neillien

[neillien]

Summer Rites, Solstice

Sunday, a band of heavy rain at dawn. Cold, algor mortis.

My entire body felt like a spare limb slumped in a morass hanging limp, a clump oily and black.

We tried to sit straight and failed. Wired blood reservoirs at their most narcotic, turn on/switch off. Eyes complete the dark.

All our frustrations fell to me.

Outbalancing the sultry stillness, I found scratches on the soft underside of your forearms. Demarcation lines,

Separated into three thirds male: sex, dried and staled. Boundaries opened, end in tombstoning.

Monday, stranded in a new daylight. Flaccid spines, pliant flesh, skin floating like flying fish from our faces. I didn't want to wake up. I didn't want my soul to hear me howl.

And

for the first/last time I am reappropriating the love of metal fingers in my body. The drug supply is a constant larva. It gives, and gives, sinking deep with the sarcophaga flies, gorging on every orifice.

I didn't want to wake up I didn't want my soul to hear me howl.

These punitive hours have a dreamlike quality, and I wonder how inscrutable I am, blank

on the brink of afterlife.

no longer identifiable as Ne il. I don't know who I am and that's the best thing.

Tuesday, I tried standing. My entire body felt like a cudgel attacking the back off my neck.

The three of us perch on our elbows, laughing at ourselves, at the room in a shambles.

He put his hand over his mouth and stifled a yawn. He split a black Cialis between his teeth.

Still he hovers over me. Those huge compound eyes of his staring in every direction other than this side [the correct side] of the spindle.

I want to sleep like Beauty slept. I drag the vintage glass sarcophagus on my back. No one will look twice at my lack of Disney experience.

[neillien]

January 2025

[neillien]

discreetly, the door the door.

. . . the mere suggestion of his touch and we rear up, diasporic in direction like hormones released into the blood during sleep. we release our arms and push, facedown. The musculature of his chest - pressed heaving against my spine, represents the cochlea fetishisation in my mind. revelling in fits of oxytocin. snail mucin left on my behind. Him, her and they. Everyone loved my boyfriend, he was the perfect gentleman.

[neillien]

santolina virens

Mother, I tried looking out of the window instead of into your reflection , at your cold taxidermal stare. Full of hysteria. You put me to shame. I put me to shame. Mother. Am I too fractured. Am I too fragile to wrestle with a guilty conscience to call myself out by her name.

[neillien]

Scarecrow gets it, tinman gets it, cowardly lion sits this one out.

Judy’s face drops dead, slips off and lands like blancmange

the ruby slippers turn to slush. Some guy shrieks, Oh My Blood. Another guy in a feathered wig, or is it a hat - flinches, pulls back. Hot Je3us! Tough, young quick-witted torso in a thong, quipped - aha! Summer is a bit unpredictable like that. Not of any authority, but I point down at the puke anyways. The auxiliary person with a dustbin and a yellow A-board comes, stands the CAUTION slippery surface sign up and gets scooping. When the dancefloor reopens, when every trace of Judy glitter is gone, we sashay and sway and wiggle our way around each other to the sound of Lizzo's Hard Truth. The Perspex floor flashes emerald green and Nephrite Jade: a conventional glow but feels new like I'm dancing on permafrost for the first time alone.

[neillien]

Tuesday’s inspiration: burning shapes into the night

[neillien]

cute with a subcutaneous smile,

accidently obsessed

I tried looking out the window instead of into your reflection, but your blood got into my loins dragging you out of your maelstrom possessed by the shape of loves’ eyes. .

To stop myself drowning I need to drain off, I try dealing with the procreative hours we spend on each other wasting our powers, but I am too caught up in love.

[neillien]

Pomme d’ambre _ apple of amber.

