shoulders, the back of my neck. it is nice to be close to something solid. the wall is cold. i let the coolness sink inside and soothe, it is more friendly than you. should i smoke another cigarette? should i drink some whisky? the bottle, an open invitation. the stone offers itself. the stone offers itself, if i swallow enough stones will i be strong? strong enough? i win the prize for the biggest fool. i’ll stand in the corner and everyone can point and laugh. what is the prize? a bunch of dead flowers? an empty box of chocolates?
i am fixating on it fixating on it i have really nothing to say.
switch off my mind, assassinate my reason.
it is simply indigestible she said but i did not believe her. it is simply indigestible.
they prefer the whip. they need the control. they are afraid, very afraid.
we tell the same stories over and over again.
it is not reasonable that i should desire you. it is not desirable that i should reason with you.
we put our hands behind our backs because we should not touch.
the light stays now until nine. do you remember the summer?
today i knew how to write. i do not know that i knew but today i knew how to write.
there’s something i’m meant to see. i drink tea, i smoke cigarettes. i step out of my world i step into my world there’s something i’m meant to see. you reflect back my image to me. i ask for freedom. i ask nicely now. i am asking nicely still.
were you listening? were you listening? repeat the
and so i’m sitting on a train watching the trees but not any one in particular. watching how the sun makes the greens light and how the shade makes the greens dark and i’m watching the tracks. the branches are heavy with flowers. i imagine their smell. on the platform bored faces. i remember how the trains go by your window. so close you can see faces but not quite expressions.
is language a disguise? is language mostly meaning other things? a small series of endings. nothing of importance you would think. nothing to change or correct or amend. i ask the river to teach us to bend without breaking.
the focus of attention is on the words. how they meet and change each other, react.
the sound of my heart closing.