(no subject)
Another piece of idiocy posted to cheer up
e_compass_rosa. It's rude, so don't read it if you're offended by stuff like sex, and or drug taking and or being young and stupid. It is an excerpt from a poem of some 2600 lines - there had to be a couple of goodun's in there, just statistically speaking. I haven't topped and tailed it so it works as a stand alone, but I think it does anyway.
Part the Fourth: in which the author digresses in order to praise the daughters of Mnemosyne and other old gods which infect his pagan heart: and in which he describes more bad experiences, some of which are self inflicted, some of which appear visited upon him by malevolent gods.
I
Erato is my mistress
(As are all her sisters)
And even a servant born
Would have difficulty serving so many,
Yet I do, and am glad of the distinction
Which such service brings.
Melpomene,
My lady of sorrows
A single magpie is your augur
According to the song.
I beg you, turn away your gaze
And focus on someone else.
I have other scars, some well hidden,
Some of which bother me not at all:
All of them have stories which
Describe the chaos of the human condition:
My sorrows, like my sins, like my shames,
Are all my own.
I must lay claim to all of my achievements:
The good, the bad, and the unnecessary.
II
In the summer before my seventeenth birthday
Jeremy, Max and I (we were a band,
And rock 'n' roll our objective,
And punk was happening, it being
The year of our Lord nineteen hundred and seventy eight)
With a borrowed tent, decamped to Reading for
The open air festival which in emulation
Of other similar events held elsewhere
Gathered some thousands of people into a place
With third world facilities for a weekend
Of outdoor sex and rock 'n' roll
With mandatory drugs.
I had attended two years previously
With some friends from the school music club,
And had smoked hashish for the first time in the open air.
And having reported back, the three of us
Determined to lay proper siege to our senses
Without actually dying in the process.
So two years later we returned to the scene
Of my previous bewilderment to find
The world had changed, and instead of
Hippies and marijuana
There were punks and amphetamine sulphate.
You could still get hash (and everybody did)
But it was also necessary to
Mix it with the more modern drugs
For fear of being thought infra dig.
I was sitting near to an American girl,
At least six years older than me,
Who looked the living spit of Debby Harry
As she then was, and as she then was known.
She, (I can not even remember her name:
It is excised from my memory
For some strange reason which I cannot fathom
And is only known to my inner self
As nightmare) was some sort of student
Who had returned early to England
In order to attend the festival.
I had not the courage to speak to her
Without an introduction, until an opportunity
Presented itself, bestowed by a felicitous fate
Sham 69[1] took to the left hand stage,
Which was succeeded in short measure by
A stage invasion of skinheads of
A particularly Neanderthal sort,
But without the supposed gentleness
Of that extinct race.
These, it transpires,
Were the "Hersham Boys"
Who regarded themselves as
The Sham's most fervent followers,
Which was surely a marriage made in heaven.
Repulsed by security guards
Even more repellent than themselves,
They proceeded to attack the crowd
Amongst which I found myself.
After the whirlwind flurry of kicks and blows had passed
I found myself gazing up at an almost recognisable face
Who asked me, in a colonial accent, if I was well,
And who were those people, and why did they have to be
So violent, and I tried to explain
About social deprivation and glue sniffing hallucinations,
And how people who couldn't afford proper drugs,
Sometimes did stuff that sent them funny.
And she laughed and I laughed, and
Three hours later, after a bottle of whisky
And a couple of mandies[2], she decided that
This almost English boy was going to
Get a lesson in American.
I don't remember the walk back to her tent,
Which was in a completely different field
To the one in which I had been staying,
But I seem to recall indiscriminate kissing
And fondling and falling over guy ropes.
Her tent was close to the river, along which
Parties of tourists and festival goers had
Motored in boats hired for no other purpose:
(But we were all hedonists in those days)
Depositing sump oil and empty crisp bags
and other assorted sundries by which they could mark,
If not their territory, then their passing.
When we had got into her tent,
(Which I then found out she was sharing
With her brother, who had disappeared with a girl)
Before I had even got my clothes off,
She told me in definite terms
That she was going to perform upon my person
An act of fellatio that even Linda Lovelace[3] at her most expert
Would have had difficulty emulating, and proceeded
To pull down my trousers and underwear,
In the process trapping my ankles
In a manacle of twisted cotton.
