all INTERCUT with lots of shots of food,
to make our theme explicit: this is art.
WEBSTER'S become obsessed.
He has to find the woman from the screen.
He beats somebody up, fucks someone else,
fixated on "I'll see you, Webster, soon".
He's thrown in prison. And they come for him
THE MAN IN BLACK attending THE BRUNETTE,
Open his cell with keys, escort him out,
and leave the prison building. Through a door.
They walk him to the car park. They go down,
below the car park, deep beneath the town,
past shadowed writhing things that suck and hiss
and glossy things that laugh, and things that scream.
Now other feeder-folk are walking past…
They handcuff Webster to A TINY MAN
who's covered with vaginas and with teeth,
and escorts Webster to
THE QUEEN'S SALON.
(An interjection here: my wife awoke,
scared by an evil dream. "You hated me.
You brought these women home I didn't know,
but they knew me, and then we had a fight,
and after we had shouted you stormed out.
You said you'd find a girl to fuck and eat."
This scares me just a little. As we write
we summon little demons. So I shrug.)
The handcuffs are removed. He's left alone.
The hangings are red velvet, then they lift,
reveal the Queen. We recognise her face,
the woman we saw on the VCR.
"The world divides so sweetly, neatly up
into the feeder-folk, into their prey."
That's what she says. Her voice is soft and sweet.
Imagine honey-ants: the tiny head,
the chest, the tiny arms, the tiny hands,
and after that the bloat of honey-swell,
the abdomen enormous as it hangs
translucent, made of honey, sweet as lust.
The QUEEN has quite a perfect little face,
her breasts are pale, blue-veined; her nipples pink;
her hands are white. But then, below her breasts
the whole swells like a whale or like a shrine,
a human honey-ant, she's huge as rooms,
as elephants, as dinosaurs, as love.
Her flesh is opalescent, and she calls
poor WEBSTER to her. And he nods and comes.
(She must be over twenty-five feet long.)
She orders him to take off all his clothes.
His cock is hard. He shivers. He looks lost.
He moans "I'm harder than I've ever been".
Then, with her mouth, she licks and tongues his cock…
We linger here. The language of the eye
becomes a bland, unflinching, blowjob porn,
(her lips are glossy, and her tongue is red).
HOLD on her face. We hear him gasping "Oh.
Oh baby. Yes. Oh. Take it in your mouth."
And then she opens up her mouth, and grins,
and bites his cock off
Spurting blood pumps out
into her mouth. She hardly spills a drop.
We never do pan up to see his face,
just her. It's what they call the money shot.
Then, when his cock's gone down, and blood's congealed,
we see his face. He looks all dazed and healed.
Some feeders come and take him out of there.
Down in the pens he's chained beside McBride.
Deep in the mud lie carcasses picked clean
who grin at them and dream of being soup.
Poor things.
We're almost done.
We'll leave them there.
CUT to some lonely doorway, where A TRAMP
has three cold fingers up ANOTHER TRAMP,
they're starving but they fingerfuck like hell,
and underneath the layers of old clothes
beneath the cardboard, newspaper and cloth,
their genders are impossible to tell.
PAN UP:
to watch a butterfly go past.
CHAPTER 8: The White Road
"…I wish that you would visit me one day,
in my house.
There are such sights I would show you."
My intended lowers her eyes, and, yes, she shivers.
Her father and his friends all hoot and cheer.
"That's never a story Mister Fox," chides a pale woman
in the corner of the room, her hair corn-fair,
her eyes the grey of cloud, meat on her bones,
she curves, and smiles crooked and amused.
"Madam, I am no storyteller," and I bow, and ask,
"Perhaps, you have a story for us?" I raise an eyebrow.
Her smile remains.
She nods, then stands, her lips move:
"A girl from the town, a plain girl, was betrayed by her lover,
a scholar. So when her blood stopped flowing,
and her belly swole beyond disguising,
she went to him, and wept hot tears. He stroked her hair,
swore that they would marry, that they would run,
in the night,
together,
to his aunt. She believed him;
even though she had seen the glances in the hall
he gave to his master's daughter,
who was fair, and rich, she believed him.
Or she believed that she believed.
"There was something sly about his smile,
his eyes so black and sharp, his rufous hair. Something
that sent her early to their trysting place,
beneath the oak, beside the thornbush,
something that made her climb the tree and wait.
Climb a tree, and in her condition.
Her love arrived at dusk, skulking by owl-light,
carrying a bag,
from which he took a mattock, shovel, knife.
He worked with a will, beside the thornbush,
beneath the oaken tree,
he whistled gently, and he sang, as he dug her grave,
that old song…
Shall I sing it for you, now, good folk?"
She pauses, and as a one we clap and we holler
–or almost as a one:
My intended, her hair so dark, her cheeks so pink,
her lips so red,
seems distracted.
The fair girl (Who is she? A guest of the inn, I hazard) sings:
"A fox went out on a shiny night And he begged for the moon to give him light For he'd many miles to go that night Before he'd reach his den-O! Den-O! Den-O! He'd many miles to go that night, before he'd reach his den-O."
Her voice is sweet and fine, but the voice of my intended is
finer.
"And when her grave was dug-
A small hole it was, for she was a little thing,
even big with child she was a little thing-
he walked below her, back and a forth,
rehearsing her hearsing, thus:
-Good evening, my pigsnie, my love,
my, but you look a treat in the moon's light,
mother of my child-to-be. Come, let me hold you.
And he'd embrace the midnight air with one hand,
and with the other, holding his short but wicked knife,
he'd stab and stab the dark.
"She trembled in her oak above him. Breathed so softly,
but still she shook. And once he looked up and said,
-Owls, I'll wager, and another time, Fie! Is that a cat
up there? Here, puss…But she was still,
bethought herself a branch, a leaf, a twig. At dawn
he took his mattock, spade and knife and left
all grumbling and gudgeoned of his prey.
"They found her later wandering, her wits
had left her. There were oak leaves in her hair,
and she sang:
The bough did bend The bough did break I saw the hole The fox did make
We swore to love
We swore to marry
I saw the blade
The fox did carry
"They say that her babe, when it was born,
had a fox's paw on her and not a hand.
Fear is the sculptress, midwives claim. The scholar fled."
And she sits down, to general applause.
The smile twitches, hides about her lips: I know it's there,
it waits in her grey eyes. She stares at me, amused.