My half of a ‘chapbook’ project with Mathew Bowness.
You fell threw a plate glass window when you were five. You held out your hand as if to reach for something and felt the sharp pain of glass perforate your hand. Your failure to cry was substituted by hysterical laughter and your mother was proud. She claimed your psychosis showed no restraint and would later benefit you in this word made up of mad men and martyrs. You told her you felt like Jesus as she cauterized your wound. The glass cuts formed a scar similar to a symbol from Crowley’s teachings. This was a contradiction and you loved it. I watched you lay on the floor from a chair of ivory and gold. Mothers milk spilled from the knocked over cup as you lay at my feet. I watched the blood from your hand mix with the white cream. poison White Oleanders. I had to re open your old wound with my four inch heel. I wanted your ugly to disintegrate. Blood spewed in the air and clung to flesh like magnetized particles. The bones in your hand protruded outwards like sticks in shit. Turbine bones releasing marrow. I was angry – you got blood on my shoe. You told me not to look so pleased. I called it interpenetrating. You called me a little shit as I cauterized your wound.
You had a proposition:
‘You’ll be an Alien and I’ll be Jesus.’
‘I get your crown of thorns once your done bleeding all over the place.’ I said, staring at the hole in your hand.
‘alien gets crown of thorns’
‘it’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?’ I replied with a half smirk.
I told you about the time he wouldn’t fuck me in the back of his car because he said I’d eat him alive.
‘I didn’t want his venom anyway.’
‘it takes fire to understand fire… is this why you have an obsession with Angels and Saints?’ you asked.
“…because their purity is unrealistic and foreign to me. They never get dirty knees. They never think about bleeding – they just bleed… continuously like draining pigs in a slaughter house. They drip and they sway held up by restraints. In this case their restraints being their faith. Their contagious unity among their brother and sisters. This is a concept i fail to comprehend… so I draw them to capture them.’
‘Yes, but what is the significance of only ever drawing them on trains?’ you persisted.
‘I draw them on long train rides home back to a hole in which i dwell because I can not pray. I have no shelter from my convictions. I often see passengers with heads bowed and eyes closed. I like to assume they are praying – in their own way, to various gods who refuse to listen. I can’t pray, so i draw, i’ve never been good with words anyway.’
‘oh, I see…’
‘Do you though?’ I asked with questionable taunt.
you changed the subject. ‘Should we spoil the Creation of the Fifth Day? Is it acceptable?’
‘Looks like BP already accomplished that. I bet God didn’t count on Hydroids, blue-ringed Octopuses, and venomous fish occupying his waters. If Whales and Fowls are the product of good, are all the King Ink’s of the world products of evil?’
You told me about your book collection, made up mostly of books on pigeons and crows.
‘I sometimes see rooks at my bus-stop in the morning. I would like to start feeding them, but I am not sure if they will attack me. I once dyed my hair black. How many books do you think you own?’
‘I don’t know, but not enough’ I said while effortlessly transfixed by the gauze absorbing the blood.
‘If you were to eat the egg of a female bird, from which bird would you choose to eat?’
‘I am allergic to eggs, no joke’