Tag Archives: Tatar

love won’t wait (what with a war on your heels)

There are three of us altogether. My father’s first wife died of tuberculosis and left him with a son. My mother’s first husband died and left her with a son. Mother’s first husband designed airplanes and died whilst testing one. Because he wasn’t in service that particular Sunday, she never received a widower’s pension. A beauty she was, from an Alsatian village I won’t name as it’s none of your business. She also happened to be a hairdresser. Father? From Strasbourg. A hairdresser too and looking for a new wife from the trade so they could set up a business together. Someone who knew them both arranged the meeting. Father drove up from Strasbourg to take a look at her.

They got married and made me. (from Verses Nature, forthcoming)

 

Berlin photo 5 edit

Strolling through a flea market recently, I was surprised to see various stands selling old photos. Brushed hands with a fellow rummager. Sorry. Smiles. Interesting, aren’t they? Fates in a bucket, like peas…

 

Berlin fleamarket box of photos

What do you plan on doing with them? Really? Me too.

For the records: that’s where it all starts (or stops?)

When I was 18, it was time to do my military service. I had nothing against the army, so in I went. At the interview, I told them, Honestly, I said, I do want to come to the army, but, please, find something for me to do which doesn’t involve being bossed around, it does my head in. I can’t take it. I’ll be a cook, whatever. Just make sure I can be on my own with no-one lording it over me, otherwise I could end up killing him.
The dickhead who interviewed me, sergeant, captain, whatever, just laughed.
‘Who do you think you are?’ he bellowed. ‘You won’t be the first prick we’ll have brought to bow, and you certainly won’t be the last!’
You see, that’s where it starts: power, power, power, I sighed. I don’t think he quite knew what to make of my response. He was all red in the face. Me? I stayed nice and calm. And very, very polite.
‘You and your army, you think you’re capable of everything, but…’
Let him wait, let him already start to get himself all worked up all over again,
‘but… you’ll never be able to drive out what’s up here, by me,’ and I tapped my head. ‘So, ok,’
I let my fingertips touch to form a steeple. I looked him straight in the eye.
‘I’ll come to your army. I’ll follow your orders. The first who does me wrong, I’ll swallow it. The second, I’ll swallow it. I’ll be brought to bow, as you so nicely put it. But one day, one fine day, you will put a firearm into my hand. We’re in the army, after all… And once I have this firearm, I’m going to go out and kill every single one of you who has ever wronged me, and that, sergeant, will be your fault. Now, I’ve told you, haven’t I, so now I want that in writing, the fact that I told you that, for when the day comes.’
You could see the colour drain out of him like you were drinking him with a straw. He ordered me to the psychiatric department, where I was kept for five days. Did all manner of tests, they did. Then they came to the conclusion that I was a deeply honest person, but extremely dangerous, as I supported no authority over me whatsoever. That’s what’s written in my military record.

I was ordered home.

(from Verses Nature)

 

A ruthless man,
am I?

Do you like opera? I do.

One of my favourite operas is Puccini’s La Bohème. Have you seen it? I’ve seen it on three separate occasions.

The first time I saw it, when it got to the part where the heroine is killed, I was so taken into the plot that I just keeled over and fainted. Bam!

The second time I went to see it, I thought I was better prepared. I thought I’d brace myself when it got to that part. But when it did finally get to that part of the plot, don’t ask me why, I just felt myself sliding off my chair; slowly, slowly, till I crumpled to the floor. Out again!

The next time I went to see La Bohème, I thought I would be immune. I knew what was coming, and I knew when, so I considered myself to be in complete control.

My auntie’s fanny, was I. They carried me out on a stretcher.

There will, alas, be no fourth or future encounter between myself and Mr  Puccini, for I am everything but the ruthless man I am said to be…

(from The Red Room)

Perfume: yellow up the front, brown up the back

I am as I am
I please whom I please
What is it to you
What has happened to me
Yes, I did love someone
Yes, this someone loved me
As young kids love each other
Knowing
Innocently
How to love one another
And that with such glee…

Can be mean little buggers as well, though, can’t they? They’ll slit open animals for the fun of it and lie through their teeth. They’re the best and worst in us in miniature. Whatever.