I was not concerned.
I could have thought of very few things
That would have made me deny myself
That pleasure which I was sure
Was about to come.
It is a fact of physiology that the anatomical structure
Known as the uvula, which sits at the back of the throat,
In certain people, when stimulated in the correct fashion,
Produces a reflex that is commonly known as gagging.
At a three day "Rock festival"
Fast food of a particularly vegetarian nature
Provides the staple diet for the drug enthused.
Evidently this charming transatlantic cousin
Had consumed vast quantities of
Wholesome bean burgers to soak up
The whisky that she had been drinking:
Topped off with a barbiturate or two,
Which we never found.
Without a word her stomach voided
And she deposited the lot on my tumescent prick,
And nary a moments warning. It was so sudden
I could not react, and lay motionless; appalled:
With bits of half digested vegetable matter
Peppering my person, until the acid and bile
Which is used to aid the digestive process;
And the chilli spice used to flavour
Her diet's otherwise bland shredded vegetables,
Started burning the skin of my membrum virilis.
I know that at that point
I reacted quite forcefully:
Even calling attention to the fact that it burned
And I hurt, and furthermore, that I was trapped
And could not move.
She responded by quietening me,
And going outside of the tent,
Went to get some water to wash me down,
At the double. I believe my refrain
As she was leaving went in this fashion:
"It stings, it stings..."
She must have exited the tent, and seeing the river,
Filled a bucket, that came from god-knows-where,
With river water; crisp bags; oil slicks; and the odd iceberg or two,
And ran back to the tent, which showed spirit and pluck
If nothing else.
Meanwhile my genitals were on fire,
(I do not recommend that you try this at home)
And I was trying to extricate myself
From the morass of clothes around my ankles,
Whilst leaving them as unmarked by vomit
As possible. I could not stand upright within the
Confines of the tent, and so such manoeuvrings
Were necessarily both dainty and protracted.
There was a rustle at the tent flap
And tripping over the tent's valence, she fell over
And six pints of filthy sewer water slopped from her pail
Covering my gonads with the river's debris
And pushing her regurgitations up along my body,
Some pieces even ending in my hair:
But somehow the burning had stopped.
I made my excuses as prettily as I could manage
(Which was not very prettily at all), and having cleaned myself
As thoroughly as possible,
With a mans shirt which I found
Beneath my body, in her tent,
Made for the communal showers to cleanse myself
(As if I could ever be made clean again)
And found the water supply to them had been shut off.
So I slept, wrapped in some nameless woman's vomit,
Feeling that the rubicon had been a bus stop
In suburbia, and I had passed it long ago.
The next day,
After I had for the second time that morning
Used the communal showers,
To rid myself of any residue I might have missed,
The first time round
I found myself playing guitar
To a group of tents in a circle,
It was a sort of temporary bourgeois hippy cul-de-sac
In the middle of a field of punk tents
(Complete with suitable piercings)
And after I had finished,
Was presented with a handful of drugs
Which I promptly took.
It was my only experience of overdose
And I blame both Deborah Harry
(As she now is) and the bourgeoisie.
A guilty pair if ever there was one.
There was no permanent damage, but I was comatose for some time,
And I determined from that day on
That I would be sensible about my drug taking,
And not believe in women's idle boasts,
And to take my trousers off properly,
Prior to getting down to it.
I think I have managed to be true
To the last of those self made promises,
At least in spirit, if not in fact.
Haec olim meminisse juvabit.[4]
[1] "Sham 69" were a punk band with a strong working class skinhead/racist following given to violence as their major form of self expression.
[2] Slang for barbiturates. Has tendencies to promote abandoned behaviour esp. when mixed with alcohol.
[3] Linda Lovelace was a 1970's pornographic performer who later recanted to become a feminist icon representing the oppression of women in the porn industry. It is a fact however, that no matter how much porn objectified female sexual performers, male sexual performers had an even more limited role in such movies, often being reduced to the smallest of parts.
[4] One day we shall remember this with humour. (Virgil)