The Sagas of a Fist in a City

Athens

2006-09-18T01:03:00.000+01:00

"We should not build around the dead city, like ants slowly raping a corpse; where taxis shuffle about a tenement blocks, it all ought just be left to rot."

- so said the Eyes, overlooking Athens from the Acropolis, wishing this messy corner of the modern world was stopped, silent and unseen. But then, this fist of fingers itched with a different twitch:

"True, lives hobble about below this grandeur where, once, blind prophets gained visions from their gods. In the image of a sad old cripple - limping on only by creating clever tools - they foresaw this, our future. And then, shrugging, sailed the Styx to Hades, wishing they could no longer walk, no longer see, no longer feel. So defeated, they did not even dare to dream in vanity of haunting us.

"Yet, eyes, see deeper still than the underworld of a dead city, mourning what's crumbled. For even cast in scaffolds, the columns up on the hills of Athens have just performed their usual duty: to rule the mind and the fist by visible beauty. A cheap trick of an architect! Or consider say this, their celebrated lie: that democracy and the gods can live together, that neither one nor both in their mix must die. Yet the vast hands of history wear rings made of cracked skulls, a billion for each finger; caked in blood, and labelled with the names of defeats and disasters, added to daily.

"And now new Athens sprawls below, ugly and unbold. Where once great gods thundered, slept and strolled, see a postcard picturing a palm-tree, here in this graveyard of land, without clarity or conclusion, and whilst the lightening bolt is unavailable to fist, admit that some form of record is still best forged by hand."

Quote of the day

2006-01-31T13:28:00.000Z

Whoever saw, as many did, a whole city reduced to rubble - kilometers of streets on which there remained no trace of life, not even a cat, not even a homeless dog - emerged with a rather ironic attitude toward descriptions of the hell of the big city by contemporary poets, descriptions of the hell in their own souls. A real "wasteland" is much more terrible than any imaginary one. Whoever has not dwelt in the midst of horror and dread cannot know how strongly a witness and participant protests against himself, against his own neglect and egoism. Destruction and suffering are the school of social thought.

(Czesław Miłosz.)

For you to indulge me in the luxury of this confession, half of which you already know - that I am a man and not a fist, and that, frankly, too much have I sliced up this city, as easy as a cake - I should offer you some thing or other in return, friend. How about this?

City of Trees

2005-08-05T23:03:00.000+01:00

The knives of youth scratch into your bark, O city of trees, their emblems for eternal love, and in a graveyard, your ground is dotted with the dregs of piss and puke; may deeper still reach your unpoisoned roots.

They find no reason not to call you home, those twitching birds, those scurrying squirrels, that the city still has left. While on whatever breeze, your branches still bend just enough - whether north or south or east or west - as about you human lives break human lives, over much much less. A religion that breathes only light and air: Your leaves attract no quarrel, no calamity, as they whisper ancient, rustling prayers. And in the city of excited light, of relentless sirens and tourist sights - Oak, Ash, Beech, Willow; your quiet names speak nothings to you.

Your tiny points of green dot a patchwork of grey, it's true: From thirty-five thousand feet you look like nothing much, hardly a city at all. With the gridded roads and groping scrapers, so tiny and so tall, under the in-flight and metal wings, there you race away. Indescribable things; in the dappling of your summer light, let a man sense something of a man's true height.

City of Hatred

2005-07-19T22:02:00.000+01:00

"O City, city of hope and pain," asked I, the writing Fist, "when will I learn how to hate you again?

"London! Just a look over you, a listen to you, and the ways to hate you line up in a list.

The maurading dogs, snapping at feet.
The hypocrisy of fear and hurt, for we do not yet need reports like this.
The Friday night puke, still dotting the street.
The old shrew, moaning that she's late for her hair-do, should go first in the bus queue.
The sirens chasing the happy slappers, under hoods on stolen bikes down side-streets.
The boombox of the next beloved car, shouting of love clothes cars love in some song, almost drowning out stupidity and misery, and drowning the sound of the breeze rustling upon the leaves.
The piss-coated trunks of the remaining trees.
The hands of heat, palming dots of city dirt, slapping into sweats, itching the collar, clawing the neck.
Etc etc.

All things that might easily do the job. But they do not."

And the city does not answer. The church bells sing their chimes, of mysterious rites at mysterious times, while a child strolls the streets, made happy for the moment by an SMS text. All for her eyes, only, and then another and then the next. All day the planes plot graphs upon the sky, patterned with unknown cargoes of who's and why's. Surprise, city without answers; tonight I can only confess you my ignorance - something different, and harder to do, than the clichés of hate, or of hope, or of fists, or of fear, or of pain, that you may have gotten used to.

Fragments of a City

2005-07-08T18:08:00.000+01:00

We walked home in masses, droves, knowing that somewhere beneath the streets, people were still trapped; still people dying down there in the tube trains, buried, still people escaping from tube trains, saved, still people being rescued, dragged from down there in the tube trains, hanging on... And still we walked on, directly above them, resolved to go on; still we phoned our friends, let them know we were safe; still we headed on our way, knowing homes awaited us.

We'd been warned about this from officials and politicians, told it was coming, told it was inevitable, that however many they caught, that however many flats full of chemicals and plans they found and caught and stopped, that it was coming. Before it came, we were resolved already to get through it, to go on. Some would act the fool, some be heroes, there would be the strong-minded and the trembling - perhaps all were to be found in part in each of us - still, we would each try to go on, resolved, through it.

Most of us came from our offices, left early, after a morning of texting non-stop from mobile phones, of office phones used for personal calls and no questions asked, of relentless non-work related emails, with all the deadlines suspended, a morning of TV streamed into laptops, of in-trays sliding to the corners of desks: instead the demands of the day became simple, became family, friends, lovers, husbands, wives; what counted was making contact, checking life was still life.

And so on the day a roof was ripped from a busying bus, on the day the lucky ones emerged from underground covered only in smoke, or cut only slightly, we were surrounded acutely with love. As the numbers of dead mounted, as the reports made clear this was no electrical fault, as the politicians quivered on our screens, the love for one another that is always there invisibly, in the background, the shadows, quiet and subtle, became a current circulating amongst us all, as we checked that each other were still alive; watched our Inboxes for new names, infinitely thankful as we read Colin, Peggy, Queeny, Karla, Rob, Amy, Kate, Mike, Rhian, Chris, Claire, Tom, Kim, Cindy, Adam.

And so we walked home above the dying, the struggling and the dead, who were still somewhere in blackness beneath our streets; we walked home thankful that others lived on; we walked passed the houses and estates and flats, not knowing which of the windows contained grieving widows, or which sobbing students, or which terrified children, the word orphan waiting for them on official forms.

Nor did we know behind which of the buildings were the bombers, which windows homed those who hated us, us there in the crowd, us there on the streets with our hidden love; the bombers whose eyes saw a city of seven million people as one, as one not deserving its love and its life. Somewhere their fists punched the air. Somewhere were those who judged to be on the number 30 bus that morning, or on the Piccadilly Line, or leaving a train at Edgware Road - that such a thing was sufficient reason for slaughter.

And so through the city of fragments, the city of the dead, of the grieving, of the dying, of the living, of the thankful, of the hateful, the city I walked home through to stare, to drink, to weep, to talk, to thank, the city of broken boundaries, where good and evil interlocked at random points, where nation and hope dissolved and recombined with each passing moment or person, where civilisation found its opposite, through the city circulated an invisible love; just for now, all I can do is tell you about it.

Questions

2005-07-07T00:36:00.000+01:00

Whose fists flip the planet like a pancake, upside downside up, in the frying pan of space - then spin it on next like a spinning-top, whirling away on a black, wide-open, table-top? Whose eyes race along the surface of the oceans, dodging the dark ridges down in the depths, chasing the blue of the horizon, and on to the next continent - to dive down into a side-street of a coastal city, where the grey shapes of sky-scrapers rise from the sidewalk, and coffee shops offer themselves up like tick boxes? And then jumps to the view from a million miles of space, without even breaking a sweat in their socks, or on their forehead, to start in a second the whole journey again? Not God's, not Hollywood's with their SFX, nor NASA's and their super computers - but anyone's. Anyone. Anyone, who can download that link to their notebook or desktop.

Anyone, of one in lucky seven, at most. Question, Fist: for you of the lucky few, does that fairy tale still exist - that tale of the Door of doors? Which opens into the world of love, forever warm, welcoming forever, the door of the golden Her, the eternal Her - the door of forgetting, the door of blindness, the door that shuts behind it the cruel uneven planet, that stops its spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning?

James Joyce

2005-06-28T02:00:00.000+01:00

Of all the things his fists and fingers did or did not do - depending on what biography or rumour you wish to buy into (the insanity of incest with his mad daughter, a candle-stick exploration of a Jewess's anus, slipping a wedding ring with love onto Nora Barnacle's finger, wrote the artwork of the century, or a minor one of stylish excess) one thing the big-city rebel Joyce decidedly never did do, was name a book Finnegan's Wake. Instead, he plucked, like a flea from a head, that apostrophe from between the n and the s.

So what? All this is to announce, in a roundabout way, that Fist has a new purpose; a new blog.

Hands of Heat

2005-06-20T22:09:00.000+01:00

"Down through the city palm the hands of heat, massaging the scrapers to a drowsy daze; there they shimmer like summer glasses of hazy lemonade. Gone on the gone breeze, the rustling anarchy of tree-top leaves, and in amongst their corners of the shade, the squirrels lounge like lazy sentries.

"Dribbled away like a leisurely piss, the usual daydreams of the office: the in-tray shuffled to a royal flush; some temp locking the door behind her - smile, wink, bend, spank, purr, hard, moist, bang bang, gush.

"Anything, anything, instead, to laze the feet, chill the head, as down through the city palm the hands of heat."

- from each freckle and down into each bone, there that same drone. Of lethary and of laze, of a man knocked into nothingness, by the hands of the heat haze. And who might even try to resist? (Only I, the well-wintered Fist.)

The Thief of Fists II

2005-06-16T01:50:00.000+01:00

Just last night, he – the Thief of Fists – was lurking in the pubs: O, how many fists there were poised, ready to rise and lay a punch? Then found themselves unfurled, with a finger pointing at a pint; with the lips mouthing off, about buying a round.

The bath, too. Where was she, the little whore, perched on the seat of the loo, bent over and groping (his anarchy of pleasure, her regime of pleasure, trading), splashed, nude, there with her train-track arms, there with her fisted little life and feminine charms?

Instead: light filtered through the fingers, slotted among the pages of a book. Ticklish when turning, like slow feathers, they fluttered in the steam. “Come fight with me,” I said “Or go fuck with me. Just wake from this civilized dream.”

Nothing. “And who has thieved your fists,” I ask him now. “Who?” And stupid man, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know why the Fist falls open, and the fingertips type. “But,” he says, “at least they are free to.”

Vultures

2005-06-13T23:54:00.000+01:00

Life, a list – fistfuls of violence, a veil of tears, adult decisions and baby fears, prayers to an X above, your child’s first words, first breath, holidays good and bad, city smog and a country breeze, health and disease, wealth and pain, maybe something mad, perhaps even love, or the logic of gain, or of the Kamasutra, or etc et cetera … and then to finish, death. After which, the Parsi leave their corpses in the temples. Quiet, waiting for the descent of the vultures.

The same for two millennia. Up fly the dead from the temple of silence, up the blood smeared on the shining beak, up the slice of hot liver a slither down the slender throat. Up the feet and fists and genitalia, losing their fleshy shapes in the foaming gut, up the remnants of a muscle, some debris of fat, perfectly hooked, in the curve of a glistening claw. Up the dead soar.

Two short hours: the body is devoured. What once was human life – our simple shell of skin and flesh, our fingers, our hairs, our bellies, our ears – with the vulture departs and lopes and drifts; becomes a horizonal dot, then disappears. And into the eternal afterlife, the freed soul lifts.

The same for two millennia. And then one day, among the tomatoes in the old market, fell the iris of a human eye. A trader blinks in shock: brown – her father’s? rejected by the endless blue of the sky? Soon, a little black cloud will flick a couple of clods of blood, all about a field, and half an arm will fist through a feeble roof. And all the pieces of human flesh and life that you could list, will lie strewn about the whole of the land. A child points up at crag: a young vulture, bloated; look Mother, now it tumbles...

To the vultures, to the living, to the Parsi dead: What god would do such a thing? Easy, no mystery. Just a young one, a minor one: Diclofenac, god of soothed bones. Diclofenac, killer of pain, remover of flame - or the feeling of flame, given a scientific cure, and name. Of course the internet needs no oracle, no prophet, no temple, no Parsi or vulture, to know. Just a dozen lines or so. And the future, it waits for each species, waits with fire, circles with death; anticipates our little human whimpers. Its dark, indecipherable shadows wheel all about, waiting to swoop, bearing unknown claws, gnashing unnamed teeth - perhaps more ugly, perhaps more enduring, than the vulture.

Answers

2005-06-11T16:25:00.000+01:00

The answer to the question in this post is:

Someone like a character in a short story I thought up but never wrote.