 

I love the smell of you. After you had gone the other day, I refused to wash myself. She came home later, wanting, the usual, but I couldn’t touch her. She slept on her side of the bed and I on mine. (Yes, she recollected, he had pulled her to that side of the bed…) I on mine, enveloped in the odour of your juice and sweat. She? She washes at least ten times a day, how’s a man supposed to get excited if he doesn’t have the smell of you in his nose? We wash far too often. Should only wash when we really need to. You should get Him not to wash for a while so he stinks of man, then you give him a royal blow job, he’ll spray like a whale, I swear.
You, you smell fantastic, your tight, juicy foufoun. I read a book once, in French it’s called Le Nez; The Nose. Know it? It’s about a man who kills virgins so he can use their odour to produce the ultimate perfume. That’s one crazy shit, but I understand him. When I sniff my fingers, hhmm, I smell you. I run my fingers under my nose right in front of her, and remember you. I’m not going to wash that bedsheet. Going to keep it somewhere safe so I can smell you when I want to.

My wedding day, right? First marriage, and I’m at my in-laws. The future bride and her parents had gone to the hairdresser’s. We were celebrating the wedding at home, so the bride’s family had asked a neighbour to help out with serving the guests. She was a young, unattractive girl. Come and help me, come and scrub my back for me, I called out to her. She came and scrubbed my back. Thick as a plank, she was. Get in the tub…  She was a country lass and boy, did she smell of c(o)untry. I moved my head down there to get a whiff of her, but believe me, one whiff was enough, even for a man like me. We had a real good shag right there in the bathtub. Then I got dressed and got married.

In the village of my childhood, you wore your underwear for the whole week and washed at the weekend. (Girls as well?) of course girls as well! The air was rank by Friday! And our culottes yellow up the front, brown up the back. (You look happy at the recollection of it…) of course I was happy! Life was simple, but sweet… This is the smell I have in my nostrils till today. This smell, this innocence, of unwashed sex.
In the old days, all the children slept in one bed. Of course there was incest going on. So what? You always hear about fathers raping their daughters. Now you listen to me. Half the time, it’s not rape at all. Those girls want it. They want to make the experience, then when they get jealous of their fathers, they accuse him of rape to get their own back and the poor bastard ends up in prison. We were kids, but we weren’t doing anything abnormal, see? Kids are like this. Kids are sexual beings, too.
Boys were trying it out amongst themselves as well of course they were. I saw my brother get buggered by the boy next door. He was a good bit older than us and he’d often come over to sleep at our place on a Saturday night. Once I heard these noises coming from my brother’s bedroom. I went in, flicked on the light. My brother was on his knees, this other big boy had him by the hips and was giving him a royal humping. I think I said something like; you dirty bastards, that’s what girls are for! I think I also grabbed something and beat my brother across the backside with it. He knows I saw him though we’ve never openly spoken about it. See, it was just like that and do you think things have changed? Are you saying that I come from a family of mental cases? (So, who was humping you…?) I’ll tell you one thing, though: it doesn’t smell the same…

I am as I am
And it’s right that way
What more do you want
What more must I say…

(preview from Verses Nature, first published in The Red Room )

The aim of the game: (when trust is more important than honesty)

Hardly has he entered me but he expels an anguished cry of elation. With the single thrust of penetration, the act was over. Just as I had feared. Just as he had feared.
– Kill me!
He hides his face. Insuperable shame. Hatred.
– Please, just kill me…
I run my hand along his spine, my eyes closed. My body, likewise. My mind searching for what to say in response, and deciding upon silence, for some requests are not amenable to a positive answer.

