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erotic poems and other misogynies

by j. griogair bell

This First printing is © copyright 1993 j. griogair bell, all rights reserved.

Some selections have been previously published in electronic media.

All prose is © copyright 1993 j. griogair bell.

Originals 'forgotten, poltergeist' © copyright 1990; 'wake up, frozen, paisley, blithe, connections, lying' © copyright 1992; 'as i trace, dreamtime, vomitus, strong drink, maybe, thank you' © copyright 1993; All by j. griogair bell

Printing History: 1993 first numbered, limited Chapbook edition (Out of Print)

All rights reserved. No part of this book nor of individual works may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, in use or yet to be invented, without permission in writing from the author.

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dedicated to CP DB SC AH and LGV.

fide et amore / cetera desunt.

special thanks to my parents for not aborting me;
being alive has made my life so much easier.

as I trace
my finger across
the caress of
your opaque
I wonder
what mumbling
murder is
brewing inside

erotic poems and other misogynies

and there is that myth, that damned myth, still ringing in my ears: when the male becomes the female ... two who are one. Two people in one? Oh, how ridiculous it sounds, but so tempting. I can't imagine what it would be like, but to be one with another person would be so ...

Why can't it happen? too much too much time, energy ... wasted. I'm still not unhappy, yet. My unfocused life dangling like the silk thread of a bola spider; swinging trying to reach you and keep you.

There's still hope, everyone says so, so it must be so. It's not over yet, and yet you want to be friends to know for sure, to strengthen that bond that is so fragile, so serene and simple. You want time apart to know if it is true, but time away, holding back those feelings. Not to touch those lips with mine, not to feel your hand reaching for mine, not to hold each other to feel the warmth of you thru me, in me; this is the promise of tomorrow. The present gift of our love traded away for future promises, promises that we promised not to promise each other.

Such an empty room.

Wake up puppet boy and smell the shit
do you really think she thinks it's worth it?
all her love just empty stupid shallow lies
you made a good bed warmer
for a while at least
you made the mistake of wanting more
started thinking about love
should have known, little dutch boy,
good enough to plug the hole,
not good enough to hold on to.
Wake up and look at how she's treating you
do you really think she thinks about you?
she sees you with amazing indifferent eyes
you sure were a good fair weather fuck
for a while at least
you made the mistake, you stupid whore,
started thinking about love
you should have known, little little man,
good enough to play the man,
not good enough to be one too.
Wake up, stupid boy, and see she's gone
do you really think she thinks at all?
all her life a stupid chase for stupid lies
all she wants is the chase
no sense in her faceless face
you made the mistake of wanting rest
started to think you were in love
should have known, little mistaken boy,
you were good enough for her lies
but she'll find another fucking lie to replace you.

Frozen lips on burning skin
our last touch silent something
whispering sour nothings
between us our skin and skin
eyes obsidian nothing
laughers loving after all
in our simple broken roles
we do reveal our very souls

Taken for forsaken time
friendship endings to be kind
holding out for some damn sign
something less than what we find
something more than none at all
nothing greater there is in me
than this co-dependency

Tokens taken back from me
fragile fucking enemy
no more shared possessions ties
angry looks and enmity
cracked and pathetic end rhyme:
when your new boyfriend turns out bad
just remember what you could have had

It's too easy to believe. I'm too easily in love with what I'm not sure. No, not really sure, but it seems so much the same only more strong. Is that an illusion? I don't think so. I cried like I don't [think I've] cried before. I cried because I felt meaningless with both of them. I felt alone and unable to reach out. I was Tantalus reaching for the fruit only to have them taken away. I can't see anymore. I'm losing my mind. I've lost what I had before. I'm no longer a prodigal child. I'm barely alive anymore. Do I still glow? I've been effected by what I think I love. Did I set it free?

I must be self-centered. I write about me constantly ... I ... I ... I ...

Life seems so ... no, don't stop. keep going. don't lose ... um la de dum dum de dum Zen ... into the woods ... um, life, life, life in the fast lane ... a reoccurring there everything repeats. I keep saying the same things, doing the same actions, thinking the same feelings. Am I the same? How can I be ... is this the same? Where am I ... where I am, here, now, in this room? This can't be pointless. I'm close to the thing I love, if it is love, which it probably isn't. I have a need, or a want I should say, that refuses to go away. Perhaps she was right. Maybe she isn't what I want, but I still think I love and I can't help what I feel just as she can't help that she doesn't feel. What right do I have? another reoccurring there: the ones I 'love' don't love me just as the ones that 'love' me I can't seem to love ... ironic simply an example to show me the object of my desire is feeling what I feel when I can't stand what wants me ...