I wished to write a tale of two halves: first a walk to work, happy; second, its mirror, a walk home, identical route, yet misery. This character is an average office man, the biographical details of his life somewhat dull, although he has a lively but sensitive inner-life. (Not me, but not unlike me in some ways.) So first thing in the morning he is filled with smiles, the world is beautiful; birds sing, the sun beams, buildings shimmer and shine. He is floating on air; he will tell his secretary how pretty she looks, shout the new chap lunch, clear his in-tray, try some charm on a dinner lady. The world is wonderful, he tells himself, his company produces educational textbooks which help children and adults learn, that in turn helps them improve their life; where he works make a difference to the world, even if his own role is merely middle-management-clerical. People and things nudge the world in one of two directions: to good or to evil, he tells himself. His company is good, so that guarantees him as good; plus, he is kind and pleasant to others. And really, what else is there? Moods and wanders: so it’s a cheery walk to work, full of promise and promises.

Something happens at work. What? Maybe something as minor as someone being rude to him, sneering at him, a young and beautiful temp. And then she calls him aging and balding and fattening and boring – behind his back, but he overhears. And suddenly like a character in a Chekhov short-story, he sees that a large swathe of his unremarkable life is gone already, and that his love-life is not right, and elsewhere, and perhaps all around him but invisible to him, different, better lives rollick on. How horrible the city, that has produced him, he thinks wandering back alone through average streets, past locked doors containing lovers, drugs, wonderful musicians. Lives, luminous as brilliant starlight. And what can he offer such people with his sole trait and soul hobby of unambitious decency? Such questions… But he’s tired, and must sleep… Dream of a different tomorrow…

Or perhaps something major happens at work. A bit of plot, a story. That would need a little hook a paragraph or two ahead of it, a cipher for: mystery! Secret… Perhaps a short one too. With short sentences. Meaning: heightened tension. Events will happen.

But before the major event, the story requires the introduction of another character: Dot. Dot, one of the women whom he manages. An old bat, a bit mad, grey hair, spits when she speaks, wears thick glasses, incompetent. But no-one has ever had the heart to sack her. So instead she’s been made responsible for posting out certain types of letters, answering certain types of calls – to do with run-of-the-mill payments, that kind of thing, at most. In general, despite the simplicity of her tasks, she still gets confused, sometimes forgets to do something or forgets what she’s actually done; and the files by her desk are covered with post-it notes and reminders, and she hasn’t even learnt how to use a computer (even the post room staff have a computer to share), she is slow and no-one likes her; in fact, the best for her of human contact comes in the form of sympathetic kindness, such as that of our main character.

Her character established, his phone rings: it is a policeman. Yesterday morning a man jumped off a tower-block roof on the outskirts of the city. (Resolving one hook – the promised mysterious major event – while striking up another – why did he jump? What’s this got to do with our character?) Then the policeman gives the back-story that leads up to the suicide. First, let’s give the dead man a name; Tim, say, or, say, Vic. The facts of his life: he lived alone, was unemployed, had an IQ of 78. But just recently, in these last few months, Tim/Vic had been trying to improve himself – by studying mathematics, hoping for maybe a job behind a counter in a shop, as he’d written in his diary, the policeman explains. So he’d bought himself a whole series of books from our main character’s company, on his credit card, and you can imagine his pride and hope amidst the promises of victorious self-improvement.

Then, an invoice had came for the books, from Dot. He phoned her up, slowly, timidly explained he’d already paid, asked if the invoice could be cancelled. Dot checked and had said yes – she’d make a note of it on a post-it, do it later. A few days later, he received another invoice from her. Timidly he’d phoned back: was all this his fault? Had he underpaid before, or not understood the price? He was poor, too, could they give him more time? And Dot had said it’d just been another mistake, she was sorry and would make a note of it. Silence for three weeks. Then, another invoice from Dot. This time, for thirty-six-thousand-six-hundred-and-sixty-pounds. And ninety nine pence.

He knew he couldn’t pay.

A phone call would only make it worse, like before.

Another invoice was coming tomorrow.

He had no money.

New job or none, the future was debt.

Debt he could never pay.

He was better off dead.

And after scribbling a brief goodbye – addressed “To Who May It Consern” – he had no family – and explaining why – in barely legible writing – how shaky must his hand have been – and saying sorry, so sorry to Dot – the page smudging with tear drops – Vic/Tim ran up to the roof, and jumped right off.

Our man, so happy this morning, everything right in his world, listens to all this from the policeman on the phone, staring over at Dot. She’s eating a cookie he bought her, with a simple grin. The crumbs drop onto a letter. She wafts them away, and with that little flick of her feeble fist, a post-it note drifts down off her desk. Onto a corner of the hard indifferent floor, to get kicked around by feet, then binned, indifferently.

The policeman explains what will happen next: they will take statements, the paper-trail, computer records; there’ll be an inquest, and almost certainly some level of attention from the press. They must meet soon to sort it all out. White and mumbling, the main character says he’ll phone back, will need to discuss it with work, and his manager is out until tomorrow anyway. He tells his team he’s not feeling quite right and is going home early. The streets are lined with school children; they do not care about mathematics, the fate of life, or the welfare of the city; they are swearing, smoking, posing, drinking, snogging, fighting, rapping, stealing, and throwing litter amongst the sporadic trees.

And each one is the future.

And not one is a killer.

And so what, that they don’t admire the birds, the sun, the buildings? Bullshit, that’s all he was thinking on the morning walk, bullshit. At least they do not pretend their bullshit society or their bullshit company or their bullshit school makes them good because it says itself to be good; at least their barbarian selfishness is honest. At least they’re not a killer. Not full of bull.

At this point in the story, had I ever written it, I’d have wanted to definitely steer clear of political symbolism, which the narrative is veering toward. What I mean is, our main character is obviously a Leftist of sorts: he is paternalistic toward Dot, he doesn’t seek to ruthlessly rationalise bureaucracy, by sacking individual humans for the sake of profit and share prices. Yet this outlook has lead to incompetence and death, and now he’s rejecting those views in favour of ruthless individualism. So, symbolism in favour of right-wing politics seems on the cards here. But on the other hand, Vic/Tim was clearly operating as an economic individual: buying books himself (no government scheme), and then when economic problems loomed too large, there was no kind, social net in which to catch him as he started to panic, and then fall. The kind that has clearly caught the terminally flawed Dot, for example. If only our main character’s attitudes were fully expressed in social policy, Vic/Tim would be a Victor.

So as a writer, I could clearly now steer the story toward either political pole. And why not? Well, a whole host of reasons. These are the most important. Political propaganda, mostly, makes poor art. And symbolism, so very often, simplifies reality to a message that school teachers can pass onto school children, trying to make them docile and obedient to the demands of society. Lots of writers slot themselves into that kind of scheme, and lots of those living provincial lives attempt to plug into it to, in one way or another. Probably, for example, our main character reads nice novels on quiet Sundays with proper-thinking messages, was brought up in the provinces, and just look where it’s got him: Now he is trembling all over, and his soul tumbles down darkening city streets... (Hook: but where next?) But more importantly, there is simply not a political-symbolic language good enough to guarantee the affiliation of art; in fact, probably there can never be a supergrand perfect politics, all such philosophy is incomplete. Anyway, however lame writing is and this blog is, this fist still shall not wave false flags (although one way to deal with such issues to express the contradictions – via contrasting characters, perhaps…) But all that’s another debate, a big one, perhaps for some other time. Message-giving slows down a story and reveals the stupidity and arrogance of the writer too much – as this paragraph has. Thus truly symbolising the falsity of symbolising.

Our main character is staring about the city, externalising his dark mood. He’s bought a few cans of beer, is lonely, and is soon sat in a park. Night is falling. His home is a minute walk away, but what home is it? He lives alone, a little, ludicrously expensive flat. Sparsely decorated, beige wooden floors, simple light colours, virtually empty except for a large tidy book case of novels he’s read, the spines all neat and unbent.

He’s calming down a bit now, amongst the shadowed ugliness of the city. His thoughts are spacing themselves out. Hyperventillating panic, that's fading, that's going ... that's over.

And so from emotion to thought, via something like an internal monologue of moral ratiocinations. Is it really his fault? Could anyone have ever know? Perhaps we are all just shadows, bumping up against shapes in the mists of human dreams and misery, hearing distant calls of “timber!” in the form of thudding echoes, which announce the next random death. What was Vic/Tim really a victim of, anyway? His own stupidity? His lack of family, of friends? Of his ambitious dreams, and not accepting their probable passing? Of Dot? Of our main character? Of capitalism? Of fate, that decrees death will happen when it will happen?

And how can he find out, know something like that for sure, anyway? There will be a cover-up, and a computer error will be blamed - while Dot’s job will be downgraded even more. The press will shout shrill judgements about modern tragedies for a day or two, if they have nothing better to do, then grow bored, move on, with the final findings reported in a tiny mid-section paragraph months later. The inquest result will be filed away, the judge bored, the police in a hurry, his company thanking their luck that the dead man was so alone.

Cause and effect, right and wrong, who can say? And so nothing can be done, nothing is left for our character's day. Even if he had sacked Dot years ago, when a rat manager, passing through his Department while racing up a career ladder, had suggested it in a review, she might well be dead now too.

Nothing left for the main character's day? One thing. He’ll tell himself how lucky his life is: four walls and a good job. A boring life true, not worth - say - being the main character in a story, just slotting in, keeping going, not thinking too much. True, the interviews and investigation will be a minor hassle for a while, but it’ll not really add up to much. Just a minor interruption, like overhearing an insult that hurts, that spoils a sunny day, working out why it might not be right, then under the shadows of doubt, getting on and forgetting. And now is the time to sleep. And take a tiny walk through a world of dreams.

The Official Interview Game

2005-06-10T14:57:00.000+01:00

Questions in bold from Snapperhead.

1. When veach st glines created a derivation of your work, specifically: an edited version of your post Bathing last night, from 11 May, which was - and, clearly, still is - in explicit violation of your stated Creative Commons Deed, how did the human brain that guides your tightly balled self react? Was it strongly enough to either alter your CC (and, ergo, permit future derivations) or request he revise his post? Why or why not?

I put that in ages ago, because it seemed less severe than copyright, and other people had it too. I'm not actually sure of the details of what it says, but anyone's welcome to quote and link or be creative with my stuff. Paranoid and somewhat vainly, I suppose the message of that button for me is: don't secretly publish this yourself and make money from it.

2. Steven Lock appears to be a fully realized character; albeit written by yourself and your lazy-left partner speaking in a strikingly different voice. When will we (your audience) be privy to more creative non-fiction along the same vein?

January 12th, 2011, 4.37pm GMT.

No, in fact I'm not sure. I wrote the Adam blog I link to, which again is a different voice. I do have a few other short stories knocking about, but I'm not really satisfied with them. If by same vein you mean style of voice, then they are closer to Monsieur Lock than the blog is. But if by same vein you mean subject matter, probably I have left that sort of stuff behind. O, my post tomorrow will be short-story-esque.

3. Did your fingers type the entire Search! entry from 21 Jan, or were all those bytes of Jack-Torranceque-effluvium cut and pasted from some keyword cache geared to insure 'raunchy fat girl' would gain it's rightful place? Which line of the diatribe is your favorite and why?

The list was posted on an obscure forum, and I copied it from there. Not sure where it originated before that. I had to take out a few things - forum flames that had been hidden in the text. My favourite lines are the beginning and end lines - up to 'FIST' at the start, below 'FIST' at the bottom. I moved them there deliberately. I also like the non-sexual phrase I put in that list, it reminds me of a certain mood I was in at the time, so that's kind of a favourite.

Ok, time to decide. My favourite part of the Search! post is: "massive dildos horendous dildos". The phrase "horendous dildos" just makes be laugh, and the whole thing has this beautiful prosody.

4. Complete this list of how-ever-many seems appropriate: masturbate, punch, . . .

... finger, Judy.

5. What, where, or whom, during your big apple holiday, did you find the most and least interesting? If money were no object, where would you spend the best holiday-fortnight of your life?

Least interesting: "Journey to the Centre of the Earth" by Jules Verne. A boring novel for a reader nowadays, albeit with a couple of nice descriptive passages.

Most interesting: a lecture celebrating the Hamburger, which inspired me to eat a whole bunch.

If money were no object... tricky, I'm not really that into travelling or holidays. It'd definitely involve good food, moderate temperatures, a few friends, and chess. Maybe somewhere in the French countryside?

The Official Interview Game Rules

1 If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying “interview me.”

2 I will respond by asking you five questions — each person’s will be different.

3 You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.

4 You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.

5 When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Answer to previous post's question: stay tuned, it'll be up tomorrow.

Cities and Eyes IV

2005-06-09T00:33:00.000+01:00

Whose eyes, in amongst this city, speak as this?

“First thing in the morning, and the world is gleaming. Look! The horizon is tickled pink with warm promises. The towers and scrapers cluster in mist, it clears, they admire each other in their own mirrors. Miracle-devices – bikes, buses, motorcars – roam the roads, while behind curtains closed, beautiful women straighten shirts, fasten bras. And into the mass of offices I shall go, admiring the features of each passing face, the majestic grandeur of the whole place. And I shall fill with smiles the people I know.”

Then, last thing at night, alone under a duvet, speak as this?