A day later, we make love again. He is sitting on the edge of the bed as I straddle him. He lasts three or four thrusts. Wait awhile, he breathes-lessly into my face. We’ll do it a second time. He thrusts and thrusts, but there is no force behind it. Wait awhile. I need to get a little bit harder…
I don’t like the position and tell him such. Down on all fours, I spread my legs. Raise my ass…
But his soft willy won’t stay anywhere. He stuffs himself into me. Slips out. Stuffs himself in again.
Wait awhile, he breathes like a man performing hard work, his hips chiselling away at me, but I feel hollow inside.
– No!
I pull away.
I will not wait! You fix that hard-on, then, maybe, we’ll try again.
Okay, he husks, rubbing, rubbing himself.
I won’t look, but I can hear it, the slosh of his semen, dabbling with my juice.
– Just wait a little bit. Just a little bit longer…
He talks to himself, to his penis, like a coach to his team before the match. It doesn’t take long for me to detect that change in the quality of his voice. I seize the opportunity to stop his hand, gently, with my own, before, or as it seems to me, he rubs himself raw. There is no recrimination in the language of my touch. It simply lets him know that I know:

game over.

 

– Tell me something?
– Shoot.
– You said you always have at least two women, right?
– Correct.
– So, there must have been another woman apart from your wife before you met me, right?
He smiles
– Where is she now? What happened to her?
– I saw her yesterday, we went flying and then for a meal…
– You don’t sleep with her anymore?
– Nope.
– And you expect me to believe that?
– Yep. I’ll show you a picture of her. (He shows her a photo of her in his cell-phone) and there’s her… (a different photo) and her… and she’s nice… and I really like this one…
– How do you manage?
– What?
– To juggle so many women?
– Piece a cake.
– God, you don’t mind admitting all of this to me?
– Why should I?
– Does your wife know?
– Why should She?

I, Tatar, am faithful of the heart, if not of the body. Don’t try to change me. It is my only weakness.

– I don’t want to get involved in your private affairs, but you’ve pulled me in so I’ll speak my mind. Have you told You Know straight to the face that he’s a lousy lay? You should’ve told him from day one that he was lousy. He might have made more of an effort.
– He’s making an effort now…
– Too late. He’s lost you.
– I’m inclined to think that there’s a woman out there, somewhere, who wants exactly what He’s giving. But that woman sure as hell ain’t me.
– Then get out of it!
– You’re not just with someone for the sex!
– What else?
– Well, for the companionship, etc…
– Get yourself a dog. Companionship, fair enough, but without the sex, your relationship is dead. It’s just friendship. Sooner or later you’ll leave him. And he knows it. I made the mistake of telling my wives about my mistresses, you know, in a moment of trust, like this one now. It spoilt everything afterwards and they always threw it back in my face. Don’t ever tell You Know about me. Ever. Maybe he’s keeping a mistress, too. Or he should. That way you get to save your life together and enjoy those bits of your relationship which do you good. If he lets you know or you let him know, then the trust is out the door. You need trust if a relationship is going to work. Trust is more important than honesty.

 

(adapted from The Red Room)

A single case (is not an isolated case)

Have you noticed how often women flee to a clinic when they can’t cope in their relationships? You’ll hardly ever see a man in one for the same reason and/or with the same symptoms. Says a lot, doesn’t it?
Not quite sure what to think of therapists. They call themselves scientists, but I dunno… it’s  a bit of a ladies’ science, isn’t it? They claim to name things, measure them, prove you’ve improved, cash their fat cheque and sally on home to their nice pad in the suburbs. I mean, c’mon! And then there are all these fashion illnesses, you know the type, made up of initials, acronyms and the like. Do you really believe in those, or are they just another money-maker? Can they be known to be true? And, more to the point, true to/for whom? Like; who has hysteria nowadays??
We could talk about this  – and God – till the cows come home. You can’t prove a thing unless I want to believe you. And just because you may discard my arguments, don’t mean you’ve proven they don’t exist, whichever side of the fence you’re sitting on.
Fuzzy. Very fuzzy.
In Verses Nature, there’s a character called Catherine. Marriage on the rocks. Has a nervous breakdown. His fault, this time. He’s hopeless in bed but instead of seeking out a specialist (or just a heart-to-heart with a chum), he passes the parcel. Says it’s her fault. Wanker. Weak women are one thing. Weak men? I can’t stand them.
Anyhow, Catherine’s one of these brainy, touchy types and her best friend, Mazelle, gets her into this fancy private clinic she runs called Morton House, where each room is now named after one of the House’s ancestors. Part of the therapy involves keeping a diary. Let’s have a peep:

