CERCLES: DOORZ AND [WAINSCOT]

When we found him - flooded hair

black crisp skin

bollocks rotted in water algae.

Soapstone weighed him down.

He wore seersucker pants, a gaudy duffle coat.

Arthur Scargill newspaper clippings

and faecal matter glazing the radiators.

Part 1: He developed a lurid taste for it during the Great War.

Rats coming out of dead boy's mouths and the corpse

still producing a gag reflex;

grey fluid emanating from the larynx.

Their bodies pasted with blood, their overcooked sausage skin, worm-filled.

Them, the colour of candle wax.

Part 2: War ended, he looked up the graves of the boys

and exhumed the bodies for raping.

Motionless, daydreaming, sheltered by the grave gate.

And retching - after - into the cemetery pond.

Sat against the church with stomach gas,

in flux, man dispersed, swirly-eyed.

And on occasion, the big-bearded grave keeper threw him into the moat

and he tangled in green and achieved a full panorama of death,

only to resurface - uncrushable.

And after that, he drank beer.

His ritual.

The buried violence in knocking his spunk into the gelid heterosexuals,

the skin-rot-dust, and trapped, permanent morticians' perfume

subsuming his pecker,

the lethargy-inducing musk of pauper's graves

and all through it, thoughts of beer froth.

(Intermission): This antediluvian desire.

In monsoon season, one traveller - BDSM-clad, Yorkshire accent, MDMA-fucked -

does impart it from

his mouth to another mouth.

You are on a raft with him

and he face-fucks it into you.

Frankensteined-dead, he ass-bulb-shoots it into your stickleback frame.

You will be hypnotised by antique coffin lids,

and the fleshy holes of ripped open dead chests that look like cat food.

Part 2.5: So, a boat tour on the Everglades,

Averno (Gluck's underworld) under your external motor puking petroleum.

He sees crocodilians - grey, malted in slime-porridge, limescales.

The canebrake - silky. Where dirty Whitman curled his naked body

between the sticks, rubbing himself.

The alligators have foot fetishes like he does.

Hitchcock passed that on on a cherry-red London bus - demure, but stunning

keeping his own feet firmly together.

Alligators eat men to fatten the smallness of their feet.

Men sit at the bottom of their guts.

And he's on the boat tour with fat Americans

and LatinXs

who hunker down, fat guts pressed against steering wheels

I-95, I-40, Jacksonville, Miami, Pensacola.

Permanent napkins for bibs.

Man-eaters just like him - the grocer of Death.

Part 3: He kicked his habit, kicked it long before the boat trip.

Kicked it like you would heroin.

Killed it, kicked it.

Still, it gets difficult sometimes. He can’t desensitise.

The arcane Scottish sewage system spews up weird colours -

blues, beeswax-oranges plum-purples -

that remind him of the Grenadiers he loved so madly.

One day, he takes a razor to his earlobe in the bathroom mirror.

He cuts into his omelette-like ear

but can't go all the way.

Just vermillion blood on the sink rim, blood in the shaving foam, blood on the tiles.

Part 4: One day, he's on a park run

and sweating through a grey singlet and tracksuit.

He had an espresso shot from the park cafeteria

and feels like he could shit himself in slurries.

No one else around.

He sees a dead boy in the lake.

Grotty, naked, gargoyle-like, bleeding from wrists and mouth corners

and atop a sinuous bough dangled in the green water.

Twigs on and in his sternum.

Perhaps 23 years old,

red hair, blonde eyebrows, chin fluff, thin necklace,

toothpaste down his clavicle,

his metatarsals peppermint-colour (lavish),

burn marks dappled over his left nipple,

a birthmark on his milky elbow,

an earring dislodged and fallen into the stagnant water,

cue-ball whiteness between his knees,

bleached, colourless armpit hair.

Part 5: To do it, he had to move ungiving legs - like before.

He had to wrestle in the water

so that it lost its calming lap.

Could have stuck a cigar in his mouth as he raped him.

Amphibians just born hopped onto his ass cheeks.

When the fountain and the sprinkler system came on,

he was doused full-force - shamefully.

He did it in full daylight and with every bench around the lake perimeter empty.

He bit his lip and drew blood which spilled down his chin,

and salmon-orange fishes thirsted on the blood drops.

He rubbed his eyes so hard they almost wore out of his face.