“Eyelids, let me look upon you, look soon; you, as alien to the earthly day as the cold distant moon. The secretaries are bored with me acting the clown, and Mister Manager looks on with a silent frown. The crowds are impatient, the busy bustle borderline-violent. The street is lined with litter underfoot, and the dirty air is aswirl with soot. Eyelids, come tight down like blank tiles. And over such questionning, come closing: When I woke and stared out with a smile - was that when I truly was dreaming?”

Answer to previous post’s question: the fifty foot woman.

Cities and Eyes III

2005-06-07T21:13:00.000+01:00

Whose eyes - all liner, a flutter, mascara - and electric flashes of blue - sidle through a city with this kind of view?

"O, this and that, tit and tat ... And now there saunters up to me a gleaming skyscraper, with such resplendent height, and heavenly reach: almost a rival to my legs, to my thighs! And next some shop window, the clothes stupidly hung on dummies, with their inferior, pale, and flat plastic tummies. And then after a coffee with a blind date - those sideburns! - soon a swift dash - to the street and some tramp, begging for cash. Eep! but he called me lady, so maybe...

"And the windows amidst the walls are mirrors, and the tall and the small are admirers, and the man on the street is there to charm me, and the bells only sing and do not alarm me, and the blue of the sky is just a mirror, jealous of the colours in my eye, and, me O men!, look, here in the City, all there is to see is me."

(No, not I, not Fist.)

Answer to the question in the previous post: Stereotypical Poets.

(To be continued...)

Cities and Eyes II

2005-06-03T19:27:00.000+01:00

Whose eyes scan a city, and see it like this?

"Nothing but skeletons aslither down the side-streets; for look, already their ghosts haunt the photographs. The bracelets and bandlets that dangle, there on the bare arms of swirling dancers - how cold they clink against the wrist-bones; with a hollow sound, knock, knock knock. Death haunts the dance, death, travelling back and forth and through, the one known fact of the future, coming for you, too; death.

"Death, look how it drifts with the music in amongst the dancers, and waits for the transient drums to fade. It lingers with a knife in the shade, it prowls the shadows as poison in a pill; it surprises you, you tumble off a window cill. Dance, dance, while you can, beautiful woman, beautiful man. It has no worth, the skeleton dance, but then neither does this dance of words, destined, too, for the same dirt of the earth."

No, not I, not Fist.

Answer to the question in the previous post: A young Alfred Hitchcock.

(To be continued...)

Cities and Eyes I

2005-06-03T00:18:00.000+01:00

Whose eye scan a city-scape, and see it like this?

Grey, grey, breasts, grey, grey. Nothing, boobies, nothing, boobies, nothing. Something, nipples, something, nipples, nipples. Zzzz Zeds, jiggles, ripples, bounces, boing-boings. Yawn yawns, apples, melons, omelettes, pumpkins. Balloons, headlights, pillows, planets, moons; and a slither of cum, aglisten, drools down a graffiti’d wall, in some train station’s public toilet. And outside! Waiting there again are the packets of jangling and jumping, bumping and bouncing, pleasure-flesh, kept in a prison of bras and shirts, levitating down so many streets. Get to the city, say the eyes, go look, go cum, you're free, you're young.

Not I, not Fist.

(To be continued...)

Fist: on holiday

2005-05-18T09:34:00.000+01:00

Starting with this painfully-large, repetitive, and boring sentence, I, Fist, am exiting the blogosphere for a holiday (for two weeks): BUT, if you are in New York or nearby, and would like to meet up with me some time next week, do let me know: And then you can judge for yourself how the blogosphere imitates life, as I bore into you repeatedly with such a painfully large fist.

Here are two jokes, to keep you laughing hysterically while I'm gone:

"There go my aims in life!"

"If I've said this once, I've said it five times a week. To my mom. For the past thirty years."

Don't miss me too hard.

Clearance

2005-05-16T21:48:00.000+01:00

"Fool," flicked the lips with a spit - as I, Fist, cleaned the desk clear, clear of the debris of these past few working years.

"Fool! Look: buried in a box under the table, way over two years of filing, simply not done. And simply not checked for, not asked for, not missed, either. Not even a single sheet of it. Not one.

"And all the unanswered letters, and deleted unchecked emails, and half-scanned memo's - the corners perhaps showing a blue-biro doodle, da-da. All nonsense going nowhere making nothing, all.

"And so what: the tick boxes of your moronic manager, at the door grinning with a bad joke each morning? While the beautiful temps have floated on through, and are now gone, your name and face for them forgotten.

"To spend your time here, like this - fool!"

The body took a pause, here amongst drifting piles of shifting paper, behind the usual closed door, up on the fourth floor. Then:

"What clearance would you have instead, O lips?" asked, I, Fist. "The whole clearance of this sweating city, its spires and crowds and towers, to run once again in the blue-bell beds of a forest, there amongst the meandering fingers of Spring's first luminous light?

"That the curl of a yes? But to face away from doings and searchings, lips, into that daydream begs another question: how then to sleep well, in the deep, dark, dead of the adult night?"

Victory.

2005-05-13T18:39:00.000+01:00

The life-changing luck of a lottery ticket. A genie's lantern ready to rub. The blubber-balloon boobs of Ewa Sonnet. The controls of a playboy hot tub. Of all the usual things that I, Fist, have not fingered this week, add cigarettes to the list.

So! Time for the pub and its blokes, time to stay out late, time to drink and to celebrate - perhaps with a smoke.

I want your advice

2005-05-12T16:18:00.000+01:00

At the end of this month, Fist is going part-time in his office job. In the extra time, Fist is going to pursue a career in writing - of fiction, probably. Fist is seeking advice on what's good in contemporary fiction, to see what the competition is like, that kind of thing. Fist has tended to avoid contemporary fiction, largely because most of it looks rubbish. Tell Fist why he's wrong in the comments box below.

BUT, please only suggest books if you have similar tastes to Fist or have read widely and are thus qualified. The below are examples of Fist-taste in prose.

Fistingly great:

Sherlock Holmes stories
Lolita - Nabokov
Dubliners - Joyce
Chekhov's short stories
Doestoyevsky
First 4/5ths of Jane Austen novels
Kingsley Amis letters
Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriella Garcia Marquez

Ok by Fist:

The Corrections - Franzen
Catcher in the Rye - Salinger
Kafka
Ian McEwan
Madame Bovary - Flaubert
Italo Calvino
Hemmingway
Steinbeck

Should get fisted:

Portrait of the Artist - Joyce
Last 1/5th of Jane Austen novels
Philip Roth
Don DeLillo
Kingsley Amis novels
Martin Amis
Iain Banks
Terry Pratchett
Love in the Time of Cholera - Gabriella Garcia Marquez
Margarat Atwood, and up the crapper too.

The next post will feature a short story by Fist from a while back, if you're curious about that. Normal service will resume on Friday.

Bathing last night

2005-05-11T16:41:00.000+01:00

Glowing from the window to the floor, then to the towels hung up on the door: orange street-light streams in a dense diaganol. To the side, the shadows of splashes wave back, from white enamel. Fist gives a finger to the sky of night and city light outside, drops deeper down in the width of warmth.

The demands of the day almost are past. Silent, still, alone at last... Only for a moment: and there was the tomato, the corner of a cherry tomato, slipped out from the well of the anus, circling the tree of the leg, dragged by the plash of current to the land's-end of the toe, before dawdling along to settle up, on the plain-like expanse of the gut.

Beautiful thing! It had survived the gang-bang of the stomach, and the teeth falling down like grand-pianos, and the thundering highways of the internal tubes, and the blood at the wall of the gut - baying like the obese for their burgers - to emerge red (reddish-brown) and dancing, drifting then darting, before nestling by the cave of the belly button, in the end, as if to say: hello, friend.

Its last ordeal was yet to come. I, Fist, would decide what to be done. Tease out the seeds, and add to the garden a new breed? Or to avoid waste, season to taste? Or evacuate the thing, here from its new city, to the waste land of a rubbish dump, along with plastic wrappers, disintigrating toothbrushes, and probably a tampon, via the bin?

The Pianos of Destiny

2005-05-10T19:32:00.000+01:00

Each person has a file. Each file a number. To be put in order. All afternoon. The Left Fist lazes louche in a pocket, is laughing a little, and mockeringly muttering. Eventually says,

"... Monsieur le Fist, tonight the stars will fall out of the sky, will they, like you said yesterday? In the form of grand pianos, as if in a Tom & Jerry cartoon? No, night shall fall without unusual incident, and you shall blush for speaking too soon..."

Back into the pocket he retires. I try to say this answer:

"Each person here is a number, on this or that file, this form or that office, a million and one times over. To speak a truth is to say: they're each as detached as each other, as detached as the moon. Yet the moon is laced with lines of stars, who sing around him a different tune: that we are not all alone, but all joined up, as if on one whole painted canvas, or a child's dot-to-dot."

Even a silly song or post or horoscope can sing, I know, of such a thing. But he will not listen, and anyway, is it true? So instead, I Fist, shall wait for nightfall, and see if that does in fact come into view.

Your Horoscope This Week, by Fist-O-Futures

2005-05-09T10:22:00.000+01:00

Aries (March 21 to April 19)

A balcony, canapés and cocktails circulating, the moon coy behind the distant clouds, and cool figures drifting amongst each another. But shouldn’t someone shut that “music” up? Take a risk. You’re Aries, after all.

Taurus (April 20 to May 20)

Like Shakespeare you’re reliable, also with a sentimental attachment toward certain people, like Hitler had toward his Aryans. So what? you’ll ask at least once this week, predicts Fist-O-Futures. So what? (Maybe twice.)

Gemini (May 21 to June 21)

Impress your friends today with your unique wit and wide-ranging knowledge. You’ll want pleasant eulogies on Friday, after Tuesday surprises you with a freak accident involving a piano falling from a party.

Cancer (June 22 to July 22)

Nasty Master Mars this week will fire thick, fat, hard and 14-inch-long fists of rock and flame into Uranus. But it could be worse: think of Gemini, think of the dinosaurs, think of cancer.

Leo (July 23 to August 22)

Look: How supremely striking, the stars streaming through space! Alas a lost spanner, dropped by a spaceman’s weak fist, has just floated into a corner of your chart. Suddenly you picture boobies. Vast, blobby boobies.

Virgo (August 23 to September 22)

One in twelve of your friends will die on Tuesday, approx. What an opportunity to buy a brand new black hat! Or a new black suit, black shoes. And perhaps some novelty cufflinks (not of musical notes though.)

Libra (September 23 to October 22)

Despite your pleasant manner and decent mind, just like my Libran mother in fact, you will not remotely comprehend the imaginary lesbians that flow around a shuffling fist this Thursday.

Scorpio (October 23 to Nobarnum 21)

Amongst the usual stuff Fist-O-Futures forecasts for Scorpio this week – shopping, shitting, sleeping, and a certain quota of funerals – I see a secret that will be kept secret. Wow!

Sagittarius (November 22 to December 21)

This week is not a good week to try out a new musical instrument. Especially when you’re somewhat drunk, at a party, a floor or two above the street, and there’s a piano over by the window.

Capricorn (December 22 to January 19)

I – Fist-O-Futures, Seer of Secrets, Finder of Fates, Surfer of Stars, Master of Motions, Scanner of Skies, Zeus of the Zodiac – and, incidentally, a Capricorn too – am convinced this week that, at long last, all Capricorn genitals will, once again, finally, be licked into loveliness by lesbians. Possibly on Thursday.

Aquarius (January 20 to February 18)

One of you regular websites will load so slowly on Tuesday. What could be worse! But on Wednesday, you’ll see something there that you really like. Isn’t life grand!

Pisces (February 19 to March 20)

What will your 1,073,394,145 fists have in common, even the 178,899,024 fists in absolute poverty, this week, O fishy Pisceans? The widow of the late King Nairatsif of Suomynona, and the bank account she emails about.

No

2005-05-06T15:44:00.000+01:00

train-track veins on the naked arms - late last night on channel 934 - and no scars on the arse, no scratches or scabs, no blotchy patches or sags around those straight hips, no flakes of skin irritating the nips, and not even a hint of boredom in the smiling eyes, as the phone again rings and she, the pornostar, licks her lips, while some stranger cums on the other end of the line, somewhere amongst the beauty of Italy.

4am. Flowing along the flesh-flute, the usual rhythms of Fist. The connosieur Eyes inspect the scene on the screen, and then ask: "Where are the usual hints of drugs or rapes? The background of damaged life expected, there behind the leisuerly surface of self-pleasure? Such an unharmed angel! She of self-love and luxury! Money and endless nudity! She of such fresh pert breasts, and that all-body tan!"

"But look at that firm chin, those flat feet, that knob of a nose," say, I, Fist, as the spunk-javelin fires along the fingers, and then up past the wrist. "She used to be a man. A man," I add as the white slick reaches the chest, the whole body squirming in a brief and vast yes.

Tonight's The Night

2005-05-05T17:26:00.000+01:00

where I, Fist, will find between my fingers and thumb, this: a remote control. News from today will trickle in, until the early hours and the declaration of a win. The fifth day of the fifth month, two thousand and five. Day of power, day of fate for our future lives, spent for fist meandering amongst such numerous marvels as this.

Or perhaps I will reach higher and higher, to 934, where flickering Italian porn stars undress, a caller panting in their ear-piece, the screen scrolling with numbers to phone, as she touches her hard lumpen breasts with a moan, and where the winners and losers aren't announced, although the reflection on the glass hazards a guess.

