But First…

    I’m glad so many people liked the bit of erotica poetry I wrote Wednesday. Back when I decided to create stories that weren’t typical and to focus on female characters, I didn’t want to restrict myself in any way. My creative urges veer towards the dark, but one thing I always wanted to make sure of was that whenever I chose to use sex, it would mostly be in a positive way. There’s enough stuff out there shaming people out of sex (while at the same time throwing as much sex as possible at people [psychiatrists wonder why Americans have problems…]), I didn’t feel the need to add to that pile. Celebrate sex, damnit. Responsibly. And although I don’t mind writing sex, I can’t write something that’s purely sexual. By that, I mean that I can’t write just a sex act. There has to be more going on. One of the things I’m proudest of about THE GRAVE OF LINDA SEWARD is that there’s a story along with fucking. Well… not so much a story as it is character stuff. But it’s great character stuff, I feel. I didn’t give them names, but I’d like to think that you know the couple well enough. Another of my prouder achievements is not making the couple typically romantic.


“I love you.” “I love you, too.” “This moment is so special to me.” “I know, it’s the same for me.” “Don’t let go.” “I’ll never let go, Darling. I’ll never, ever let go.”


    Fucking shoot me. That amorous interplay might’ve been fine last century, last millennium, but love evolves. It’s not just about being lovers anymore. The person you’re with has to also be your friend. Otherwise, why bother potentially spending the rest of your life with them? You should be able to have passionate sex with them as well as have fun. Be their shoulder to cry on and be their enabler. As I was writing the poem, I got the sense that the couple really liked each other as lovers and friends (I’m not nearly as “conscious” when writing poetry as I am when screenwriting, so lots of things surprise me) and that kept me interested. I wasn’t in the room with the people who’ve enjoyed it, but I’d like to think that it was a reason they were interested, too. That and the oral.


    But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Things are still on-track this year to make the film that I wrote, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about, either. I told myself to not talk about a project until I was knee-deep in it. Eating crow is a terrible thing. I won’t be directing the film that’s a-coming, but I wanted to stay productive until I write my opportunity to direct. So I decided to write a book of women-centric short stories. Some dark, some funny, some sexy, some philosophical, but always entertaining. The format of the short stories will jump all over the place, too. Some will be written normally, but I plan on doing other things like writing some as if they were letters. And writing some like epic poems like THE ILLIAD. Which brings me to something I’d like to present to you.


    I love time-travel stories (at least one reader knows how deep I am into all things DOCTOR WHO), but I feel that the potential for them hasn’t been realized yet. I have a few ideas and I felt that it was time to put my money where my mouth was. THE PAIN OF BEING MAN (a barely modified Hunter S. Thompson quote) is turning out to be an awesome behemoth. My intention was to write a seven-part poem over the course of seven pages. Well. The part I’m about to share with you (3) ends midway on the eighth page. So, yeah, you’re in for a long read (sorry?). I think the only thing you need to know before reading is that the time-traveler’s name is Melody and that the time-travel device is a horn. Oh, and that I definitely wore my dark hat as I wrote it.


   Thanks for reading.


III


The charred live upon Gallows Hill

Still choke the throats of those who linger

Stroking an axe named “Regress”

On the grindstone called “Life”

History claims that The Trials hung their prey

Yet there is fiction in this truth

Nineteen twigs were snapped

But Salem’s most wretched blights

Are smears on antiquity’s chalkboard

For shared belief can build worlds

And shared denial can will anything to entropy

What tastes more bitter than a lynch mob?

What makes the prideful give pause

Embarrassment

Seeing the step too far behind them

Footprints in the ashes of those they have damned

In the delirium of their prudish blazes


The brandy of power

Flowed down the throats of Salem’s bureaucracy

As Sarah and Alice, Susannah and Mary

As Elizabeth swung from their “charity”

The collective subconscious of the bureaucracy

Drunkenly proclaimed

Women should know their place

On their backs, knees, or last nerves

At the whims of their husbands… their masters

The male gaze guided this purpose

But the execution was far more androgynous

Sisterhood served the mushroomhead

Legs spread and self-worth in absentia

The merest hint of dissent

Was banished to a hole under Gallows Hill

Twice as deep as the grave

But the grave was more inviting


Women dug the hole

Women filled the hole

Women’s cries slapped the dirt

…and some women preferred things this way

The hole began to fill and fill

But the drunkards couldn’t decide

If it was a means or an end

Demeter’s sadness made their choice

As her tears gave Charon a new harvest

Culling the women in the hole

Making them victims no longer

Yet the bureaucracy was still at a loss

Even as the man-made mire dried

Even as the carrion invited pestilence

Until, one night

A prudish blaze made the issue extinct

Lit by friend or foe

Covered by time and shame


In the pandemonium

(Milton’s or Webster’s)

Some women fled to sanity

Tide and plain alike

Caitrin, of the O’Days, found regretful peace

Conceived an expected brood

And died typically

Her mother and sister, however

Were spared such mediocrity

Denied such splendor

Mother, Margaret

Daughter, Fainche

Father, Struthers

All dancers in the Chauvinism Party Line


Once upon an evening dreary

A grievous Struthers took stock of his life

His life left lacking Caitrin

She was his favorite

Daughter, female figure, whatever

For weeks, she’s been gone

His agony caused frenzies and ulcers

He hid his apoplectic nature

For fear of ending up on or under Gallows Hill

But on this evening, he achieved lucidity

A crooked truth erected itself

As he made answers for himself

Its bricks were selfish

And perversions its mortar

Alas, humanity could not be found

Only Fainche, idle sans protection


The salty air, Neptune’s breath

Is a constant presence in this coastal colony

Still

Margaret feels a sting she cannot shake

Malaise ensnares her

Like the day’s take upon the pier

Mother’s intuition or puritanical paranoia

Whichever magnetic plight you choose

Pulls her from her wifely duties

To her idle Fainche


Passing through the doorway

Margaret wades through her dread

She knows they are inside

Yet she cannot place where

She wants to call out to them

Though she fears the potential truth

Her creaking steps reek of warning

Or laughter

But the stinging remains the same

Her failures of domestic exploration

Lead to one last room

Her quivering hand opens

The cellar door


What tender touches reserved for Margaret

Roam over Fainche

Gagged and tearful

Struthers explains himself

Without a hint of hubris or shame

And endeavors Margaret’s understanding

While casting out the absent Caitrin

Father knows best

Murmurs of the bureaucracy

Birthmarks on Margaret’s memory

Another voice she also hears

And mistakes for her conscience

She offers it the same obedience

Whilst snatching Fainche from the queer setting


Struthers commands

With the fury of a broken man

As Fainche clings to her mother’s chest

That his wife return his child to him

Lest he beat them both

And leave them to ruin

Father knows best

But Margaret can’t abandon Fainche

Loyalty to two masters

Takes its toll on her heart

The stinging in her breast

Is like a drill to her core

Her core drills back

A horn through time

…and through dear Fainche


“M-mother? It hurts so.”


Melody is again thrust into horrors

And a year she has never known

As a terrified man stands before her

As a dying girl is wrapped around her

As she still does not understand the spell


“I-I grow cold, Mother, but it’s n-not yet Winter.”


What gnarled thing passes for Struthers’ heart

Gives out first

Then his knees

His shoulders

His head

And Fainche’s tiny hands

Begin to let go of life


“Will I s-see Kitty, Mother? Y-you said that…”


When this happens next

Melody will know why

But until then

She can only bask in the death

And cry herself to sleep


 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on February 19, 2016 09:00
No comments have been added yet.