 

§2
Get it down, they say. Get it done…

To write in 3D (or more). To make of the printed page the legitimate siblings of paintings, of dancers and symphonies, but no–

thicklipped words bemusing tongue-tied masscrawlers

In between and off my head. They say?
At least the meals are nice here

§7
Her name is Dr Schonbaum. I am to her Ingrid. We are to meet daily. She recommends at least one lunch-time walk a week and regular attendance of at least one group therapy. She says I have a very nice room. It suits me, whatever that means

§9
There is little to remind me of Him but for these ghastly sessions. Beta-Man. lol. Better (half). Whatever

§13
There is a void I seem unable to navigate. Days are not lived, simply survived. How am I going to put all of this back together again?

§15
My Loneliness is rich in the nature of its unique constellation of humanized projections that no one other than myself can appreciate. It is this world of intangibles of which I spoke.

And yet…

Sometimes I fear I will implode. I thirst for the banal, to be in the crowd, to be flesh, not mind, lapping to my fill, gleaming, heaving, satiated

§18
uncensored senses sorely red:


What is a woman when no longer desired? Who is she?

So many cobwebs we need to sweep aside.

§21
No I do not want to. I will take my meals in my room.

The rooms here have names as though they are able to accost/befriend/molest us. Her in Victoria Morton, acute dementia (not that I’d know): she keeps walking in and out of the main door and into other people’s workshops, bothering everyone. She seems fond of handles. Yesterday she crapped in the corridor. On purpose. In those horrid brushed nylon leggings of hers, you can always see the crack of her bottom. Why doesn’t anyone say anything?

§24
We know she takes advantage of us, sneaking into our rooms at night. Some are jealous. She fucks those ones first, to keep them quiet

§27
You say we do our best to block or enhance our doubt zones. I still stumble over the idea of enhancing one´s doubt zone. You’ll explain that to me?

§29
Yet another restless night…
between my legs it smells as though I have awoken from the dead. Unfucked puckered rot.

§33
‘If I do this all my life, I will have missed something. And when you realize you have missed something essential, that’s when you start thinking about age…’ (Her in Isabelle Morton).

Mazelle goes home every night and I fall asleep with her kiss on my lips. Our thoughts are so similar, yet I am the one in here!!!

I, I, I…

§36
Get it down. The loquacity of lies…

Anything trapped in a word cannot but be half lie; half construed, let me say, with a touch more clemency. I must be on my guard, not let myself be swept away by their force, for they are only words…

Heard them at it. Her next door in Yelena Morton. She doesn’t like me. I take my meals in my room. None of them like me. I’m not here to make friends with any of you.  Won’t be taking any of you with me. Not even in my thoughts

§43
Anticipation: constitutes a danger for the reflexive, critical mind since it means that conclusions have already begun to be massaged into place, which in turn renders us potentially blind to unforeseen eventualities wherein might precisely lie (some of) the answers to (some of) my questions…  Maybe I should have said this much, much earlier

Am I ready to go home?

§45
uncensored bareness in the flesh:

‘What you resist persists. That was the thought you were wearing yesterday.’  Who said?