Enough

2005-05-04T17:09:00.000+01:00

of the cities falling into ruins, enough picturing the last human standing of all of us ever, as the universe of man dies in the dot of his eye, or hers, enough of finitetude and failure, enough seeking of the skeleton beneath the sight of the skin, or looking for the essence of a lover in lost hairs, lazing about on pillows in the daze of morning afters, enough seeing time as many false roads with only end: I am bored of it. Bored of blogging and the whole damn hearing of it. Bored, bored, bored.

- so say the Ears. They would rather hear the melody of an ice-cream van, the giggles and babble of the children outside, buying lollypops, dressed in superhero costumes, and so endlessly innocent that a blogger cannot capture it.

Cloud Faces

2005-05-03T11:24:00.000+01:00

“The gods up in the clouds again are laughing: yet another human city has fallen! Yesterday Atlantis, today Baghdad, tomorrow – who knows! Was it statistics and studies that convinced the warriors to march? Or an argument couched in their names – the names of imaginary friends? Next it might be a giant wave, a jumbo loaded with plutonium, on fists of fire bolting from an open sky – who knows where, how, or why! But bets, for fun, are still placed – on vast ranges of volcanoes, the cracking of continents, on the unnoticed error of some well-quiffed architect; on New York, London, Paris; on Cairo, Jerusalem, Athens; on Tokyo, Moscow, Manila. O there is much laughter up in the clouds, as on they spin, without end, around and around.

“Hilarious, says some immortal, gazing at a blurry telly, that still it happens! The praying and lovemaking, the handholding and hoping! All those builders and all those bombers: What belief they have in rumours of us, and whatever remnants they’ve dredged up from the past! How hilarious, that on they learn about family planning – planning! And that they have just paused, for that swirl of sweat designated ‘dancing’ – for it has arrived again, the first day of May, that arbitrary date. And with such different maps and mausoleums to the last! Ha ha! Their eyes, how they still admire stretches of steel and concrete, the museums, and their luxuries of office space! Still they tend to the cities of gravestones, ridiculous!”

“It is true,” answered some mystery part of him, “that like you, ticklish little toe, curled up in a cloud of hair, travelling teller of tiny tales, that on your non-existent gods run, babbling and laughing. Also that we, fated to be here, with fists raised, or standing side by side, with all our homes to be undone by unknown hands, with all our deeds unready for the next deluge of the tide, with all the others as secure as scattered sands – that still we uniquely go on, doing and thinking and doing and thinking. That is to say, living.”

Before

2005-04-29T16:21:00.000+01:00

her hand is overcome by the rise of sand, before the concrete and steel canyons dive down, seven miles beneath the ocean, before the storeys of mirrors have winked their last glint, buried under the piles of ice, before all cities lie dead, sinking down into the earth, their pictures of elephants indecipherable, the last of us humans wholly gone, unknowable other species roaming the land, taking to the air, ignorant of our fires, treading over our graves, that rot deep within the earth, unaware, as they bathe and hunt in the murky water that they like us will totally die – before all that, it is the details which will hurt the most:

The eyes of a statue, bullet holes now for her eyes. A church bell, a crumbling black shape - the flames having passed - a dot in the debris of a wasteland. A little child’s shoe, red, laces undone, broken in half in the rubble. The last bridge falling down, falling down. A piece of paper drifting over cracked concrete, reading “I wuv oo”. And scattered coins no hands pick up. And flimsy photobooth smiles. And, and, and.

What was the last poster you saw, pasted up upon a public wall? True, it will come to nothing. Yet we do not know, you nor I, whether this is tomorrow, or one thousand years. Nor by whose fist, or if by a human hand at all it will come - & not merely earth's fate, for now our sometimes-glowing land.

Perrier

2005-04-28T17:53:00.000+01:00

The eye has been boasting again.

"The things I've seen! Satin, slipping from her shoulder like a shadow, that moon-white skin shining by the window. Both from a garden and a long-haul flight - a V of wings, ranging across twilight. Upturned glasses at the Savoy, and pop goes a cork. A face of wonder under a firework."

"Stop there," said I, Fist. "What's that I detect in your corner, Eye? A tiny dot of water, lingering and pointless. Tell it your stories: perhaps it will act as a prism, where this random rainbow of sights converts into a beautiful light, which then changes into a cry, a tear, in which the meaning of the sum of such moments - all the confusions, Eye, of your kaleidoscope - becomes perfectly clear."

Next: Nothing happended; except, I flicked open another can of fizzy water.

The Moon and Fist

2005-04-27T17:16:00.000+01:00

The cold moon at last bears a fruit: it is a photograph.

And suddenly cities of children chant,

"All the cities of clouds and sea, all nations and all continents, all circuits of planes, all shipping lanes, all ocean and all mountains, all fists and words, all shadow and light, each day and night: look, see how they are part of the same element - the One World of Earth.

"Humans, quit your daily shout, and now simply ask: what have we all been squabbling about? Dissecting such a thing with a line, drawn like a dream on a map, warring over what is yours or what is mine, or giving our lives to some other trap. What?

"Hush now! Your answers speak no more than the silent moon. So instead picture life to my tune: the earth is one, as simple as the sun, so forget the dark and complex dreams of night, and drum out with me the words we know to be right: love and freedom, each day all day long, as simple and true as the sea is blue."

And I, Fist, answer:

"Such a song is not for me. The world is not just what you see. Picture invisible spirals of the Air, lifting a skirt on a street, rummaging such neat hair, feeding the trees, and the tree-slayers, displacing a piece of office paper - an invoice gets lost, and a worker gets sacked by the boss - or picture it rotting the corpses of the caesars, filtering through the earth, performing more invisivle work. Or, or, or.

"Cities of children, the life of air comes only to some. Your simplicities are your own loss, not the flags of a battle to be won. Without such a gloss, I still go on.

"And, yet, Air: The suffocated ones, Air, do not bring me their ghosts, as cold and grey as the moon, asking me what with my life I have done. I do not wish to confess. I do not wish to say, today, only this.

Fireless

2005-04-26T17:31:00.000+01:00

Look close, look closer: the leaping light of desire no longer nudges up the crease of the trousers, and gone from the eyes are that flicker of flame, that hint of fire. The belly does not burn or tumble with want or curry, the feet do not flinch over hot coals, not in the step even the hint of a hurry.

Yes. Today, kids, it's a hangover. Here is the point to extinguish all your expectations. I do not even want to say fuck you, or fuck you.

Everything is fed-up, as simple as an element: the stomach sick of food, the brain blaming the blood for the hurt, the blood sluggish, stumbling in its run around the veins, and the lungs coughing and complaining, and I, Fist, to be frank bored of blogging. It is time for sleep, for bed, to fall into the depths of the duvet like rotten food turning to mulch, dropping down into the earth, the 50% cotton clothing devoured by centuries of worms and soil, drifting to the swimming black depths of oil, to rejoin the dinosaurs in total death, to slump, to stop...

I mean, time to search for stillness in a sleep, here upon this troubled earth which never stops spinning and spinning and spinning.

Office Fire

2005-04-25T17:16:00.000+01:00

Hands of heat drag paint from the walls. Smoke sparks at the corners of beige machines, which soon will begin to ooze off the bench, as flame licks along the carpet, burns the desk to charcoal, and gone are the paperwork and filing, gone the year-planner, and the tick of the clock above the swivel chair - and then, hurtling through the third floor window, the microwave with its madness of metal that's done all this - the office fire - metal secretly placed by a fist - and out it comes, shattering the glass, flying free as a punching fist at last - before finally exploding, mid-air like a firework. And, below, a certain Fist in a pocket offers silent applause. How often have the eyes of a slave at a desk dreamed of such action, how often.

But it was not like that. The door to the kitchen: black smoke streams out from the edges of that oblong. A finger presses a fire alarm. Half an hour working out that the electric hob came back on, after a power cut, too close to the new diposable cups. Soon we're let back in, escaping the world of chats and thin drizzle, to the office and electronic world, permeated by partly-burnt plastic, the kitchen sealed off, and Fist left limp in a pocket.

An hour

2005-04-22T16:00:00.000+01:00

to kill. & into the mouth I could pop a pill, or rise (fine Fist) as troops pour past, or push the pleasure-flesh between the legs, or scramble up a pirate mast, or slice off the local's heads, or film a peace rally, or plot to shoot Mahatma Gandhi - all that could be I, Fist, in this hour to kill.

Or... or tidy the desk. Click the buttons of some on-line test. Eat another cookie. Google for pussy. Massage the shoulder. Blog about how I'm just killing time, as the hours grow one older, with this little waltz through the corners of a mind. A little waltz, a little dance of mine: as if it were I, Fist, who chooses to dance so, and not Time that dicates to Fist how I pass - at best pausing to ask: if this hour was your last, did you spend it best?

190

2005-04-21T18:45:00.000+01:00

The Eyes - tired of wandering from clock, to computer screens, to train windows - glance instead at the left wrist.

Where, earlier, I, Fist, had scribbled this:

"190."

"That?" I explained. "A mnemonic, a note, of a record required to be looked up. Excel or Access, for the day after this."

But The Eyes, depressed and drooped, said:

"Uh uh. It is another random office order, from a chain of command, that works like a machine. Life ticks on like a clock, numbered and mathematical. And like the record you request, you are no more than statistical, just as the warmth of a computer is no more than electrical. Random, without value, and producing nothing. And - let's be fully honest - what more is the body than a cipher, for the success of your species, coded in such famous spirals?

"More, Fist, more? Just as the 190 will be washed away from the wrist, so will you and every life be removed, one final day, from the whole of the universe, when nothing becomes of time and space. No touch or trace, no internet page, no recorded speech, no faded photo will remain. Nothing escapes that Law."

Silence.

"Ahh, shut up," said I, Fist. "Like you did in school, where such things are taught to tame creatures such as I and you, who, once upon a time, combined like this: I pressed down upon your closed lids, and in the inexplicable magic of defiance, we made amongst the bruised colour of night, galaxies of uncountable and enduring stars."

Flowers and Fists

2005-04-20T15:33:00.000+01:00

An eyelash that just floated into view, painted and beautiful, fluttering like a butterfly, rushes, rushes by - past the oblong of the office door, humming along the hush of the corridor - and has, now, gone.

From its whispers, from the darting flashes of dark lashes, I, Fist, seemed to detect a hint of something that went like this:

"So what, Fist, if a finger lingers above a button, ready to remove a city? So what, that the face of any other may lie broken by a fist in a second? Between the thighs do failing lives remain fecund, and the city, full of fists and fumes, is equally bounteous with blooms; why write only of that, and not of this?"

I'll ponder it.

"Why not buttercups and roses, the dandelion and tulip? Why not run through the market with flowers by the fistful? To bring life into loveliness by what you think, surely is more than a turn of phrase, or a technical trick?"

Don't Do Blogs

2005-04-19T18:17:00.000+01:00

All day, all day long, I've been getting the same piece of lip from the tongue.

"Don't do blogs. Instead play chess, or fetch yourself an ice. Outside now it's simply warm and nice. Little goes on in the office, and your blog - what point, what profit?"

There the tongue lolls, red like a devil, as sultry as a muse. Now its whispers have burgeoned like a bruise. The legs ask to be lazed about on a desk. The brain request nothing more than the routine as a test.

Just show me naked women, say the eyes, while the stomach mentions something about pies. The bare left wrist envies the wall - with its decoration by a standard clock, while the knees cannot even be bothered to knock, as all-in-all, the world spins on.

"Lethargy and laze," mutters the whole wide body, in some weird daze.

"Don't do blogs?" I ask back. "But, look. It's done."

This One Goes Out To...

2005-04-18T18:21:00.000+01:00

... all my lady readers. Yes, you, the ladies. Because thanks to you (I guess) CityFist is now ranked number one in this google search. So thanks, raunchyfat girls, my wonderful readers. Each and every one of you.

And not just of all of you as individual girls, either. But to all of each of you: to all those monstrous lardchambers, to every single one of those innumerable stones, to each stretch of blubber wrapped around you, your vast thighs, juggernaut breasts, and the flabby cheeks under your eyes, to each of those chunks of chub you bring home - to I, Fist - each time you click over here. Not just to the thin person inside of you, the one waiting to come out. This one goes out to the whole of you.

You know, you raunchyfat girls, my ladies, sometimes, the eye likes to picture you, as you lumber about the globe each and every day: every ten minutes cooling off in some internet cafe, for a surf and a snack, or sinking further into your squeaky swivel chair, as the intern goes past your office at a sneak (reciting their usual prayer: to avoid your lunch time order, of five hot dogs, two cokes, and a double cheese burger). The long black clothing worn loose, the whatever-it-is excuse, the gay friends who you just *so* love, the huff and the puff, you know the stuff - whatever any slurs the eye can think of.

But at night, the little fat of the eyelids falls down upon the eyes. It snuggles up against the egg-perfect surface. Blinds the simple whites, the blue and black. Then the blood on each of the lids back - the purple spread, the dots of colour, the lines of deep red - form images instead, shapes driven by the bang of the pulse, the incessant tide of dark bloody wants, and the empty space in the bed echoes with lacks, and the memory is gone of whatever it is I, Fist, grope for here in the office each day, and as your tiny vaginas descend through the ceiling, your anonymous breasts bob up and down at the window, and your fats fly about all over the place, filling the loneliness, one thing becomes clear: what counts is the raunchiness.

