published/forthcoming pieces from Polluted Sex:
I’d noticed you were off the scene, so I asked her out, last week, for lunch. She said she couldn’t meet up for lunch, but later on, for a drink, I met her, she was coming from one thing, heading to another. I met her and she seemed happy to see me, we talked, we had a few drinks, she asked would I mind if she ordered some food, did I want some, I said yes. Yes. I wanted to eat.
THE FIRST PERSON POSSESSIVE OR PROPER NOUNS ARE LOST TO THE YESTERDAYS WE ALL DREAMT OF ANYWAY
Molly and Jack are lovers. His friends call him Jimmy. They go down, to the beach, close by the harbour, on Tuesday evenings, and wriggle in the sand. Molly and Jack are close friends. His nickname is Jimmy. They play on the beach. They like to play in the sand. They like the seaside. Well, then again now, he wriggles really, against her; and she lies there thinking of apple trees.
MOLLY & JACK AT THE SEASIDE
The waves across the Irish Sea are high and rough.
A woman sits alone at a table. Another woman stands at the bar peering into the bottom of her whiskey glass. A young woman and a man sit huddled in a dark corner of the ship. Where the movies play. He holds her hand open and draws circles round the edges of her palm with his thumb. A girl, no more than nineteen, stands on the open decking, the wind hurtles around her. What need has she to care? She peers over the railings’ edge and steps up just one step, one rung. A girl child is on board with her parents. She is wan, not pale, more transparent in actual fact. The bones of her skull are set so tight the skin pastes itself to them, she looks as though a roar of wind will break her. Or it actually already has, and she has been stuck back together with glue which has set, down to the bones, too tight. There are other Irish women on board, they are alone, maybe with friends, one close friend, a partner, even a spouse. They are all on this ship. Not one of these women has a name.
HILLS LIKE HEMINGWAY’S
she tells me not to worry about my blue period
JONI MITCHELL NUDES
Her first boyfriend used to kiss her after coffee and oranges. It was a strange taste. But she got used to it. They’d sit behind the harbour wall smoking and supping vodka from a Coke bottle. Braced as they were from the breeze, he’d reach across while she was drinking and start opening her jeans with his free forefinger and thumb and she’d listen to people passing by above heading down to the rocks to toke with the others. Someone would have brought a ghetto blaster and she’d listen to the reggae bumping off the rocks. His hand would reach across to her belt buckle. She’d pass the bottle back. He’d have to take it with his free hand. He wasn’t able to reach for the bottle and keep his smoke in the dark. Then he’d pass the bottle of Coke again and start threading the belt out of its teethed trap. She wouldn’t lean back to make it easy for him. He’d just about get it out of the jagged bit when she’d tip him with the bottle again. She knew he knew why she was doing it.
what i am to her is not spoken
She twists the arse of her skirt straight so the seam is in line with her crack. An off-centre skirt looks like a lopsided behind. It’s bad enough having a sizeable behind, appearing unsymmetrical really just won’t do. Over shoulder mirror check of bum cheek skirt symmetry, rounder and rounder, better than fatter and fatter she supposes.
SQUIGGLY ARSE CRACK