I’m on the wrong side of the line. Don’t think for one second that I don’t see through this whole circus. I should be the one on that chair. I, I, I, I

I

I

I

§46
A clever but by no means unimpeachable theory

§58
Make up (verb): to invent, to create, to assemble. Make-up (adj): embellished, enhanced. Make up (verb): to reconcile. To RE-member??? Make-up (noun): components, elements, constituents, cosmetics

the truth and I:

§59
(……………..lisSTten ……..)

To uncover roots so carefully buried it will take more than destroyed hulls and spilled languages. It will take more than alienation shovelled like rain on stars. It will take uprooted minds stitched to concrete

§60
A single case, not an isolated case

It always turns out in a good way, here, but maybe not there

Labels. Ideological sleet. Left in a random place. Then the wall came down. Be prepared. Full colour escape.

§64
uncensored darkness in the reddish mist:


I disappear in the meaning,

in musty moors of lifeless deception

my name gets caught in my hair, latches onto my skin like a speck of dust. Brush. Blow.

Like a ribbon I cover my roots and vanish into secrets

What does perverse mean? My mind, full of open doors. Mindful of open doors. Sex and cum everywhere. My mind is not a brothel. I disappear down alleys. Down the meanings, dug up, yet unavailable to the definitive.

If only double standards had a neck to break…

The Others become a border to be constantly overcome

(from Verses Nature. Special thanks to Laura Gentile, Sophie Gitzinger and Federica Bianco.)

Verses Nature: Fieldnotes, August – November 2012

Verses Nature is my current novel, which will also be submitted for the Ph.D. in Creative Writing. In a nutshell:

Jean-Joseph, Tatar to his friends, a self-made man in his late fifties and self-proclaimed connoisseur of the opposite sex. Politics, religion, philosophy, culture. And women. Loads to say about life in general and his memorable life in particular. Your loss if you don’t read his life story. Your loss entirely. He’d say.

 

August 2012:

After a year of working on my male protagonist, I find myself in a rut.

repair. destroy. I see a new female character entering the plot, and the whole chemistry changes.

I don’t write in the narrative linear, but sketch scenes, variations, from which I select those that will become the novel. My supervisor (rightly) wishes to see how I am progressing. All I may proffer is a tatter of tales and implore her to trust me.

 

November 2012:

Verses Nature is set in Alsace. And despite my having lived in the region for well over a decade, my interest in local history is genuinely sparked for the very first time as I now begin to think about how I wish to depict the history, the psyche of the place. I’m curious to see how it will be embellished by my personal experience; I have not lived in their Alsace, but in mine…

After a first visit to the local médiathèque, my cloth bag filled with titles in French, German and/or Alsatian, on local legends, war-time Alsace, proverbs, care practices carefully documented by Christian ethnographers (history being everything but neutral…), initial reflections about the politics of language give way to concerns with voice:

How do I bring history into my novel? Whose voices will be heard? How will Voice and Genre interact?

First attempts: http://wp.me/p4NZ58-V

Good old days (2) (Die Wo)

Those who went along with it, those who didn’t

Those who collaborated, being obliged to

Those who thought they were forced to

and gave themselves airs and graces

Those who raised their arms

Those who clenched their fists in their pockets

Those who shouted victory and came out unscathed

Those in it for the business and who made a profit

Those who did it, bowing to orders from above, and who got taken in

Those who did it for their wives

Those who were too young to enter the SS and now begrudge those who were old enough

Those who were big and blonde and dyed their hair brown

Those who were in the party

Those who were angry not to have been able to join the party and who now thank their lucky stars

Those who returned

Those who did not

Those whose return gave us joy

Those who should have stayed where they were

Those who were in the (and thus put up) resistance

Those who were in the FFI: forces françaises de l’intérieur

Those who successfully accomplished a mission

Those who believed themselves to have done so

Those who had to believe they had done so

(…)

Those who have a flag

Those who don’t

Those who have two

Those who have always had two

Those who burn one of them from time to time…

 

 

My translation of a poem by the Alsatian artist Germain Muller, talking about the identity dilemma of the Alsatian during the occupation. In French it’s called Ceux qui (those who). But it’s originally an Alsatian poem and in Alsatian, it’s called Die Wo (which is also German). Notice how it points a finger yet leaves enough room for self-interrogation? It’s easy to say what to do when you don’t have to. Easy to judge. I like to think I’d’ve been one of the nice guys. Guess I’ll never know…

Did you know that one of the devil’s grandmothers is Alsatian? So the saying goes.