100 Facts About Fist

2005-04-15T09:26:00.000+01:00

1. Several bloggers have commented that they find the character of Fist elusive.
2. Quite possibly this list will change all that!
3. Perhaps it is working already.
4. Fact 4: I like comments on my blog (so do inform Fist.)
5. It is late, he is tired and hungover; possibly not in an appropriate mood for Facts.
6. He did not notice being born; was born asleep, and in fact for the first year of life barely moved – never crawled, my mother assures – and mostly spent that time sat against a sofa with toys arranged around him in a semi-circle; contemplating them, perhaps.
7. At university there were such long bus journeys from here to here, everyone drunk or hungover, talking away about the latest lay, or homework trouble or idiot tutor, or where they ended up last night, or how much they managed to drink, and once upon a time from the window the following came into view: a man in a turban sat cross-legged in a field, with a perfect semicircle of cows arranged around him, which he slowly fed with fistfuls of grass, one by one by one.
8. Years later, I sliced through delicious steak here and here.
9. Once upon a time, a silly and drunk young man was in the way of my exit from a tube train here; so I pushed him out through the doors, pinned him against a sign, the left fist pointing a finger up at his face, ordering: “Never get in my way again.”
10. He hasn’t.
11. Probably he was a trainee Doctor; maybe one day he will find this fist bleeding in an Emergency room, remember the face – laid about before him unconscious, defenceless, and in need – and decide to amputate.
12. Certainly the young doctor will have put his fists to a better purpose than I, Fist, over the years since then.
13. An orgasm a day keeps bad moods away.
14. I’m not sure if he’s had sex this year, but there was an awful lot last year.
15. I have never fisted a vagina or anus, but once or twice or thrice, or whatever number sounds nice, the thumb has pushed its way over a woman’s face, the bony flesh of her cheeks, the plateau under the chin, and then gone into the mouth, working itself over the lips, around the gums, the teeth; the other fingers gripping the skull, as it teased the tongue.
16. I spy with my little eye on that ex-girlfriend’s blog via proxify.com or anonymizer.com each and every working day; she has no idea.
17. We’re still friends and meet and chat a lot, and I must say rather pleasantly, at that; behind her back, I accurately name her the “slut-whore ex.”
18. The sofa and the bath are, imho, mankind’s greatest inventions.
19. He likes to say, at dinner parties, that Civilisation should have stopped there.
20. He’s never been in love.
21. He’s told six different women he’s been in love with them.
22. They said that they were in love with him, too – first.
23. He once pretended he didn’t hear a girlfriend mumble ‘I love you’ when she was drunk and sleepy, and so never said it to her.
24. She only came once from the cock through the entirety of their relationship.
25. Statistically, it seems, the cock is of an average size for a white man.
26. Annoyingly, it’s a grower not a shower.
27. He has never received penis enlargement spam.
28. He lives just around the corner from Deek.
29. Probably they know each other’s faces from passing by on the street, or slumping in a pub, or playing ballgames in a local park.
30. He has no real wish to meet Deek.
31. He plays a lot of chess on-line; finds the game fascinating, even has the odd book about its history and the human comedy of it all.
32. He has only ever won one truly satisfying and complete game of chess; the pleasure was flabbergasting, the memory still lovely.
33. He likes to get incredibly drunk and then beat people at chess while he is blindfolded.
34. Most of his friends have grown rather weary of doing this, but not of talking it up; it’s almost legendary.
35. He’d like to play two games simultaneously and blindfolded, but no victims have volunteered for this humiliation.
36. He doesn’t think The Game of Chess part of The Waste Land is particularly remarkable, unlike The Fire Sermon and the other really famous and often-quoted sections.
37. For a while, his soul was under the sway of this book, then this book, then this, then this; they perched in the palm like doves of truth.
38. He does not like to see the earth from the moon, or to name it as a whole too much; there is no thought, no language, to grasp this swirling ball of man and nature; unknown and unnamed marvels and murders nest in each and every moment.
39. Nonetheless, he credits thought and credits the banal and very big fact that all of us actually exist really rather highly; the Treatise reviewed here is his current guide, influence, love; whatever you want to call it, he does not know what to call it.
40. He would like to tell you what to read and why.
41. See links above, excepting Larkin.
42. It is an island mentality, he knows, behind this wish; the belief in closure and control that comes with it, that makes a utility out of culture.
43. Art has no purpose says I, Fist.
44. Yet it serves us, sometimes rescues us, and carries weight.
45. This is all getting rather intellectual.
46. I, Fist, along with the left fist, plays the piano – jazz, mostly – badly.
47. I have had my fingernails painted more than once.
48. I have had my nails painted less than thrice.
49. I have never had a bone broken.
50. He is an INFP.
51. He is lazy.
52. He is overweight.
53. He has started going to the gym again.
54. He likes exercise.
55. Throughout most of his haphazard life, he has let others make decisions for him.
56. Recently he decided to go part-time in his job, to try to make a career of writing; that begins on June 1st.
57. Control is beyond him.
58. He likes being wished luck.
59. Not so keen on love.
60. The slut-whore ex used to orgasm all the time during sex – with him.
61. She, an artless and promiscuous lover before, said it changed her view of sex and intimacy entirely.
62. The other week, enormously drunk, she got fucked by two strangers at a party.
63. She has never told him this.
64. I distrust existentialism.
65. When watching his father breathe his final breath, laid out in the hospice on his death bed, green with cancer and fat with drugs, he noticed the time was three minutes to seven o’clock.
66. They, his father and him, never found an appropriate way to speak to each other; about things in common, or about difficulties.
67. When I was 13, my Dad went mad; approximately recovered by the time I was 18, only to be diagnosed with cancer, which killed him when I was 21.
68. Them the breaks.
69. Nonetheless, he is partly responsible for their failure to properly speak.
70. One year exactly after the death, he assaulted a stranger on a tube train.
71. He has been beaten up.
72. He owns boxing gloves.
73. The story of Narcissus and Echo is the most profound story he knows.
74. Perhaps he does not know it really, though; for to know is to suffer, with the seer Tiresias anyway.
75. He believes that the most towering of 20th Century intellectual thought – Freud, Foucault, Lacan, say – can be best understood by referring to the story of Narcissus and Echo, which disrobe their symposia as parochial bungalows dressed grandly as regal palaces.
76. He has a lot of friends and fun in his life.
77. None of his friends know about this.
78. The word ‘happy’ is one of his least favourite.
79. ‘Defenestrate’, ‘swerve’ and ‘labyrinthine’ some of his most favourite.
80. Nothing I have typed out has he found truly satisfying and complete.
81. Nor is that the point, the aim, the purpose, the ambition…
82. He holds it likely that Czeslaw Milosz was profoundly right in stating this: that happiness has the smell of freshly baked bread.
83. I like nature, and miss it somewhat, here now in the city.
84. I do not know what the future holds for us.
85. I find the clues worrying, distressing.
86. Into his mouth I have put: alcohol, cigarettes, magic mushrooms, marijuana, ecstasy, coffee and sugar, and cocaine in the nose.
87. He finds marijuana easily the most pleasurable of those; if you disagree, either you need a better dealer, or he does.
88. He smokes marijuana very little nowadays.
89. Not a big fan of the 69.
90. 90! I am struggling to find eleven more facts worth stating about myself, but best not to waste these final moments.
91. Ten now.
92. Did I mention the elusive thing?
93. He was quite good at mathematics, studied it as an undergraduate.
94. He quit drama at school to get away from a drama queen girlfriend, whom thought their love perpetual and eternal; incidentally, her name was not Juliet.
95. He hated performing on stage; but devising plays, improvising, directing, rehearsing – he misses them.
96. He’s been bitten by the same dog twice.
97. He used to fear dogs a lot more before that.
98. He has immensely elaborate and indecipherable dreams.
99. I like the blogosphere and, probably, I like you too.
100. He thinks soap-opera and sci-fi (amongst other things) are partly appealing because they make humans simpler to understand, easier to witness, and more recognisable than that which is real.

That Moment

2005-04-14T19:20:00.000+01:00

or this moment: the fist flying through the air, the face of the stranger breaking open, the glasses falling from the face, the face crying after them with blood, the features losing their family resemblance, the snug shape of the skin smeared and stretched, the crack of the bone of the nose as it breaks - that moment when a fist breaks a face, drunk and on drugs and unamused by the random Dutch - or that other moment: the one feared by Dr. Strangelove, when a fist rests its finger by a button, a button that will break a city, bring down a city, obliterate a city, and by the button the fist lingers a little, lights a last cigarette, or cigar, the vapour blue and lazy, and the towers wait, ready to tumble, and the windows quiver, ready for the burning to fling and to fall, and the boundaries on the maps are ready to be rendered as meaningless as rubble, as if the drawing of a child all crude and wrong, then all torn up, or rather, torn from the face of the earth - or any other moment a human decides at the drop of a hat to destroy a human - tell me, someone, when the only record of a life is blood forced out of a face by a fist, smeared upon the rubble, dribbling through the ruins - what would you keep from today, tucked away in the corner of your fist, tucked away from all such moments, what survivor would you offer the desolate future, what seed, aside from the brutal will to eat?

That was

2005-04-13T16:38:00.000+01:00

you, was it, sprinting from the police station, stuffing bundles of vending-machine popcorn up your jacket, collapsing to giggles on the pavement, and handing them back to the man bounding up, who was swearing something in Dutch; that was you, was it, finding someone's Volvo outside open at night, and falling asleep on the front seat, after a spliff, and returning to the waking world to run off with a child's kite, buried at the back of the glove compartment, that you never flew and that is now lost; and that was you, was it too, at first light giving the taxi directions, and then simply standing there, at the open car door, silent and statuesque, until off he drove with another fare; and you, staring across the massive Maas on mushrooms until each wave, each detail, became an undecipherable blur of shape and size, the image growing larger than all life before retreating to a point; and you lying on the grass and lighting another joint as the pigeon lady came, covered with bread and standing in a cross like Christ for the masses to peck, as down the pack swept, or was that a dream; and that was you, was it, infatuated with the whores in the window shops (that one with those glasses, black bra and panties, can at most have been 17), one after another after another; that was you, was it, man of leisure, man about town, there with no other guide than Allen Ginsberg and your best friend from School - he whom at 10 looked up 'existentialism' in some dictionary or other other, along with the dirty words, and concluded that 'utterly free in a meaningless universe' was he; and set his soul on Holland.

Holland, where now, like me and maybe you, he sends out electronic messages from behind a desk in an office; he just emailed me this, and is somehow still laughing unchanged, Hahahahaha, to a you that was.

An Office - Late Last Night

2005-04-12T17:51:00.000+01:00

"Papers and folders hunker down on desks, dotted about the room like nervous creatures, not knowing which hands will toy with them next. Blinds become black stripes in the twilight - the city twilight for which no birds come to sing - and the telephones crouch in silent poise, ready to ring. Darkness, near night, spreads like a blanket across the details of the day, and the office shades into shapes of dark grey, without flutter or feature. While here and there, a green or red dot of lonely light.

"Behind me the door echoed its thud, & I headed straight for the drugs. The filing cabinet in the corner. Key in the pencil pot. Open the bottom drawer. In a food bag, in an envelope, in a jiffy bag, in a carrier bag - there it was. Right at the back. Like she, my dealer, said.

"What was that? Who what where? There, the footsteps outside. Echoing along on the stair. Hide - shadows breath at the glass of the door. Security Guards.

"And then the lights come on and in the guards stroll, with a nod and wink out comes a rizla, and Dave offers to roll; out are pulled the empty chairs, banished the ghosts of night, and we all sit round for puff after puff after puff, never having enough. At six in the morning the cleaners come, nervously at first, then in a line, one after one after one, till all are done. It's the management next - and then the early birds - aka the nervous wrecks - for whom it seems to relax best - and -

"And, Fist!" he rambled on. "Fist! This little daydream of mine, yesterday, after the first smoke in a long time, made you remember all this - all that from years ago? Maybe the mellow tingles touched you too, silly Fist!"

"They stopped at the wrist," I answered. "What do such Rotterdam fantasies say to you now, years later? Where is your friend from the student flats? Such stories drift in and out of cities like ghosts, or anonymous men through offices, ghosts of a great connected human family, of the feeling of the homely, here in this unhomely world..." (I would go on, but already another haze of smoke has begun to unfurl.)

Cities of Ghosts

2005-04-11T16:19:00.000+01:00

"Go to Amsterdam, just for a weekend; and return home with one thousand new sights and stories: about meeting lunatics in the coffee shops, about watching madmen snort speed on the train, about hysterical nutters hanging off the lazy trams screaming, about chemically crazed kids in the bare intense clubs dancing faster than you thought possible, and the fools floundering in the canals each night, the tourists taking photos on the canals all day, about the grinning jibberers skinning up on street corners, about the shaky stumbling addicts snorting drugs against blank walls.

