Archive for October, 2011

In Clubland Suburbia

October 21, 2011

It is the dread of night in Clubland Suburbia. The streets are swarmed with towering twins of legs, above which the face of woman balances herself triumphantly. Ghoulish students, glaring from Eel-Marsh flats, draw their shrouds shut to hide the men-all-arms, the women-all-orange from sight, they know better than to look upon the feeding frenzy of all those out tonight: those muddle-class, middle-brow mister and no-eyebrows missus, stuck resolutely in the middle of the road.

The sky overhead looks bored to tears.

They all become Indian, Italian and Chinese, they enter through the vomitorium, that they may avoid the opposite during their wee hours in the morning. Waiters will shepherd them to seats; shepherds will wait on them to sit. & they eat their not-just-any-food, they eat their S&M food. Topics are chewed over, regurgitated, dropped and steak-painingly misunderstood, left on the plates because some of it’s too tough, but they delight on all that’s just been overdone. They chew on their gristle and groan. Something vintage is left on the table – the finest bottle in all the house: Pressed excruciatingly through the bones of a slave, he stamped it down and, oh painstaking master, painstakingly drew it out in red globules – immeasurable. “But didn’t he whine!” Then we’ll a toast, uncork that little round wound. And they glut themselves with glass after glass of blood red. Glut with more death.

Sympathetic, the sky overhead turns blue and black to red.

Simply pathetic, everybody soon takes leave of their trough and heads unquestionably into Abbatoir — where pop music goes to die, where Melody and Carol weep outside in eternal protest, where the uninitiated are certain to be clubbed to death. They gaddle and wheel, and slump their way around the nascent raveyard — tunestones belch themselves into existence from Mr Speaker above, who makes it his duty to give each sex their fair hearing, but the unfair sex are hard of it at the moment and the fair sex look frightened. Possessed by the stench of their excreting pestosterone, the boys all rat and toad their way around the dance floor. & stick their tongues and tails into the gaping jaws of the not-boys, the hy-men, the she-males.
Oh, isn’t Violat a tease? Oh, isn’t Clawdia sweet? Oh, just look at Dick, he’s putty in her hands! Oh, and Jude and Christina, that little peck on her cheek, and how guilty he looks! Looks like Luci’s fallen again, always bring the light-weight! Doesn’t little Belleial look sweet, cloath’d in seasons garb!
But Christ, he’s looking dangerously forthcoming, that blood’s rushed straight into his head. Oh Christ, he’s grabbed Belleial, he’s thrown her to the floor; oh Christ, he’s just grabbed Luci, and torn her fairy wings off; Christ, can’t someone stop him, or he’ll have his way with us?
Mr Speaker descends, incarnage, from his throne. He slides on over to us, in his gelatinous body — damning of those free Apple Schnapps, of that man’s eternal disobedience — his arms all clung to his ribs and legs all entwining with each other, he writhes diabolically forwards:
‘I have neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak in this place but as the House is pleased to direct me, whose serpent I am here.’
Thus spake Speaker, who, rent from his comfortable site, was laid into a stony sleep. Inslumbent.

And all the saucy devils still with the strength to stand, force themselves out from this chaos, into the ravaged bosoms of dim night. & find comfort there.

They stumble towards Paradise. They’ve heard you find the freshest girls in there. The prowling wolves bay blindly at the gates, howling at the treacherous moon-faced men, purvoyeurs of Sin & a little Death, who demand a small entrance fee, a fee for her small entrance – but we shall mark your skin, that you may re-enter freely through the back alley in future, from which the all-seeing eyes of the electronic guardians, awaiting night, vigilant at four points, avert their unsullied gaze. They take the lift & ascend, all tumult & confusion, the discord of a thousand various mouths; these overgrown-children of the night, they listen to the lift, what sweet muzak it makes. In contempt, in one fumbled bound, they tumble at last into Paradise, accosted by lewd flyerlings, & make towards that object of their quest, that apple of their eyes: they find her shear within, and fall with ease into her folds.

Somebody flutters & prowls & collapses at the feet of one whose face must surely descend from something divine – arabesque arms & legs, all entwined & entwining, a desperate Ivy clings to her sacred silver trunk – off-limits & forbidden – ascent & descent in desperate cyclicality – she hovers near the top undone & exposed, a natural beauty, oh natural beauty – & slides slowly down, descending head-first, into the pit of those unstable face-eyed bugs, who wave, in their fives & tens & twenties, the temptation of their Rightly Divine Monarch within her reach – & down she slowly slides beside the face of someone swaying rather greenly – they whisper something obscene into her ear – ‘Oh, you little toad’ she says – & she accepts his little token, & secrets it between her thighs – but there are no secrets between her thighs anymore – her nudity is absolute –

A thunderous sky is heard far above their heads.

The doors on the lift slide open again – but no battered inebriate, no bruised braggart, no musical men-strual troupe pour forth – instead, they see their angelic better-halves, they see the dreadful faces of Gabby & Michelle – & a panic ripples through the dirty gathering – they ought to arm themselves against these girls, but their arms are tired – so Gabby & Michelle grasp their spears instead – & those helpless little toads go limp towards the exit – & that fatal femme, by descent, & all her other descendants, are made to know the shame they have brought to their sex.

Embarrassed, they can do nothing but take their leaves.

Outside, confrontation blossoms, blooms, bursts, but man is unfocused and just won’t see it coming. You don’t understand my womentality!, she laments, she tears up.

An intestinal sky is disemboweled above us.

& they stumble flat-footed forevermore, to nightclub from pubclub, from nightclub to kebabclub. In rain, he thunders, she storms away. Head in hand, with slow and wandering steps, through Clubland Suburbia, they walk their solitary ways.

It’s all so pathetic — so dreadful & dead — we stand out, pathetic — so deadful & dread.

j.

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