 

And here’s another video of Alsace-Lorraine 1871-1918. Couldn’t believe my ears; there’s God Save the Queen in there! For those who speak German, read the comments on YouTube. Seems like the matter of our identity is far from settled? Those who’ve bothered to comment (Deutsches Reich) are mostly shouting for the return of Alsace to Germany. Fabien Kiefer smells a rat:

“you’ve obviously had your brain torn out and replaced by bald head, mustard and cold sweaty socks in ugly Doc Martens. You’ve probably got the face of a pitbull and wear the ugliest gear that reeks of beer. Of course. I know who you are and it makes me want to throw up.”

By the way: in the 1990s 70% of the French avowed to being racist. Does that make being racist a defining characteristic of being French? Course not! It can only be a characteristic of those who were asked, can’t it? But Alsace, my dear Alsace; one of the ‘brownest’ regions in France, I’m told. ‘Browner than your arsehole!’ someone once said to me. And I know a fairly well-known local painter whose name actually only contained one S, but he added another, to show his admiration for that ranting little man with the moustache and only one ball…  Ach, redde m’r nimm devon!

Good old days (1) (if you were lucky enough not to be there)

 

I’m from Alsace in North East France, as you know (meaning: as I’ve told you, even if some of you’ve never heard of the place before). We’ve been pushed around a lot:

A typical citizen in their late 80s at the end of WW2 was born French, became German in 1870, French between the two wars, German again in 1940 and French once more at the end of his life. By the end of WW2 most people didn’t speak French, but were suddenly forced to. Propaganda machine on full blast: c’est chic de parler français. Chic. And Mandatory. The same teachers who had taught in German during the occupation now obliged all the pupils to speak French.  No wonder we’ve got a complex. Many just refuse to talk about it. In Alsatian, we’d say: redde m’r nimm devon. There’s a term for this kind of large-scale cover-up, I read the word somewhere: obscurantism.

I suppose we all develop our own strategies for dealing with a tricky situation, don’t we?

At the end of the war, some used the Nazi flag to make their local costumes. Very nice cotton. Excellent quality…

redde m’r nimm devon…

The good old days? The clogs of our childhood were the poor man’s shoes: village roads were made of dirt and often littered with the manure of the cattle on their way down to the fields. Clogs were robust. Clogs were cheap. The wealthier wore leather shoes. And of course there were still those who had no shoes at all…

Ach, redde m’r nimm devon.

French mums, they’d go to work (still do!) and think there’s something wrong with you if you didn’t. German mums, then and now, tend to stay at home and think you’re a bad mum if you don’t. It’s their Nazi past. Or should I say: nasty? Keeping women in their place, under control and their pockets empty.

Ach, redde m’r nimm devon!

 

I’ve slept with a man (course I have)

Yeah I’ve slept with a man. Course I have. In my younger days. Was okay, but I prefer women. I’ve had threesomes and group sex. I’ve shared a girl with a mate, or my wife with a girlfriend. There were seven of us at it once. If two men are going to share a woman they’ll have to like each other not only cos of the trust but also cos there’s bound to be some form of physical contact between the two. Doesn’t mean you’re gay, though. And a woman, I reckon she’ll have to have some latent lesbian tendencies if she’ll sleep with another woman. Sometimes they say they do, and that they will, but they’re just lying. Women lie. Men lie. That’s life.