"Expect stories about taking drugs: what-happened-on-super-skunk, about sitting still, quietly, for a very very long time, a long time, very very, somewhere, with someone, else, and forgetting, forgetting everything, what was that last bit, don’t know, forgotten, about sex-shows and bizarre magazine images, about hours of giggles, about what and who fell into a canal, about seeing Jesus on the pool table thanks to magic mushrooms, legal and sold over the counter don’t you know, about having a smoke on a street stood next to a smiling mellow copper. About crack-heads on every corner making you feel paranoid along with the dealers left-right-and-centre, about avoiding pick-pockets despite being battered, about the police station in the red-light district: on one side of it a brothel, on the other a coffee shop, about getting clattered and stealing bikes at 4am. About cunningly using the public transport system without paying, about the hotel slept in from 8 in the morning to 3 in the afternoon, about the culinary nirvana of McDonalds, which never tasted so good.

"Or instead do the whole thing properly: go to the vast Dutch port and city of Rotterdam, not for a weekend, but for three months, for January and February and March. That’s twenty times longer than a weekend. And there’s half-again more coffee shops in Rotterdam than in Amsterdam, so roughly double the available quantity of drugs. And there’s no tourists: making Rotterdam skunk half the price of Amsterdam skunk, and double the quality. Treble.

"Rotterdam, a real world city, a town without tourists, not like that little vice cul-de-sac up the coast (which is only a train-ride away anyway); Rotterdam, not just a city sating the simple desires of foreigners for escapism and vice, but a real part of Holland, not just a cauldron conjuring sights and stories for tourists, with whores for witches and drugs for broth. So: go for six weeks, and after quick multiplication, you can expect to return home with … about a million stories about drugs, about nutcases, about the Dutch, about the sex, and some truths about another country. About a million stories to be expected from three months in Rotterdam, rent-free, admittedly on a shoestring budget, but staying there with your best mate from school in the student flats. Perfect. About a million stories about mad people and taking drugs and both. Sat in a cold waiting room, you must be excited for the first time in months.

"Rotterdam, Rotterdam. Rotterdam: town without tourists, place without a trail of photo opportunities provided by neat maps sold by fake friendly locals on corners, a stretch of land without people there for the banal excitement of having a holiday memory consisting of ‘something different’ now found in a photo album under a coffee table; place of people living daily lives, same routine, same street, not visiting some quick and easy gallery for foreigners with video cameras after a cultural fix to talk about in distant dinner parties, but ordinary Dutch people sitting in the same places, places of routine, meaningful repetition, rounding the same bend most days, boarding the same tram and paying the same fare, muttering at the same stuff and spreading jokes amongst each other. Not for tourists, not for travellers, not for nothing but normal life, hardcore Dutch life. And life that starts anew."

Remember that? I, Fist, asked him this afternoon. Remember that? He'll get back to you tomorrow.

Cigarette

2005-04-08T16:04:00.000+01:00

begs the sweat crawling down the neck, cigarette bangs the drums at the side of the head, cigarette wheezes each lung, itches the feet, jiggles the legs; bones click and crack, and through the flesh of the cheek strange fluids drip, then pour on to the tongue, as up the throat ashen slugs run. Cigarette, come explode this city of suffering flesh like a bomb, cigarette.

- So reports the belly button. And I, Fist, reply:

"You, massive empty dot in the middle, buried and blind amidst the black - the black of the forest of hairs, of the hills of fat, of the night-cover of clothing - you through whom once upon a time in the womb all goodness flowed - you, inferior button for whom a stray bit of fluff is a fine catch - do shut up. All you are is an absence, a gap, the path back is a cord forever cut, and for you nothing can compensate that. You speak only with the voice of total lack - an ever empty cave, a vortex of rumbling echoes, transforming every phrase into a whine for this or for that.

"The body, true, is awash with a chemical war, but will not surrender to you. Beyond the blue rivers of my veins, the hill-lets of my knuckles, the street-like grids of skin and the traffic-crashes of the paper-cuts, perch the angel-white crescents of the finger tips: I offer them as sacrifice and substitute to the tongue, the teeth, the lips."

(Although, in the laconic left-hand there sits a lighter - waiting and ready for fire and smoke. It, the left fist casually, teasingly, flicks.)

Buttons

2005-04-07T17:22:00.000+01:00

that flush fists of faeces down and away into the city of sewers, or that keep the city of flesh from the touch of fist, closing blouses above and the jeans below like this, or made when we fall from the kingdom of the womb, to a city of coos saying how sweet the babe, that light a lamp or tell the time in Tokyo, Paris, Madrid, any city of time world-over, chaffing the fist on the edge of the wrist, buttons of the world, bow down and be jealous of this:

She - pictured here puking city-sized quantities of cum all over her face - made me it to display, to link, to press. Not made for trading on the streets, or statistics of civic efficiency, or for some fashion display, or the rationalized controls of a city, and a tiny link no doubt; a link that signifies nonetheless something larger that exists: the city of friendship.

The City and Sex

2005-04-06T11:27:00.000+01:00

The girls from downunder coated en masse in cum, draped over sofas as naked and as drunk as anyone, drugs lining up in the kitchen again, as Kirsten cleans up the puke off the floor; the suave hand waving au revoir, to the maid the kid and the wife, off for golf Fifi, while phoning for the ass of some belle de jour; and the back alley behind the library over the road, where (a reward for their half-hearted and hung-over Sunday practice in the park) some teenage girls circle jerk half the local footy team; and the guys in raves reduced to jelly in a dark corner, waking to shit out a gang’s worth of HIV-plus ejaculate next morning; and the animal fun and the family fistings; and the wife swaps and slave children; and the lustful licking each other under umbrellas, never soaked enough; and dull husbands fattening in the suburbs amongst their whippet-thin wives, ordering their fists never to finger the bosom of their secretary – their boner banging about beneath their desk, and coming like Christmas a coronary, and always the hope of a brief holiday, in the quiet comfy hospital, before the end of their upright lives; and midnight, in the carparks, where drivers swap women amongst each other, rapid against the lampposts like stray mongrel dogs; where saying oneself is truly in love says no more than a fist does, when entering some cheap glove: ah this style is warm, or suits fist, or will do – well – just about – well – its kinky enough and it kinda fits:

O city, are you a symphony of sex, a melody made of promiscuity, a harmony of the horny, an orchestra of orgasms, a throbbing tune, beating and bounding through days, nights, whole human lives?

Or, O City, an olympic-sized cunt-shaped love super-stadium, for all the spunk-javelins of the world to launch at?

Or, O City, like half the blogosphere – bundles of lusting language and sexual reportage, against the democratic and multicoloured backdrops of LiveJournal and blogger, where an Average Joe, a John Q. Public, clinically depressed, IQ155, loves vaginas and breasts but just not blondes, not Fist but the surveys and respondents, where Brett and Hiromi make a picnic made of panties, such a pretty picture of a perfect couple, or where some sub worships her wondrous cactus, snagging her begs and breasts and bloods until she bursts, the bastard; or, or, or

“Such freedom!” announced his Eye. “Sparkling and shimmering, like the stars upon the sky, as eternal and lovely as an eye.”

“No, not like those super-terrestrial lands,” said the Tongue, slavering. “For the nymphs are here in the world, to be held in both of the hands.”

“Quite so,” said the Cock, an aristocrat. “Let us go have sex with the whole wide open world.”

But at that, the Feet protested about too much effort.

And I, Fist, have to confess: I was feeling rather bored by all of this.

“Look, eyes,” I said. “Undress every woman, would you? And then, tongue, lick every crevice, would you? And cock, coax your way into every corner? Come, come. We’ve pictured all this before with Grandmamma, and your Mother, too – she who looks like you – although ancient and saggéd, true.

“And what about those Americans, whose features crowd under five coatings of fat? Or the hunchback nuns, with their atrophied cunts? O, why this city of the mind’s eyes, made of imagination … Look, here’s another you wouldn't wish to x-ray: the painfully thin, like when you were seven years old, and the Ethiopian story that the news told - those African women, nothing more than a naked balloon for a stomach, added to a bundle of bones? Bones, bones, bones!”

“Alone,” sounded the echo in the China cave of the ears. “You are alone. Alone, alone, alone.”

Talk Shit

2005-04-05T13:23:00.000+01:00

Really, he cannot bear to face it. Cock flopped out, the fists of faeces getting ready to rock out - and, then, as down he lowers his butt, the horror, the horror of the toilet seat still hot.

Equally, those harsh facts from biology; unbearable. Smell is made from the molecules of actual stuff, not some different substance given off, as with the reflections of light.

Thus: the stinky air here is dotted with the sharp snap of actual shit, actual shit; it lolls about the lips, nests in the nose, enters him through the eye holes.

And so, only moments before, here his housemate's body must have hovered. This exact spot. Squeezing out the body-sifted debris. Sausage, fried bread, ice-cream and lager.

Revolting and pointless, surely, he thinks, to realise it. Such cruel facts of life as these - they are about us always, enough, anyway; so much human pollution of humans. Shut up, he tells himself, and just get on with it. Stop talking. Stop talking shit.

I, Fist, of course, have something else to say.

"Underneath the indignity, might you not sense a little story? Of having shared with your housemate's survivors a little moment that forms a memory? Like a blog entry does? Or more like a little touch of connection, like a comment is?" But he shakes his head. Enough of grandiose claims, he thinks, enough of faking some function out of the dirt of our lives, he doesn't feel like it at all.

"Something else, then," I said, meandering on, as if in the maze of the city, amongst walls made of mirrors and unknown corners. "Surrender that responsible feeling, which clambers for a hidden logic to hide the horror and shame, that groping hunger for pride. And then carry on anyway - with the search for words in common amongst the shit, with the attempt to name things which matter - even only if in a random form, say of an acrostic."

* Guest Post : MUSS *

2005-04-04T18:01:00.000+01:00

Muss's fingers have this tale to tell:

Muss has collapsed on the side of the bed, exhausted. But with her face flushed. Nipples, hard. Blood, pounding. Still, aching, and unfilled.

We - her fingers - reach down again, find the folds again, that are unsatisfied still, with our clumsy fumbles. We, her fingers, are not big enough. Not thick enough. Not round enough. Not smooth enough. Not warm enough. Please forget us, we say to her, please forget us artless things, in and on and of your body.

Or remember us on the body of that lover, then bring us back inside of you. Remember the girl with thick black hair: it poured down her back, it tangled around us. Remember that boy and his smooth, hairless skin, and how they then caressed him. Remember - rounded nipples, and long hard shafts, and the wetness - and - and - and - and -

- AND -

- and then she let go of us, draping us down the side of the bed, exhausted and collapsed, but not as before.

What do the bits of your body say about you? Tell me. Be my guest.

Cities and Minds

2005-04-01T10:40:00.000+01:00

“Tell me,” one day I, Fist, asked of The Brain, “tell me this. Look about the city: what are you?

“Are you, Brain, those five towers there, flying higher than birds, tallest and proudest, cleaned each day by slaves to a gleam, a world within a world formed to your own design - all that that started with a clear, good plan, which, one day, found a solid place for foundation, then building began, rapid and efficient – and now you overtake the rest, a light placed atop your crest for all the ants below to worship? Grown from a single point like a tree, from a seed? Onwards, upwards, free; as solid as a fist, but flying, but punching? Are you like those five towers, that fist the roof of the sky, like five penises fisting a vagina all at once, groping into the black innards of woman, fisting up at the mysterious dark matter, that is perforated with points of light, an alien perfection fisted with your own perfect purpose?

“Or, or, or. Or are you like the city as a whole? Dark and disorderly, all hidden corners and wrong turns? A corpse rotting in black bag there, a tiger locked up in a bedroom here? Twisting canyons made of concrete, mirrors, and steel; flinching imperceptibly, as a stray snake writhes below, beneath a thundering wheel? All blare and bluster, all lurching litter, and some random name – Paris, London, New York; Moscow, Baghdad, Hades – chosen to make the mass of messiness seem part of the same? (But where an innocent and stupid child might, in obscure, neat gardens, for a moment run happy and wild?)”

The brain likes the luxury of such speculation. Retreats from the dirty window, mouthing that such metaphors deserve real contemplation. Then, a call into the comfort comes – from the left foot’s little toe.

Something like this, Little Toe’s tale runs: “Would you call my crescent of calcium a finger-nail moon? Would you call my dotting of hairs an oasis – perched amidst the tumbling dunes? I am the size and length of a lozenge; am I baklava, liquorice? A sugar sweet flavoured with artificial orange? No; you know full well I have only one human life – in which to march with me to the drums, and their demands from the day, or dance amongst the delights of night, or allow a lady to paint me purple, say, or leave me sparkling after sex, cooling out under the end of the duvet, or stroll the streets for whatever marvel comes next. So I am Little Toe only, with only one life, and without like. Brain, for you it is the same – you are not a tower rising in space, not tears creasing the contours of a face, not a city drowning in rain, not a desert dotted with oases of drugs and sex. Although I admit it is more complex, it is the same for the toe as for the brain.”

“No,” I, Fist, replied. “No, Toe – and how annoying! What a pretty picture I was just painting! The brain will prove you wrong: throw you like an unwanted worker from its top tower, or pluck you from its neat city garden like an unruly flower. You, he will amputate! Apologise toe, before it’s too late!”

Then the Little Toe became a little itch, that to peace and silence Fist failed to scratch.

And he, man, uncertain, stammered out that: “A ludicrous and existing thing I am … and now - like a lame fool, unlike tower or city - surprise, I seem to be laughing …”

Back

2005-03-31T18:01:00.000+01:00

reclines in the unruffled air, observes that it's not too bad. The city's white-noise behind, the endless emails up front, and, between, all the fun of the swivel chair - not too bad to be back at work.