No women pushing strollers, no dogs or dog walkers.

God had set the Cuckoo clock figures to leave him alone,

to let him - a bad person - do a bad thing in peace.

Maybe John Waters was present - licking the merry-go-round up the hill;

maybe Andy Warhol was parked up in his Volkswagen two blocks away;

but no policeman, no threat.

He couldn't go all the way.

He pulled out and finished behind a tree onto pond shrubbery.

He moaned and breathed irregularly to raise the mirthless intensity.

He wrapped his hand around his throat and headbutted the tree

to put tail behind it.

No doubt he was clumsy with sex.

Even if industrious, even if able to kick an insatiable habit for so long

it felt like inert eternity, even if (ultimately) depraved.

But he was dragged into clumsiness, he convinces himself,

by German guns, and veteran parades

where he saw in the wheelchairs, the inanimateness he so often

relished to devour.

And by Floridians on holiday, by reptiles digesting backwater men,

by Scotland’s archaic sewage system spewing up the appearance of dead boys.

SHANGHAI STIRFRY

He punched his Loverboy in the eye with the phone transmitter.

Now, black-eyed, Loverboy sucks his dick.

The dick tastes not of brine but its likeness.

They were scuba-diving in the blue hills all glorious afternoon

and Muscle Boy, pink and crumpled in his wetsuit,

threatened to cut Loverboy into little pieces

when they were back on the secluded grass.

He waved around a rigging knife

exclaiming nothing but, "I'll cut your cock off

and cut it into thirteen pieces

and rub each piece around my lips whispering and afterwards

insert them up your delicious rump

and I'll do it just because I'm bored,

because I'm fed up with life as it is."

But they're back home now and Loverboy

throttles the dirk-like dick and foams down it.

Muscle Boy, slumped over on himself with a square stomach,

digs his scissor fingernails

under his neck rosary and snaps it.

And he reaches over to the window,

across the patch of bed which he filled with piss,

and - addled with heartburn - flings open the curtains,

so the neighbours and exhibitionists and Satanists

and voyeurs and ecclesiastical hogs,

running their anal-bead-assisted cum and gas and old tears

and shit-painted bananas down the world's gutters,

can all see, through the double-dildo rows of trees. Can see

cold-blooded dribble snake down Muscle's Eiffel tower.

Now the two of them are going to die.

Beer, cigarettes.

They overdosed on a mix of Barbiturates and Risperidone

while watching videos of dying and decomposing

and sodomising and vampiric African safari animals,

and burning each other with duty-free cigarette butts

and tying up each others white boy feet with black

wraparound telephone cables and wires ripped out of the wall.

Loverboy's eyes droop now and the room sways

and he vomits - orange - onto Muscle Boy's abdomen and cock.

He embalms Muscle Kid's rod in puke.

Loverboy tries to recoil but Muscle Boy foists his cock

back into his sewage-guzzling dirty mouth.

And Loverboy swallows his own sick, dying, falling into forever sleep

and choking on spittle and cum and vomit

and chewed pills in the vomit

and the Prozac and the Bacardi get in his blonde moustache.

And all of it scented and textured, ultimately,

with sea and piss in their phantasmagorical deaths.

MR. JELLY SWINE

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Mental wellness (CRS): If sad at him not inserting a breadbin into your large intestine, shave your head and declare daily into the mirror that you are a "bald faggot". Lock yourself in the attic and read and rub over your anus two copies of Mein Kampf and watch re-runs of BBC television declaring everyone in showbiz part of a paedophile ring. Do not sleep. Nibble on Hitler's pages for basic sustenance, absorb his struggle. Remember cornflakes, get a hard-on just at the thought of cornflakes. Drool out of your mouth. Let your hungry Siamese cat, Narcht, up there with you and let him eat your dick. Leave the attic dickless, and see our powerful MR JELLY SWINE muscle man logo on your rectal douche and dildo packaging left out, and reach down to masturbate over his glistening thick neck but find only frizzled cat fur and blood and the evil and the blindness of existence alone. Of your hatred, filling you whole like a cock or an ever-expanding walnut.

Tempest Miller is a writer from the UK. His work has appeared in Boats Against the Current, Swamp Pink and JAKE. He releases a monthly chapbook on Amazon. His Instagram is @tempestm1ller.