One of my wives wanted to try a threesome with another woman but I couldn’t find anyone who’d fit the bill so in the end I took her on holiday to North Africa and we paid a beautiful whore to go with the two of us. First she took us to a bar. Fair enough, we thought. But then she dragged us to another one and another one. And another one… it got to 3 in the morning and I was plastered, and my wife tired, which was probably what the crafty bitch was after anyway, so we paid her and told her to go home. She had the cheek to get greedy: what do you think this is, she shouted at the money we’d given her. I could’ve had a whole load of other clients during this time instead of wasting my time in bars with you two! Well, if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s when a person gets ungrateful. Now you listen to me, you greedy conniving bitch, you’re the one who dragged us off into all these bars so take your money and fuck off! That’s the way you have to speak to these people. Think all Europeans are sitting ducks? Think again. Well, she got the message and backed off. So I didn’t manage to arrange this thing for my wife, who is now my ex-ex-wife, but that’s another story. She might’ve had her experiences in that direction in the meantime. Or maybe she too was just lying all along.

(from Verses Nature, forthcoming)

I am as I am: (and who the hell are you?)

I am as I am
I’m made that way
If I desire to laugh
Then I’ll laugh till I sway
I love those who love me
Though it’s no fault of mine
If it’s not the same person
I love every time
I am as I am
I’m made that way
What more do you want
What more must I say?

I love women. I love you. And envy you. And desire you. And take you. I love the taste of you. The feel of you. The sound of you. The thought of you. After 3000 women, I stopped counting…
 
I am Tatar
Tatar is my name

I haven’t got the looks of André Breton. I’m not a cultural luminary and no way can I do flashy maths like Benoît Mandelbrot. So what? I’m still the one you’re listening to.

There are three of us altogether. My father’s first wife dies of tuberculosis and left him with a son. My mother’s first husband died and left her with a son. My mother’s first husband designed aeroplanes. Died whilst testing one. Because he wasn’t in service that particular Sunday, my mother never received a widower’s pension. She was a real beauty, a hairdresser, from an Alsatian village I won’t name as it’s none of your business. My father was a hairdresser from Strasbourg, looking for a new wife who was also a hairdresser so they could set up a business together. Someone who knew them both arranged the meeting. He drove up to take a look at her. They got married and made me.

Some people think I’m stuck up. Think I think I’m something special. Know what? I am. I’ll leave the rest of you to be ordinary.

I’m here to give pleasure
Not a thing may I change
My heels are too high
My stature too arched
My breasts way too tough
Round my eyes are too parched
But then anyhow
What´s it to you, all of these?
I am as I am
I please whom I please
What is it to you
What has happened to me
Yes, I did love someone
Yes, this someone loved me
As young kids love each other
Knowing
Innocently
How to love one another
And that with such glee…

Hang on. Breasts, I hear you say? Who’s this about, then? Her? Them? Me? Wrong on all counts? You decide. Back we come again to that age-old human dilemma: freedom. To continue. To walk away. What’s yours gonna be?

Ok. So you’re that type. Let’s say, at least you think you are. It’d interest me to know if you’re still so sure by the time we’re through.

Me? Had my first cunnilingus when I was three. The daughter of the shopkeeper who owned the Sadna, a chain store like co-op. She’d come to my place after nursery school cos my mum had gone to work and she knew I’d be alone. We’d get undressed and go to bed and have oral sex. Do a real 69. I’d lick her pussy and she’d suck my dick. That’s the honest truth.

Why all of these questions
I`m here but to please you
Not a thing may I change
Nor do I feel the need to.

Freedom. Think you’re free to turn away? You’ll be back. You’ll be back and you can choose, but only from among the choices I permit. There’s a whole lot more I could tell you. Will tell you. I can fill your lifetime with my stories.

You’ll be back.

 

 

(partially inspired by Je Suis Comme Je Suis, by Jacques Prévert, translated into English by Joan Barbara Simon, copyright © 2005. Extract from Verses Nature, forthcoming)