I, Fist, would like - with my usual smirk - to disagree. But even I can see that the trusted sandwich shop round the corner, and the regular brand of bottled water, beats the holiday cafe's fish pie schlop, and an Easter of diarrhea.

The Body Decides On A Holiday

2005-03-23T16:17:00.000Z

The skin - under the hairs all scabs and spots - cries for a cleanse in a Turkish Bath. But, the prospect plain scares the crap out from the arse.

The gut demands a seat in a pub, the table piled up with booze and grub. But - warns each fat, lumbering part - for that we may just not have the heart.

The tongue untwists to suggest Amsterdam: lick me with the love of whores, find some padded room to smoke and shroom, to open perception's (at least pleasure's) doors. There is a protest from the wallet, and a wheeze from the lung. A sense of a stereotype and empty hype, and there in the damaged brain, a battered half-memory cries of past pain. No, it will not be done.

The feet insist, no matter what else, the arse finds a seat. The request is answered with a fart, and one knock from the knees makes the No complete.

The left fist, luxuriating in a dark pocket all day, like a teenage mood behind a bedroom curtain, le Fist Francais, has this to say: "paint my nails in purple, sprinkle glitter upon each knuckle, and sweep me off to gay Paris! Hear its bells call dingalingling! There I shall shimmer and there I shall sing! In that world of beauty outside of time, of Paris I shall be, and Paris shall be mine!"

Somehow he manages to resist. Although there in the eyes, a hint of mist.

And I, Fist, find little to say. Just this: "A forest is a city of wood, a beach a city of sand, and Paris sewers aren't so pretty. Do what you feel that you should, but your shoulders shan't shrug off the city." And so Fist, ready, waits, there in the hand.

Portrait of the Fist as a Human

2005-03-22T15:46:00.000Z

Picture it:

The blood washed clean of it at birth, the first kindness of a mother or nurse, looping the whole of the fist around one adult finger, and then the first kisses in a flutter; the first paw at the bloom of the breast, the first reach for a rest during the first teetering steps; the handle bars of a bike, and school, and the like; eventually, the July air cools a touch at twilight, and hand in hand Fist levitates across the sand, till under a pier, or veranda, or as an owl woos, or as it turns midnight, Fist finds between another's legs the mystery of sex, and forgets its little local universe - instead, the ancient will of each species comes true; and with time, the hand coaxes into life a figure barely the size of a fist, a marvel made of human, such tiny fingers, as if a mirror from the past - or as if a line which, rather than long, thin and straight, and eventually dot dot dotting out to oblivion, there at the end, in fact loops back to life infinitely - a law of survival which lasts forever, even when Fist goes dry, even when to lift up Fist is to release a long, slow, sigh, even when Fist is placed at the end of an X made of arms, across the chest, and no religious or medicinal charms will work, and Fist curls up, and is cast down to rot, even then, in a sense, he is still held aloft, and comes from the earth back up.

Or maybe it's more like this:

Fist flies out and flops about, bloody and battered and blind, gropes for whatever he might find; it's food and a boob at first, and swabbing at his puke; and soon a spliff, a line of coke or nine, a fistful of pills full of who-knows, and don't forget all the booze, and the sickening and fattening take-away food; and don't forget the fist-fights, with strangers in city back-streets, the broken faces; don't forget the fisted women, the bouts of fucking amidst the miles of boredom, before the boredom summed up and Fist pointed the way to the door; and then the tax man and the reality check, the office, the swivel chair and the desk, the stealing and the back-stabbing, the blog and the spamming, even this little ditty; and everywhere, in the city stalks the Shadows of Hades, cooing to Fist come join us - and when they get the finger from Fist, they draw near, mouthing something about death that I, Fist, can never quite hear...

Ah, we know what life contains, if not what it's about; but not now how it ends, although we shall find out.

Pigeon

2005-03-21T18:19:00.000Z

One, three, two, forty-five thousand and sixty-seven, eight, nine of you - swarms of flying rats, diving and bombing, swooping above and about, this way and that - like black drops of ink, blotting out the sky; spread over the years, I mean, across the whole of the city. Now I have a confessional cry: How is it that I, Fist, have always failed to punch a pigeon out of the sky?

Only yesterday - strolling through the Spring park, watching those grey stains, distant and dark, spread like litter, then edge nearer, nudge under the bench (which I'd finally settled upon) and search for some nugget, peck, peck, peck - rather than punch one, I simply, instead, put a cigarette into the hole in the middle of my head.

Now what grey poisoned flecks nest in the city of my lungs? My lungs, one day some place you will deflate, stop, pop, puncture; surely some evil like a pigeon is to blame, and it's not Fist the first punch comes from?

The Fist Thief

2005-03-18T16:45:00.000Z

Whom is the thief of fists? The one who unfolds the hateful hand of a child, happily around some lollipop? Who picks the clenched fingers of some crammed commuter, out from the blackness of a trouser pocket, unfolds them for a mobile phone, where a dependable voice coos of home? Whithers the hands of old men into the dry, cracking branches of tiny dead shrubs?

Would-be boxers type at desks, and fists that would hold women aloft like trophies, or sport them like gloves, gently hold hands in a dull little park. O polite, professional city day - are you the thief of fists? And city, do you return after dark the fleet of stolen fists, dotting them about in the black heart of dreams, like the stars that burn each night, such dependable gifts?

Or perhaps, thief of fists, you are but a borrower: and when the blue above at noon grows dark with planes, when the monuments and parks are heaps of rubble, when dust thrashes like fighting snakes upon the air, the fists you have thieved will return, in vast numbers and free, released from everyday mediocrity, to briefly live and swiftly die - without knowing you, O city, O thief of fists, neither your who nor your why.

Through Binoculars

2005-03-17T18:31:00.000Z

Patrick has been promoted: it is a party all afternoon. Yes there are speeches, yes they could not have been over more soon. "Tom," Patty said to him, "Tom. Haven't seen you hardly all year! What's been happening to yer?" Well Tom said nothing of that Friday Feeling of fuckitall, or the weekend where pleasure was dotted about like Wars amongst Stars, or a Saturday spent daydreaming of Monday morning as if of Mars; Tom said nothing of the Fist Blog at all. "Ahh nothing much you know." "And a good day today?" said Paddy, "my lucky day?"

And once again it is the fists of truth he failed to say. He failed to say: "Today, I locked the office doors, unleashed my binoculars, and spied through the window the student party. There they danced and there they sat, wrapped up in the colours of a flag; orange, green, and white. And I spied today the first bikini of the year, here in this glorious Spring-like warmth and light, in the park there, where, she, stomach all wobbly, face all slushly, sipped at beer, fell off the bench and on to her rear, and spilled cigarette ash, right across her vast breast - like some violent, alien rash. But then laughed, as if she'd just passed some crazy test, as a friend called right over - O Milly, Oh Molly, in a voice that sounded like, You silly, You lovely, as if some echo of a Dublin sidestreet, where mourners by a coffin sighed, O my darling, Oh my beauty, and then cried."

Instead it's simply - O you know me old Tom, struggling on, battling through, bureaucratic fist-fights is my life, through and through. And how's Patrick's day - his change of position? "Just an excuse for a drink!" says Patrick, who looks at Tom for a brief second, as if from great distance, or as if spying a truly curious name - some name that has become anonymous, or meaningless, or strange, through some result of the passage of time, or through age, or via the distance of an internet page.

The City Springs A Question On Fist

2005-03-16T17:05:00.000Z

"Light flows through me. It mingles amongst my many streets, warms the women feeding birds, there on the benches, and the men striding the path through the park for a break; bright blue, it calls the buds up through the earth, daffodils, bluebells, and tulips soon too, and the birds start to swoop and to sing; the buildings glow like a chin (lit up by a buttercup), even the streets - so hard and mean they once did seem - have lost the blare and bluster, every car is mildly on some mellow meander; even the litter, the endless litter, is merely loitering without intent, dancing and drifting, with energy and elevation, with all that the City is soon to be sent - already begun - what I mean to say is, look here, it's Spring!

"Now, Fist," questionned the City, just this afternoon, "Fist, Fist, Fist. What dark little twist can you possibly put upon all of this? Why not speak to I, the City, as a tree hears a nesting bird, with just one simple word? (The word, Fist, being: Friend.) And why not look to unhand yourself along some young thing's neck (already their blouses are looser, opening), as soft as a dove -"

"And sing a song that ends in love?" I interupted. "Love, Dove? (Sing spring's wing?!) Heaven's above, such a school-child rhyme, stolen from a pop tune. I'd rather be cold and fruitless, like the moon, than chant your false hymn.

"O City in Spring, what do you bring? Wasps and bees are bullets of pain, flying out from a hand-like hive; and what will clean the streets, if not the slap of hard winter rain? And what are flowers but fists, forcing up through the black earth, powering through the death-dream of winter, the diseased dirt? O City, I shall speak of Spring. But not the way your postcards were picturing."

Perineum

2005-03-15T16:44:00.000Z

"Look" said the self-pitying Perineum, "Look. You eyes: Do not lower yet in your illness - but see out over the city, here from the office window: it has caused your streaming sickness.

"How? you ask. Maybe it was that shuffling commuter - or that one or that one or that one - from whom a particle of sneeze dropped out from his nose and onto his knees while on some train, then drifted outside and into the rain, from where it flew into some corner of you? Who knows? Who?

"But, look. Admist this city and the attack of its air, the most you can hope for is to be like me: tucked away in folds of fat, all sweet and sticky, jolting along blindly - unimportant, unnoticed, undecided - not knowing your own luck, true, but (now and again) tickled!"

And I, Fist, reply: "Perineum, so what? Make a Wish - it's the same as a Want - which is not far from a Punch, and for that act of Will, there's always a Way, even when his Health has wandered away. You don't think its true? Then next time I pull down his pants, I'll show you."

Birth of a City

2005-03-14T18:26:00.000Z

What was that? Smack in the middle of his mouth, a long, hard punch? Sent up from the lung? In the form of a cough? That almost knocked his glasses right off? And what was that? Like a slow, long slug, a finger of fat ooze, manouvering its way around his nose? And the skull - that usually presses in as soft as a stroking palm - has it really grown spikes? Spikes that scrape along the grey top of the brain, like finger nails down a school blackboard?

Blackboard? School? His body? Where the provinces are full with the fats of putrid foods, the sewage works splutter and stink, caves and crevaces swim with steaming seas of salt water? Where the magic temples allure no worshippers, the streets are over-run by barbarians, and the chimneys splutter black smoke?

No, today he is a new city, one invaded by illness - and the brain shouts for balm - like cymbals the eyelids crash up and down, failing to be and fighting to be still and calm - and the Memory mutters something about Mother, chicken soup and orange juice - whilst the stomach begs the belt to let it run loose - and the throbbing neck has inflated its own noose -

and I, Fist, amok in the middle of it all, am as happy as an old General. An old General: one suddenly freed of his paper-strewn desk and occasional cigar, freed to roam and wreck like a mad young war lord, scratching at the fires, the fires spreading out like a plain across the skin, dropping paracetamol down the throat, like grenades down a bolt hole, and shouting out, like a fist-clenched loud speaker, with a voice so joyfully raw, that the City of Fist has been born of this body, and it is a city made entirely of civil war.

Without Name

2005-03-11T17:34:00.000Z

"Look at the blog," I ordered him like a little puppy dog. "Look at the whirlwind of words. How they run in a web right around the whole wide world. Look."

"So what?" he woofed right back.

"So this. Why the leash of office life, why the sty of the city? Why not act as words speak? Demolishing cities to dust, say, in the space between a question-mark and a full-stop.

"Why not flood the air with a fleet of fists, roaming around the great globe itself, fisting the human debris with raw hurt? Why not chase down the chicks in their changing rooms, flicking away all the misty steam of this world, with just one stroke of the wrist? Like words, grope in the guise of a gift, governed by the will to get? (Of course - with, I, Fist, the calm, controlling eye of your storming self.)"

"Words, words, words," he snarled back after a bit. A temp was teetering around in the cabinets.

"Millions of them. Millions of words trekking around millions of worlds. And yet there - the temp, look, her pale, exposed neck, as up she stretches up. How many places from that fragile edge of the ear to the angle of her shoulder blade? More than all the words of this warring world put together. O, that little line of skin, so wholly without name. So soft to touch with the tongue! Or trace with a finger. And what would the languages of earth weigh then, in the black wordless nowhere of a bedroom at night, where the contours of her face move across your face, and your hand is lost to the world, lost amongst the long, looping ringlets of her hair?

"So much, Fist, for your war of words and worlds!"

Silence. But we will speak later.

No Post Today

2005-03-10T16:42:00.000Z

The stomach grumbles and groans: "Poison, poison! How he fisted me with toxin after toxin last night; beer, wine, whiskey, cigarettes - and cheap meats after night fall. Such damage he has done, such damage I will do. That's my grumble, that's my groan, and now that's all."

The armpits weep and wail: "O the stench of his sweat today! One moment sickly with sugar and heat, the next minute a shivery silvery slivery slime, as sharp as lemon or lime."