The smooth surface of Orlando's chest thrust against the back of a near-by chair, the living-room door stayed shut. My spying-eye peeps through the keyhole and it is possible to see dust fall on morphinans: colour fade into white noise. The abstract changes in content and distribution, the body [may be] consumed as fuel. Orlando imposes a threatening acquiescence/approbation/ desiccant/glasslike. He is like an animal that I can no longer distinguish: even more beautiful than when we first interacted. Silence, we agreed. We simply preferred silence. Slumped forward. The weight of Orlando's incoherent body propels the chair, setting off on a linear the little brass wheels scrape the surface of the parquet flooring. Orlando, facedown. The phantoms of personal space are more alive than the living here. On the other side of the door, reckless voices, begin sorrowing, vast as an ever-renewed crowd in tonality and scale. Screams too copious to grasp according to their needs. Voices I fail to handle unerring due to my intimidation of them. You know Orlando? There is no sound as truthful as I am: damaging my body myself. I have found All Orlando's intrusions come bitesize torn by Payara’s teeth … in these fantasies gnawing as quietly on the agony of perceived isolation. Out of reach of the telephone. Just out of reach of anyone loyal. Surely he can't be trying to hear how he passes the time of day? Won’t say anything benevolent beside the shrillness, a voice as clear as quietly as couth as any teeth that bite the disagreeable animal of truth.

We rise to the clapping hands that waken us from our torpor.

work-in-progress. ...

[neillien]

Wear a coat of glass, the first image accurately representing a state of consciousness. Carry an axe, a small but vital incident... thought intruder acts in pursuit of happiness. Fights against itself

Go ahead, put anything in your mouth.

Dark toy

[neillien]

is love /whatever noise is,

3 retarded months after he left, I have been unable to stop thinking of Puff Guts. Sometimes I bleed weeks of poor health for him. Expressions of abandonment-rage and my loathing of a new guardian in my life. All the flowers, the bedroom looking like a funeral phenomenon. The bed, a coffin my legs won't fit into - I tried, and thought carefully about how to punish my feet for not cooperating, but pain sometimes is done with talking. Besides,there was no one to phone that Tuesday. Admittedly I didn’t answer several repeat withheld number calls /. No voicemail. No voice-note. So, whoever text me an axiom last night, thanks love. In black and white it read, revere the dead. I laughed, cringing. I used to address a plastic icon when he danced, swinging from the car's rear-view mirror. The ghost and synthetic celebration of Samhain. The darker half of the year approaching like a beetle. Coaldust between us. Bite back. Cut it out. Holding my breath … like a curious child I play dead. The freakish inclusion of a few squandered hours into my afternoon blackening a chaste room with a sick-day melancholy. I miss you.

[neillien]

Story based on Antediluvian sex-role stereotypes.

All colour fading into white denim and shoulder pads. Aunt Grace wore her hair lacquered/and teeth veneered. A fake brunette with big tits. A heaving, busty imitation of television’s Dynasty actresses. the self-proclaimed bitch of Shoreditch Street. Took no prisoners. Her vices were the Clothes Show, a successful BBC TV show, Martini’s and cigarettes and the clothes show were the things that Aunt Grace preferred to anything Uncle John presented, drank or stole. Uncle John worked in IT. He had had ambition once Uncle John had told me in a frank moment , whilst I gave him a hand-job and simultaneously pleasuring myself: I forget what the ambition was but whatever it was Aunt Grace put a stop to it. I remember him callously telling me so. It was Christmas Day. Uncle John had worn a red paper crown when he collapsed over the dining table whilst enjoying the Turkey roast and trimmings. Everyone at the table thought he was joking but the Uncle John was never an ass. A giant prick, yes but not a man to caper. He died, crest fallen with a gravy and cranberry sauce moustache/ dad won a compass in the cracker he shared and pulled with his elder brother. For us, the nephews one niece it was forbidden to touch Uncle Jake he was very sensitive about feelings and immodesty. I fancied it was because he was acid Uncle John’s skin excreted a sweaty velour that gave a nasty rash if you so much as brushed the edge of your finger against his mask. It was okay to play footsie or unzip his fly tug at him and squeeze his balls when no one else was there but that didn’t happen too often. Too busy posing elsewhere for photographs with his arm cosseting his wife’s to die for waist. Grace always wore belts that never pinch an inch. Whenever Grace lost a little more weight she’d enjoy starting new holes instead; smiling like Goons on trips out with the freaks from Darby and Joan rotary Club. Grace & uncle John gave money that Christmas - if I remember, and HMV vouchers. The couple came with eponyms, throwback clothes and attitudes that baffled our younger less decadent senses. God knows I tried. And Aunt Grace! She had the temerity to tell me she hated MY HAIR: she said it made me look like a sissy-girl.

