50 Shades of Tyler Blue

The story so far:

It was a surprise that made me go wow and have a weenchy bit of acid reflux when he showed up in the door of my humble antiques shop in his custom made Bugatti Buttlicker with built in Jacuzzis and ground to air missiles.

“Wow,” I said again.

“Hello again,” he said. “Sorry about the door of your shop. I can give you the money to get it repaired because I’m a fantastically wealthy young man.”

“Wow,” I said. “Yes you are.”

I hadn’t expected to see him so soon after I’d received a call to go and value his father’s antique collection of codpieces at one of his many mansions the day before.

All the time I’d been there I’d been goose bumpy conscious of him looking at me, making odd groaning noises while gnawing repeatedly on his knuckles.

“Are you all right?” I asked at one point.

“You are an extraordinarily attractive young woman,” he said at last, dabbing at his ear with a bleeding knuckle.

“Wow,” I said, “and you are a very very rich young man.”

“Yes I am,” he said, “a very very very rich and young man.”

I’d moved to Los Angeles to find myself, but hadn’t managed to do it there so instead moved to whatever city he lived in. Almost immediately, his intense wealth and strangely heavy breathing told me that Tyler Blue was a most intense and rich young man.

“What do you think of this one?” he said, handing me an enormous black leather codpiece, “touch it. Caress it. Don’t be afraid to explore it. You can even lick it if you want. I’m sure it’s been washed at least once since the Middle Ages.”

“Wow,” I said, “it’s really big, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is,” he said, “really, really big.”

On and on we went down his unusually long hallway, looking at codpieces. I told him I’d never seen so many in one place before. “Oh, there’s plenty more where they came from,” he said, waggling his eyebrows moodily before wincing in sudden pain from a bleeding knuckle.

At the very end of the hallway stood a cement mixer. “What’s that for?” I asked hungrily.

“It’s the most special thing in my entire collection,” he said, “apart from my fabulous wealth of course. It’s the cherry on top of a very kinky cake, the vigorous climax at the end of a special evening.”

“Wow,” I said. “What does it do?”

“Well, er, normally it mixes cement.”

“Wow. And anything else?”

His bleeding knuckles grew impressively sweaty. His musk of Lagerfeld and BO became utterly overpowering as he began breathing rapidly and moving his hand around his scrotum like a spacecraft orbiting a distant asteroid.

“Well, you just climb up there,” he started to say, “and…” Suddenly Tyler Blue turned Tyler Red with a furious blush. “It’s too soon,” he shrieked, “too soon. And I’ve just remembered there are 560 more chapters.” He rushed past me and disappeared into one of his seventy two bathrooms.

Minutes later, as he emerged with a tourniquet around his knuckles, I gave him my valuation of his codpiece collection. He frowned moodily, his lustrous pea green eyes looking broody.

“Not what you were hoping for?” I said.

“No, it’s just I could make more money selling one of my lamps.”

“Well, if they give you pleasure.”

Tyler Blue was Tyler Red again for a moment. He regained his impressive composure by sucking on an unbloodied knuckle. “And of course I don’t need the money,” he said, “as I clearly have wads and wads of it.”

“Wow. I can certainly see that.”

“Yes. You can. Can’t you?”

“How on earth did you make it all?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said, “it’s something to do with computers.”

“Yes,” I said. “I thought it might be something like that.”

“Yes,” he said.

“But I can’t help wondering have I been wasting my time here?”

“Oh no,” he said, “I’d love to have you for dinner sometime.”

“Wow,” I said, “why not now?”

“My carving equipment is being cleaned.”

“I see.”

“But I’m anxious to compensate you for your time.”

“Oh. There’s no need.”

“No really. I am, as you have pointed out several times now, a fabulously wealthy and young man. Money is no object. Here, have a lollipop. Think of me as you suck on it.”

I did. Several times.

So it was with a big ‘wow’ of surprise that I watched him crash through the door of my shop the next day. An armed guard and blood drenched Rottweiler stood guard by the Buttlicker while he rushed towards me.

He seized me by the arm. “Ow, I mean wow,” I said.

“There’s something you need to know about me,” he said, peering into the depths of my soul from inside his RayBans, breathing right down into my colon with breath that smelled like a furious mix of Karl Lagerfeld and petrol.

“Wow,” I attempted to breathe back, “is it that you’re fabulously wealthy?”

“No,” he breathed back, wheezing a little now, “it’s that my parents weren’t very nice to me.”

“Wow,” I said, “I thought it might be something like that.”

“How devastating and true your womanly insight is,” the petrol fumes were starting to make me dizzy.

“And the best thing is,” I managed just before I passed out, “it makes all our dark disturbed sexual stuff perfectly ok for middle aged matrons to read about, because you’re damaged.”

“And fantastically wealthy,” he reminded me.

“Wow. And fantastically wealthy,” I said, before going unconscious and hitting my head on the antique floor.

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Poetry Week: After Tom Waits

What need have I of Christ

When I crucify myself each night

Under the billows of smoke

The lipstick ashtrays the putrid musk

Of table dancers and their gawping answers

Of mottled eye candy and its tender threat?

I’ll beard them with my friendly growl

All dust, bone and entrail.

I’ll bid them hear the lurch

Of my ravelled heart.

I sing with my liver

I pray out of mangled lips

My stage is my crucifix

My cancer is your cure.

I mock hell with my dead man’s laugh

It mocks me back with song.

Till I try anew with madness

Howling into wires a mangy dog of love

Making a name for the horrified rage

That each turn of the planet exhales

Sends creeping through space like sperm

In search of its gawping answer.