Why so many reoccurring themes? Still I see myself going over the same ground. Is life just a joke? Maybe the meaning is in the synthesis. Perhaps, maybe, the whole thing is a matter of distillation of other impressions ... one mind sees so little but so many see so much that the whole vision is what matters. I am insignificant. No I dont' want to be nothing. I refuse to believe I am not -

I almost started to cry. This is the core of my dilemma? Self-esteem is my wall ... pile on many more bricks and I'll be meeting you there. I can't see that if I can't do what I want ... then it hardly matters if I'm the most creative or intelligent. P ersonal energy is a battery and if the battery isn't used the energy goes away. Mine is leaking out and I've nowhere to send the rest of mine. What is this all about ... why so much repetition?

Her thoughts are so much like mine on paper ... are we flying apart? No, we were never together. We are coming closer together. I'll make a mistake. I can't see. Will I be forgiven?

Why do I hold on? I'd find someone else and start that damn fucking cycle of infatuation again. Shit, I'm sad and I don't even know if I'm worth the effort anymore. Do we all think the same thoughts? Why don't I know? My head is like an empty ... no, a brick, dense, and my eyes are my consciousness my conscienceness. My conscienceness, I am nothing but a 2 dimensional sheet of perception.

I may even be dead. What is death, how many different paths have I missed? How many are dead now? How many times have I died?

How ugly is my soul? I have done so many things. I am so evil. Oh, I want to sin so much more, but I only sin the wrong way. I can't even sin the right way.

Fuck, I am so stupid..

I remember her - dreamtime sometime she
stuck to my finger - always difficult
to touch to let go - impossible her
cast ganesha lord - over me stomach
fat breast-like feeding - me release me her
nipple in my mouth - taste hundreds of men
swallow hard touch her - for just a second
I thought I touched her - I thought I felt her
her skin against mine - paperhole punch corpse
spit out confetti - her falling frosty
snowmen melted heaps - spit was men she gave
me raw meat for her - for taking her raw
burning straw to her - in effigy gone
to her holding me

For at least two days now
she hasn't called me
back from the edge of insanity
I entered when I tasted her paisley
I swallowed the gate just to see
where it would take me

Where is she now that I want her?

She left when I closed the door
in her face
told her that I couldn't see her
now she can't be found
anywhere near
where I wanted her

Where is she now that I want out?

Why wouldn't she stay
when I pushed her away
she must not have wanted me really
nearly as much as I wanted her
to want me

her paisley pulls me
toward my memory
of how she could have been
if only she had wanted
me enough to try
or give a damn about me

I dreamt that I mentioned
that I thought I loved you
in the dream
you looked at me
like I was insane
the way you look at me
when I do something stupid

We haven't talked in days
and although I know it pays
to keep quiet about these things
it's just that it seems
I'm your once a week fling

When we are together
you realize you miss me
you don't seem to realize
you want to be with me
until you are already with me
so every time I let you go
I may be letting you go
never to return
because you won't even remember
to miss me
until you return

I'm afraid to go anywhere
because if I'm not there
when you call sometime
I won't see you
my one chance a week to be with you
and who knows how long
until you realize how long it's been
I know that doesn't bother you
I wish I could be so blithe

forcing bad connections
between the frayed ends
of broken wire synapse
hooked angle mental lapse
hover face image trace
the shadow finger face
replace the real with the false
fill the vessel with angels
drink the demons down
margarita mezcal
open door awaits
tarantula bite creates
poems in the cancer haste
poets lost in the bitter taste
and vile liquid bubbling
up from the worm infested bile sting
ignorance like walking into cobwebs
sticking and slipping, creaking beds
lose-leaving that haze behind
in dirty wine glasses to be denied
red stains where alcohol glasses cried
and broke apart in sparkles and spikes
pulling strands from eyes and noses
smelling fingers stained with excesses
and poisoned places in the holes
hooked by bent wires and cobweb fire
tongues licking the lies she left behind