Secretly how delighted I felt.

First draft/ no edits.

[neillien]

[neillien]

Petting Zoo …

Perhaps we have already met vicariously in the imagination of our loneliness? You whine. And I smile a single zebra stripe, grin. Maniacal. Because I am dreadful. Starved to the pointe of emaciation. Your body is the same, pale and thin, only your flesh seems inviolable. I describe your actions as abstemious, a memorial for your soul complete in itself. Pleasure perhaps to compare: we shall be broken. Fingers burnt to cinders. It is time you ate. And all there is to eat are two alligator pears picked before they are fully mature, and they may rot before ripening and it is doing my fucking head in. Your small round head and augmented mouth. Criminal tear-like facial streaks pouring scorn from your murderous eyes... turning me down. I am Southern slang for tail, hindquarter and flank. At first I thought you were starved and tempted by the most rotted males. I am fetid. A particular blend. Full of unfettered queer. In the popular culture, I only see sphinxes. Equivalent men betwixt and between perceived masculinity. You with your ancient sabre tooth and pharisaic conscience does my head-in. I am an eidolon unseen by you yet watched like a hawk from the Osprey-like circles you make around my ego. Dead below the waist. Some awful meal stale in your stomach.

first draft/ incomplete.

[neillien]

Thursday idealism

[neillien]

Tuesday technique

[neillien]

Monday inspiration : another PRICK in Jesus's A R M [unfinished first draft].

take me from the back, I like that… that lack of personal space we have.

What are you talking about?

Close the door and I will tell you.

jacket collar Carmina Burana disorient graffiti pawnbroking.

White fur coat, dropped from the shoulders. Tattooed neck. I snatch the few coins I posses from my fur pocket, raise an eyebrow and half expect the assistant pawnbroker to offer a couple more pounds for the antiquated mink I sling down on the counter. I trust my fake tits look enormous to in the attentive eyes of the pawnbroker. The pawnbroker's assistant His estimated value is well below what I want. It's a 30day loan. the collateral belonged to my mother. I have to work hard to recuperated the item I have pawned off, signed temporarily away to the pawnbroker's safekeeping, huh.

A drizzle of early evening rain, grey sky, poorly lit the shop display of old gold watches, the plethora of smartphones, musical instruments power tools. Security grid, padlock. My boy outside the store, turns his jacket collar up.

with him, my boy eating his nails, I cook. I won't have my boy going hungry. The flies in his veins are stirring. Time he is fed.

All the popular ingredients and cutting agents I've used before are made from scratch.

Our little kitchenette, the worksurface hygiene, the glove compartment fridge where I stash perishables and miscellany. Dinner is served.

The car’s rear-view mirror went long ago. I fixed a Guilloché enamel hand mirror to the ceiling, elegantly it hangs tied by rosary and Sellotape. In the half-dark watching him

airbag warning light. /seatbelt

take a flat knife to the grime under his fingernails and scoop the muck out, singing a Blondie song. is a blatant excuse for vanity and crows feet not a single fucking iceberg tonight. The car’s interior cosy lounge. Him with his sullen grin his lips a monarch red his face made for celluloid. YR face. Too expensive. In no time at all he’ll be affordable: retaining the adorable but lacking composure.

Listening to the rain interrupting. I feel the first sensation. The squalid utensil of our eyes engaging I am pulling an empty arm to my chest, rivulets of dark anise clad his teardrops/ oh the arduous man who cries, payment on completion. Open his shirt, rip out his heart. I didn’t want his inertia looking thinly thinking like a snow leopard awaiting his mother’s nipple. He bites into his euphoria hard.

O Fortuna

Velut luna

Four Johns’ ahead. Close the door will you dear it’s raining pitchforks out there. It is time I tore up that love letter. All bottled up with vodka and a touch of mistletoe . Rain washaway, washaway chalk on the wall.

I miss him, I miss him. I am sick of hearing the repetition of grief. My heart was not made for loving. Oversharing, it makes me wilder rather than reciprocate.

[neillien]

Wednesday’s inspiration: get teenage kicks right through the night, alright.