the tar machine

home

family

mother

father

sister

brother

strap

leather strap-spray-wind-the leather strap lets fly like the tail of an angry puma-black cat-yellow eyes-her name is holly-holly stares at her surroundings from the safety of her cane basket-the black and white tiled kitchen floor is a precipice that requires the most sensuous negotiations of the four paws of a cat-even if there was a mouse dawdling along the skirting board holly would not be interested for survival is foremost in her cat’s brain-all mice can wait-there will be time to play when the job is done

inside the house seen through the yellow eyes of holly the cat-she stands-she expands both this way and that-the fur on her back like iron filings drawn to a powerful magnet secretly implanted in the ceiling-holly’s fur-it has a life of its own as it leaves her spine-a flock of fine hair scurries along the walls of this sullen room-and i-in my decrepit bed-i wake from dreams of long ago anticipating some relief-shake the sleep from my eyes-and discover for the forty thousandth time these bluestone walls and the sound of an unseen creek trickling outside-i do not rise from this mattress of straw-it is as if i must lever this body across time-and i can no longer remember whether this exacerbated cat was once a childhood pet or has always been a black and hissing figment in my mind-my hair-black as well-yet inferior to holly’s-it hangs across my face-oily-traces of grey-how long have i been in this room-did i arrive yesterday on a star descending past the moon as it streaked across the universe-no matter-these walls-the sound of that creek-and holly’s tail insinuating itself into my ear-her unclipped claws hooked into the flesh around my shoulder blades-and rip with a flourish-and rip with another-and my skin descends toward the base of my spine in curlicues that gather between the pads of holly’s paws-i once administered pain-i have spilled blood and drank it and rubbed it across my chest-created a pattern from someone else’s misery-only to have their misery become my own in this room-behind these walls-with holly on my back inside my mind tearing pieces from me-exposing the ribs of a time that seems so ancient-if only i could find words that would adequately express this sinister dream inside a mind rupturing within the remembered blood of someone else’s misery-these words i cannot find are walls to the sound of that trickling creek i imagine runs through a field on the outside of this room-daisies-sunshine-these words are so inadequate-they do not inspire-and my dream drifts back into this room-behind these walls-exhausted-i dump my body back on this bed and realise the idyllic creek outside is just the sound of metal coils contracting beneath my weight

rupture-jenkins-and yes-i run my fingers through my hair-feel the greasy touch of whiskers covered in human oil-and yes-i remember a man named jenkins-his soul split by experience-and yes-jenkins- he wore black horn-rimmed glasses like antelope horns belonging to the twisted cape of some disfigured shaman-and his stories-they were of the blackest kites swirling in a cumulonimbus sky-jenkins stories breaking his listeners bones-scooping out the marrow they believed in-replacing it with a dowel of the blackest type-until it was jenkins who was able to make his listeners fly upon recitals of his disfigured shaman's dreams-this story of green leaves turned grey-decomposed and banking up along the seams joining the walls inside this bluestone room-and jenkins-you sit here now-your grey hair in strands across your scalp-leaving the slightest freckle revealed-what is inside your head jenkins-what sits beneath that freckle-is it a manifestation of the sprinting cancer inside your body-talk to me jenkins-tell me stories from inside your room-is it like mine jenkins-or are there many rooms-one containing a kitchen table-a silver room jenkins-you are a lucky man-let me hear the story of your silver room jenkins-tell em jenkins-explain the specifications of your room-talk jenkins-i will listen-i will abide by your regulations-it is fortified with steel-your wife stands by an ironing board-her tongue extends toward you-entering your ear-you feel the sound of her tongue entering your ear and your perceptions are momentarily disfigured-a split of the soul jenkins-your wife-she has control-for it is your ear inside her mouth when she swallows-and yes jenkins-your story is one of love floating high on air clouds whipped by currents into a cumulonimbus sky-and jenkins-what has become of this thing- this globule of ectoplasm that we thinly-that we inadequately describe as a soul-is it spread amongst green fields inside the highways and streams that make up the vascularity of your interior-are you totally diseased jenkins or is this infection confined to the flesh beneath your missing ear-talk jenkins-i will listen-talk jenkins- speak-and you are silent-and i am feeble-and jenkins-we shall sleep now-and continue our disfigured dissertation when we wake

silver room-slilver lady-the lady inside the silver dances with a broom extending up her arse and out her ear-she thrashes at experience- sweeps life into a time when her mind was frozen-when sand gathered in the corners of this bluestone room-she visits me now- the lady inside-she leaves her silver room and crawls from jenkins sleeping ear-i wake-her arms and body heave and sway in front of me-inside the mountain with a thousand caves that is her torso- those ribs the ribs of the lady inside-semicircular-smooth ivory ribs- bones of experience-i want to extend my hands through her pink flesh-to visit the interior of her torso and run my fingers along those ribs-like whalebone-the lady inside-her ribs-engraved by the finest cartographer-diagrams as yet unreadable-must get closer-leave this forlorn room of broken dreams-and yes-feel the edge of my dirty fingernail trailing along the inscriptions etched into those ribs-of pathways to the sea-of men in ships-their beards flaying in the wind- of diagrams incised upon the life of the lady inside-and it is the ship that i must see-for it is the vessel that transported my father to this house of hawthorn brick-his memories-his experiences-his fantasies inscribed upon my spine-that spineless act of pissing in a gumboot for fear that your father would rip his love away from you-and yes-it is love at the core of these wretched dreams-it is love that was ripped from me in that house of hawthorn brick-at first-its doors and windows were open to the sun-that house sucked in the juice of spring-dispersed pollen along corridors that degenerated into sand and dust-now-i sit inside this bluestone room-these cold walls-these walls made from thick ice-where memories leak into the general surrounds-memories of a man named jenkins-he sleeps next to me- the freckle on his head alive with the sound of his disfigured brain turning each thought over-each memory-of the woman inside- jenkins wife-who bit off her husbands ear for fear that he would become contaminated by the goings on inside this bluestone room- these walls-the sound of incessant dripping-gaining speed- becoming a trickle-outside i hear the creek become a river as it races towards the sea-the swirling waters of the mouth of a river regurgitating its soul into the sea-come jenkins-find your feet among the grime-do not slip-struggle jenkins-take your hand away from the place that once held an ear-listen-force yourself to listen as we chip holes through these walls of ice-feel the fresh air of a future life for both of us seep into the stale degeneration of this bluestone room- sniff-taste-hear-touch a life that lies paved and spread before us- extending through green fields into the distance-a small creek running alongside us jenkins-running with us-smooth stone experiences to come jenkins-let us walk-and when we are tired we shall sleep once more

and yes jenkins-do you see the stag-its velvet covered antlers a complex of possibilities-presenting pathways jenkins-which path do we choose-it is your turn to choose jenkins-you-the man who turned up that lucky wildcard-your life jenkins-what a laugh-it always seems to rise from somewhere at the bottom of a deck-on a ship-etched into the rib bones of the woman inside-my father-jenkins-jenkins-my father-i walk with you into walls-our heads-our eyes confronting one another yet all this time those pig eyes of yours have prevented me from seeing that you jenkins-you are that father that ripped your love from me and spat it into that bluestone gutter outside that house of hawthorn brick-i love your disfigurement jenkins-want to press my fingers into the pulp beside your temple and elicit strands of love from inside the recess of your brain-a tendon of love jenkins-i suck your love through my lips-it slithers down my throat-it burns the oesophagus-i will eat your entire mind jenkins-my father-i will eat the worms in your mind and shit them back into the sea-in the hope that- in the hope-there is no hope-there is only you jenkins