Shouted down
by vaginal vomitus
that ejaculates from the holes I
painfully filled
with the puke of my desire
for images
I apologize
to that page
of the magazine
hoping for some
redress from that
typed face some
recourse to set
the stage of things
right but
all they want
to do to me
is fight me
bite me with
paper cut tongues
fuck I am tired
of this fucking
paper chase
parade of mistakes
one after the other
flipping the pages
diary of desirrhea
to torture me
my loneliness
in logorrhea
like some huge labia
grabbing me choking
but I can't feel it
I know it's there
killing me
with image
and myth
I can't believe
how much poison I
pleasured and pumped
into her pages
all I gave her
seems to be
this pulp-like pus
she swings and sprays across
like welts of sweat
from her perfect bangs
sweat that once misted
from her breasts
glossy glow against
my chest and she
rips my prick
in her staple fists
and beats me with it
as if I deserved that
deserved to be
treated like shit
like the stuff that
cums from her centerfold
pages creases binding
smearing my penis
is what I am
the rest of me
an excretion of pain
fucking this tight
graphite graphic hole
squeezing the cum from
my pica point publish headache
I just want to get drunk
and screw the interview
I'll just skip to the pics
maybe this time
I won't think
I see her laughing
behind that laminate
plastic smile
with the accusation
of rape in every
grey scale shadow
between her perfect
paper pearl teeth

i still feel her ghost in my mind
forgotten fingers twist rotted
bloated remains around my body
fondling violent parts
rip cuts thru cat's cradle
remains of skin hang thin limply
wetly from the fingertips of
the forgotten hand
leaves marquis welts and stinging pain
on my flesh the fingerpaint bruise
handprint stigmata nail polish
the forgotten arm
holds me deep down in smothering
embrace holds my lost breath between
humid sheets covers fucking lies
the forgotten legs
bend driving nails up that tease my
testicles gentle then violent
kicking down the dead doors of my
forgotten pleasure
developing the dilemma
forgotten vs. what I desire
vs. what i desire to forget
the forgotten mouth
delivers such silken torture
a tickling tongue tiny biting
her suicide smell fills my nostrils
her forgotten smell
my lips kiss her to remember
my demands dig treasure from the
pit filled with my poisoned pleasure
she pounds and she rubs
against my pelvis reminding
she reminds me of the pleasure
making me forget the pain or
like a masochist
partially desiring again

the poltergeist of my embarrassment vanishes
and i am immobilized
and my fantasies vanish in the swirling haze
of my ejaculation

my fading fantasies about what might have been
now swirling in the cup
mixing with the caramel coloured softdrink my children are polluted
like the sewage in my heart

I throw it away
dropping it down in the trash
unbalanced the cup overturns spilling my future
worm-eaten by my past

the hot metallic nail of my bile
is driven up through my mouth
by the well-oiled hammer of my guilt and loathing
for the man i have become

the vomit of my mistakes splatters into the trash
widening the stain of my fluids
the variety of my disgust mixed with my lust an inseparable
combination of self-hate

as I breathe the acidic, acrid air of my sewage
my fantasies return
this time in a psychedelic parade my semen vomits me
and I fall a bloody heap

as my unreal vision fades I extend my hand towards
the soup from my body
my vision
as I smear my cheeks the acid is like needles in my eyelids
water wells up in my eyes
tears fall on my cheeks a natural cross-hatching
across my soul
my tears continue to fall as I fall from the window ledge

in bed with masks
caressing broken corners
backward smiles
what she wants to hear
empty denials echo
feeling fine
just fine
I'm fine
just fine
Thanks for asking

in bed with lies
staining ripped bed sheets
fractured futon frames
what she wants to feel
empty denials echo
feeling fine
just fine
I'm fine
just fine
Thanks for asking

alone with empty
sweet wine bottles strewn
last lost drips and dregs
what she wants to leave
empty denials echo
feeling fine
just fine
I'm fine
just fine
Thanks for asking

it is a strong drink
to drown adultery in drunkenness
it is a stronger drink
to face my lover's face with honesty
stronger than fidelity
it is an even stronger drink
to drink to my own weakness

it is a great grief to me
to weakly write myself
into my father part
it is a greater grief to me
to strongly write my lover
into my mother part
it is the greatest grief to me
to wholly write my past
into my future past

there is no art in drink
there is no salvation in sorrow
there is no love in lies
there is no love in lies
there is no love in lies

I've learned my sorrow from my father
I've learned myself from my sorrow
I've learned to lie from myself
I've learned myself from my lie

there is no love in lies
but honesty ruins love with revealed lies
there is no love in lies
but justice ruins love with concealed lies
there is no love in lies

there is no salvation in sorrow
but somehow sorrow saves lovers from future pain
there is no salvation in sorrow
but somehow suffering saves me from future pain
there is no salvation in sorrow

there is no art to drink
but drink can remind me to forget
there is no art to drink
but drink can force me to sleep
there is no art to drink

it is a strong drink
to drown adultery in drunkenness
it is a stronger drink
to face my lover's face with honesty
stronger than fidelity
it is an even stronger drink
to drink to my own weakness

my honesty stronger than the lie
will ruin my love and with this in mind
I will tell the truth in time

Well, she loves him.