I hang on platforms

And half-real street corners

Never going anywhere

For everywhere is here.

Till it’s time to mount my cross again

And bleed raw bone to ether

My rasping whisper of love.

And from inside my nimbus

Of company, smoke and death,

I seem to dream a question:

Are you man enough for me?

Am I real enough for you?

 

Poetry Week: A Wasp

Here’s a much shorter one.

A Wasp

A wasp paused on a pebble

In the humid rage of a morning.

It had scouted the stone Sargasso,

Furious skimmed the taunting weeds.

It quartered the terrain,

Vibrating even at rest

A livid tiny vessel

An ever cocked torpedo.

Till it settled one calmer instant

Bloom and Dedalus like

To take its ease and spend

A tiny photon of time

On something it could never complete,

A glimmer perhaps of freedom

Release from the sensual flame.

But the habit of rage reconquered

In far less than an instant.

It went back to fury and questing

Forgot its quibble with God.

Poetry Week: A Galway Prayer

Yes, I’ve decided to have a poetry week here on Jasongill2015. Why? Why not? This isn’t particularly a poetry blog and I don’t really consider myself a poet. The poetic muse has always treated me very strangely. I remember rising from a bout of insomnia and spilling down two poems almost without thinking. Three years might have passed before I wrote another. So it goes.

This is the only poem I’ve ever been paid for. It also should have won me the only poetry slam I’ve ever competed in. Anxious as ever to ‘put on a show,’ I performed the poem in the style of John Cooper Clarke, thus preventing the poetry ‘expert’ who was judging the thing from realizing that it was actually an original poem.

Maybe the secret to success in life is figuring out just how much less is actually more. The poem is a tribute of sorts to the city of Galway in Ireland, a place unlike any other, even unlike itself, though you’ll probably have to read the poem to figure out what I mean. If you’re very bored, you could even try declaiming it like John Cooper Clarke. Go on, it’s fun.

A Prayer Of Galway

He lunged at human shape in a squall off the bay

A thing of grit and shale and envy. He became

Whole in the reek of wind and wet clay.

He ran gasping from the chemistry of doubt

And took his first flailing steps on the pummelled strand

Under that city no more real than he.

He patted and preened and checked himself out.

He kept his back to the fog that gave him form.

The wind pushed him east with fleshy promises;

He sought out his place in Galway myth.

 

Under the spasms of Eyre Square rain he wore

The malevolent stare of a wino,

His lank hair sodden, his ragged mouth cursing,

He denounced the world and other people’s money

In gap toothed broken sentences.

His loping gait frightened children

His balled fists made students clench.

He lunged from toilet to phone booth

Cursing the world’s shrinking store of pity.

He got his fists around a bottle

Its corrosive fire emboldened him

Before he lost it in a game of mental poker

And spoke of the hardness of men’s hearts

In gap toothed broken sentences.

Necessity and self-invention drove him to Shop Street,

His ancient checked suit, a relic of the Ford Capri age

Heavily pregnant with water, exhaled steam as a burst

Of wet sunlight illuminated the tourists and Antipodean girls.

Downtown Canberra trilled through Galway, its fruity voices

Raised in a chant of earthly delights.

He found a populous corner and unslung his scabbard,

His guitar looked like his suit, the first strums sounded crusty.

His face lost its wino redness, went pale like a holy picture,

His blotchy eyes were trendily hooded

As he gave them something classical.

Tired, curious Americans stopped and smiled,

Coins and notes began to drop.

Hassled students hefted their rucksacks through the

Wind and rain. And dreamed of joining the circus.

Bob Dylan and Classical Gas safely rendered

Into the roil of Galway air, he set his cap for Neacthains

A pot newly brimming with coinage.

In hardly and hour he was holding forth,

A scandalous tale of a writer he hardly knew,

A denunciation of other people’s money.

Shortly after six there entered a doe eyed curly girl

In whose mind he was a mythical colossus.

He locked eyes with her, he teased her,

You are so young, he said and thought,

So young, so young … what more can be said?

But she smiled back in a desperate ecstacy

And prayed to the gods of her bedroom.

As night fell in Dominick Street,

He donned the mantle of working class hero,

Denouncing other people’s money.

Round himself in a crusty bar he gathered

A cabal of paunchy, grey haired radicals,

Sixties bra twiddlers twirling their busty daughters

Through careers in Accountancy.

They talked of Marx and Castro, of JFK

And the great white plot. Of Stevie Wonder and John Denver.

The gravitas of their Guinness in the murky half-light

Gave weight to their sober dissertations,

As all agreed that Revolution and free love would follow

Once money was no more.

The night air held a sniff of music,

He excused himself from politics

And sat in on a session, dimly wondering if

The doe eyed girl would reappear,

If he should after all drink his fill of her youth.

Teenagers with full beards played and sang

Of Celtic heroes, of names in picture books.

He held a harangue with a cynical barman

And left whistling an aged tune past the

Lamplit dollhouse streets that flanked the Crane.

He beat a vague trail for the sea

Waiting for the moment when he, like

Cuchulainn, like Oisin, like Che Guevara and

Jim Morrison, would evaporate and become a

Thing of mist: only summoned back next morning

By the pitiless Galway wind.

And as he neared his nexus of dissipation,

He forced his shrinking eyes backward,

Saw the piers and tinkling arcades of Salthill,

The pylons, glass and Cathedral spire

Turn to mist and become no more

Till their summons back next morning

By the pitiless western wind.