I'm really confused. My mind is an uproar and a spin like nothing else has taken hold within me. She is so honest and yet I am so confused. She is so straight forward and yet I suspect her.

But I believe her and trust her, but I must spend so much time overriding my fears.

How can I imagine that I can compete with him? If she can love him then I am sure that he is at least as wonderful and certainly it is more likely that he is so much more wonderful than I. When he holds her, how can I imagine that at such a time that she would think of me?

Altho she loves another, we still love each other. What farce is this we play?

As 'jupiter laughs on high at the perjury of lovers,' we entwine ourselves deeper. How can I believe that she loves me more than him? ( with neither my feelings nor her own voice to evidence it!) What chance I have got when I cannot love myself to be loved by one in love with another cannot be relied upon to provide my happiness. What chance I have got cannot but in the weakest of minds be thought to be the designs designed with a future in mind of anything but silence.

I can wish so hard that it hurts but I cannot be anything other than myself no matter how hard I try. I can learn everything there is to learn but I cannot learn to be not me. I can hate everything that is in me but I cannot hate but what I am: I know nothing else to be. I cannot hate myself into learning to be not myself.

I can wish that I were him, I can wish I were perfect, I can wish thousands and thousands of times to be anything that she could love - none of these things is like myself, and these things I cannot love.

Cold winds come in. The frozen waterfront of empty and restaurantless lonely walks holds us in arms of crooked concrete. The magic of the natives still fresh in our minds as we walk backward toward the deja vu triangles of shadow argentinas. Elvis saw us there standing in red circle no things. Books from heaven and garage doors manna into our hands, hands hungry for the word of tarantula stings. Rare manna, our apocrypha, never comes to pass: the worms miss us and in grief flood tunnels with tears of the finest quality binding.

I cannot hope but hope that I can avoid being alone; but that hope, tempered by my current and very simple empty home, comes no closer to revealing the future of Corpses and crunchy candy than does the Krystalnacht of hearts, congealed in slow motion tableau by her warm languid arms and legs and eyes and lips and heart enveloping me in recycled romance.

Am I doomed? Am I some ancillary bug? Am I merely the temporary fever of some insanity flu?

I don't want to be an echo plot in some episodic romance. If there is no future between us then there is no future for us but sickness. I am sick with anticipation; my nervousness betrays me.

I'm a walking cliché.

maybe this time
her perfect lips on mine
maybe this time

I want you to want me
not some consolation prize
to you for playing with him
in his game and thank you
very much for playing
I want you to respect me
not some garden path
to you for walking on
with him and thank you
very much for coming
I want you to think about me
not some foggy memory
to you to forget with him
in the bushes and thank you
very much for caring
I want you to need me
not some covered pit
to you for filling with him,
with him and thank you
very much for loving
I must have been too busy
playing to notice that you
were just playing and were
really playing with him
playing with me and thank you
very much for leaving

but if you ever want me
not some consolation prize
I'll be here waiting
to award you my eyes
but if you ever respect me
not some garden path
I'll be there walking
to murmur you my heart
but if you ever think of me
not some foggy memory
I'll still remember
that hotel room number
but if you ever need me
not some covered pit
I'll climb out of it
to give you what I can
but if I stop to notice
you are still with him
I can see I'm a whim
born on the wind
you commit to him
as you leave me

and now that you are gone
I never wanted you to leave
don't you realize I was playing
shadows silently in the wings
not to steal the stage from him?
and now that you are gone
I never really noticed
how much of you was really here
in between the coming and going
I could hold your ghost some mornings
and now that you are gone
I realize I've covered my own pit
and how I expected you to fit
in this hole
when I don't even fit I don't know
and now that you are gone
I realize my own memory is foggy
with all the drama in the pit
of my stomach can't help but think
of all the times I slammed my heart
to hide my hurt
and now that you are gone
I walk garden paths by myself
wondering to myself
if that is you in the distance
in that couple's embrace
and now that you are gone
all I have left the consolation prize
is an occasional chance to remind
that I am invisibly blind
can you blame me for crying in the sun?