The raw eyes dream of retreat: "Knock, knock, knock, Mr Brain! How out here the avalance of air gives us such a bald, blood-shot, barmy stare! Please, please, please, let us lounge about blindly inside the fuzz of the skull today!"

And from the teeth, a woo woo woo like the ghosts of a graveyard: "Today we are tombstones, today we are charcoal. O hangover of hangovers, we were first smoked out, then a war's worth of alcohol has killed us all."

And the brain arbitrates all the complaints: "Poor bits and bobs, poor little boy: out you went to play, and back you came as a broken toy. And now, we must pay: with peace, silence, sleep. So Fist - that means, Thou Shalt Not Post Today - no, not even a peep."

I nod, go quiet, wink. As obedient as an echo, bounding about an abandoned cave, or so he does think.

Back in 5

2005-03-09T16:35:00.000Z

Hours, days, years? Lifetimes, reincarnations, eternities? Five what? I ask him: back after five what? Lines of coke? Five strangers fist-fucked? Five lottery tickets - bought in the memory of the dear deceased, Lady Luck?

- or why not five bunjee jumps from city roofs, flying like a fist, diving into the city, hurtling down through its air - and the drop stops - right on the dot. Just. Paused at your face, the curve of the street, hardly as hard as a fist it looks. And then back up it bobs, down it bobs back, bob, up, down, bob - like a kid's bouncy ball; harmless, and utterly sweet.

Or five fist-fights in the lunch-time and its queues: a princess picking over the salads as if over jewels; that fool fumbling his change; the bus-tinned tourists grinning at the surface of the city, like the sardined spectators smiling from seats in a sports stadium; and don't forget to wrench that paper-reading stinker from the toilet cubicle ... and for a fifth? Perhaps, dear, darling, random reader, it could even be you.

Or perhaps, back after five pints of piss, peed from the ridge outside the roof-top window, a pure line of fluid flowing through the dirty air, then burning down below, there in the eyes of innocent passer-byes, drenching the tickets and dreams of luck, running through everyday doors, flooding through atriums and echoing corridors, and washing away all of the city's innocent, questionning, post-it notes?

Or back in the time that it takes for five paragraphs of a blog to be daydreamed up, which inexplicably and mysteriously end with a question of love?

The Whim

2005-03-08T17:52:00.000Z

Some whim of him whispers:

First, spread your legs out up on the desk, and do not worry who's coming through the door next. Then lay back, as if luxuriating in a bath, as warm and homely as a hearth. Shut those eyes of yours and conjure a line of stars, spread out along the backs of the lids. And let those fingers and your ears collude, to silence the hum of here and the distant cars.

Now, sing your self a story, tell your soul a tale, of a golden path thread through a green land; it begins with birth, ends back in the trusted old earth, and in the middle you take women by the hand, as down the straight line you sail, making love on the land, and never once hearing the word fail. O sparkle, perfect creature, O shine with this soulful hymn, and mouth out the melody of this whim!

Of course - regular readers - I, Fist, boom back:

Sing your self as a story, and sell your soul a tale to tell? Blind and deaf and docile you may well be for a moment - but there the throbbing city still is, swirling just beneath the window, staring from the screen with the eyes of a ghoul, and black growls stain the grey air. A golden path through that? With its maze of choices to make every second, around each corner? A maze without centre, sodden with a million threads, threads of falsehoods or facts beamed through the air, bundles of violence burning down cul-de-sacs, balls of sex sweating out swarms of contagions - and you with fat, stumbling thighs, groping fingers, a slow, slow bumbling brain? And you chasing around in circles, if in any shape at all, if chasing at all?

(Legs down. Eyes open. And on, fornever forward, upward and nonward, he works.)

Mothering Sunday

2005-03-07T18:31:00.000Z

The lips had already done their bit - all the cliches and polite kisses - when the ears went on strike. Enough stories about school! they said, enough! LalalalaLA!

Into the silence of deliberate deafness, the eyes then spoke for a while. Look at this old lady, they said, whom looks just like you, but sagged and squashed. Look at her love, as she talks her tedious talk, here in your old home.

Your old home! answered the Imagination. Look around: the room fills with what has passed; that surprise birthday party, father leaving for the last time, you having sex on this very sofa; and further back, your parents sat around, you no bigger than a fist, sat bumping about in her stomach. And before you bounded into this brilliant world, you were conceived here too - with love-making perhaps, or planned down to the detail of your name, or maybe with a faked orgasm, such a tiny formality. Who knows?

Ah, said Nostalgia, how you were wanted here in this house. How you were welcomed here into this home. Warm, all so warm.

Then, the body parts all turned to me. Fist, they said in chorus, dear Fist, do not spoil all this, the peace and quiet. The tongue has sworn it shalt not swear - don't ask. And the penis is as sleepy as a babe. Fist, they said, Fist, so what that you once were tiny and fell out of her vagina? So what that you clung to her breast as the hot milk flowed to the mouth? Fist, angry Fist, rebellious Fist, hateful Fist, just stay in that pocket, where the arm has tucked you - no, thou shalt not wave about.

I had no answer, in my itchy laughter, there in the pocket, I had no answer. And now I speak: Body, as the lips lick themselves, looking for love, as the ears are invaded by the sound of a city, scything through space, as the eye twitches for threats from all corners of the streets, as the old house warms its lonely widow, so many miles away, what would you do with out me now, blurted into the everyday of this city, which doesn't have a care in the world?

Thursday Night

2005-03-04T17:09:00.000Z

And there they are, on some late-night cable channel: human bodies barely the size of a fist, with fists barely the size of finger-nails - but punching this way and that, then pulling themselves upward into the womb, scratching for grip against the walls; feet kicking like fists, head screaming and eyes blinking in disbelief - as though a fist was flying right at their face - and then a final last leap of life - and then it's done; the abortionist vacuums the foetus through the vagina, and a would-be mother has made some money, selling the motion-picture scans to TV.

And there I am - I, fist, whom might never have existed, never been connected to arms and eyes and ears, coated in a layer of skin like this, so comfy now, flicking over channels, holding back a yawn. I'm attached to a man wasting time, wondering who or what else he might have been doing tonight, perhaps in an alternate life, and what's on TV next, and when is the right time to go to sleep.

Shop Girl

2005-03-03T16:44:00.000Z

Dotted across the city like dogshit, there must be a million others the same. Where fingers filch about in pockets for poultry change, crisps, cans, cigarettes, soon exchanged, and their chemicals that fist the insides of humans, with their flicker of hopes. Corner shops.

Days have drifted past like three little dots, and I must have seen her a million times the same. Stood there behind the till: slim, long and white. Like an unlit cigarette, or beam of pure light. And her thin feeble fists working away, day after drifting day.

Today, two pink and bright lines have danced upon her pretty face: eyeshadow, she wears at work for the first time. He spied them fluttering from the line. Perhaps those eyes are lit up like a butterfly, utterly beautiful, and so free to fly away.

Or perhaps, she has had enough of staring silently down this line of dull, dark-suited men, whom desperately and always fail to flirt with her. And now she's decided to crudely signal that now she's a prostitute, saying: come at me with cocks ready, cock in my mouth, cock down south, cock behind me, flood me like a can of drink exploding over lips, or climb through me with your cocks, the way sharp crisps crawl and crunch down the throat, or blast me and burn me with a heat like the the tips of cigarettes; come, cocks, into me. Here I will have you all, and I can never be full, so come with your cocks and fists, ready and easy like change.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps ... and so I pay, and say goodbye.

Toilet

2005-03-02T17:11:00.000Z

And yes he is in a rush and no he can't stop to chat in the corridor and sorry but please would you get out of the way there and - at last - and - and - and - Out Of Order?

Toilet Out Of Order? Nearest toilet one whole floor down?

And - yes - rush - no - can't - stop - sorry - please - and someone's in there? Stinking out the place and, by the sounds of it, turning over the pages of a newspaper?

Umm-ing away to themselves?

And then ahh-ing?

O, the cheeks turn white in an instant, their respectable colours gone, become a ghost, and the belly garbles desperate complaints, and the eyes water, his mouth mutters, knees get the shakes, gut shudders, and the gates of the bowels boom out emergency signals, and the forehead has aged a thousand years in this single moment, now a sudden sea of rippling wrinkles - and even the left Fist (all French and laconic, scratching around near the warm cave at the base of the spine) is concerned by this. C'est n'est pas bon. Et le corps pleure avec la sueur.

Nearest toilet? Half the building away. And I, Fist, issue the orders. Mouth: quiet, teeth gritted as quiet as a fist. And I tell the legs: march, as fast as a flying fist. And I tell the bowels: fist, scrunch as tight and as hard as a fist.

And,

fine-

-a-

-lee,

at

last,

after all

that,

trousers are around ankles, the cubicle is locked, he is leaning back, and I, Fist, the boss, say: Bombs away! Fists away! Fly my babies, fly!

- and nothing happens. (Except for the left Fist, who releases a low, slow snigger.)

Holes

2005-03-01T17:37:00.000Z

Pinch, punch, first of yet another month - and now the same sight, here at the end of yet another shift. From the pigeon holes, all of the forwards have departed. No trace now of I, Fist, stuffing them in, one by one by one. Flicking this floppy sheet forward there; fingers nudging pages straight here, neat and straight, neat and straight - not a trace. And my monitor, the same sight: emails and a blog.

And yet again, invisible but everywhere, an eternal mystery. How, once more, has she failed to materialise? The dreamed-of woman? Her, with her school-girl socks pulled up to her knees, the skimpy pants, a little loose about those lilting hips? Her, tip-toeing about the place, surveying him - him sprawled in a ball on the floor like a little fist, but staring up, gaping up? Her so tall, legs like beams of light filtering through to dark forest floors? Then her, pulling those pants to one side, perched upon this chair, legs lifting up upon this desk, pointing herself at this monitor - and then she summons a finger of fist to touch her, and pulls it inside of her pleasureflesh, and - and - and -

- and then out it comes, flying, an explosion of female fluid, scented with citrus fruits, a subtle hint of vinegar, coating the monitor, flooding the pigeon holes, drowning the body sprawled on the floor, who can no longer say what day it is, or what time it is, or what will happen in the very next instance.

Sunday Morning

2005-02-28T17:15:00.000Z

Distracted by church bells chiming outside, bored while masturbating in bed, his mind was flitting about: Jolie nipples peanuts, brown rose yellow, chinks chicks chickens, farms horses whips, whispers MrWhippy MadamSpanky,

- this is ridiculous. Give it a rest, I told him, enough is enough.

- stop complaining, Fist, answered his Will.

In hushed tones, his Imagination and Memory were huddled together, colluding in a dark corner of his head. Then in chorus they sang to his Soul, slyly:

- those ex's loved a good spanking. Didn't they? Bent over the table or bed, pretending to be school girls. Perhaps there was something in that, Mr Teacher. Maybe a little spanking will expel this daydreaming, pass you through the pain barrier and into pleasure. Go on, Mr Fist, spank!

The idea runs around his body. Sirens of clichés sing about experience, and never knowing unless you try. Curiosity affirms his ass is not a cat, and so cannot be killed by this. The left fist complains (in demotic French) about having to depart his comfy corner, perched upon the warm cave of his anus. His butt stays silent, but wobbles up and down, perhaps in a nodding motion. The lungs breathe out a resigned sigh, while cumming spanked women are hung like a picture on the inside of each eye,

- and so, a conspiracy is born. The torso twists him prone. The knees lift him up like an eager dog. The face assumes a look of innocent excitement, like an expectant child.

And then, the brain tells the arm: Action! And up I go, like a mad kid on the end of a fairground ride, or a huge weight on the end of a crane, or a child's kite waiting to collapse, all the way up there. Taut and straight, open palm-position like a kung fu cliché, up I go.

And then I am flying down through the still bedroom air, hurtling through the warm haze of the morning, dive-bombing down, down, down, dropping like a piano through the sky in a cartoon, until -

SLAM. Spank. Smack...

And then, shudder. Shuddering, along his juddering frame, from the waist and up to the face. And then, the burning. O the burning, burning, burning. First, burning the ass, hot and red and throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. And soon the eyes, all optimism gone, them on the verge of spitting out their bitter salts, crying, wailing, sobbing.

"What was that noise? You ok in there?" housemate 1 called through the bedroom wall.

"Ahh, I..." is all the agonized mouth could muster.

"No don't go through," said housemate 2. Then quietly: "I think he's -"

Silence. Enough time for a simple gesture?

"O," said housemate number 1. "O."

His face is on fire. His ass is agony. He is populated with pain. Except for I, Fist. In the shocked fleeting silence, I raise my solitary central finger. Here endeth the lesson, I preach, here endeth the lesson.

Fate and Fist

2005-02-25T18:02:00.000Z

The gut swaying, the eyes blearing, the mouth muttering, the legs tottering, the arms swinging, the soul lost - he will be wandering around the city late tonight.

Spitting at the sky, choking the air, tearing along the streets, growling at houses, no soul to begin with - the cars will fart, crap, creep and speed around the city late tonight.

Surely fate is at hand to power such a beast into him, as he meanders across a road. And then the coma; his gut will shrivel, his eyes go blind, that mouth shut-up, the arms sliced off, the legs frozen forever - everything except his fist crippled.

And in time, he, the cripple, will be given a wheelchair. And I, fist, will captain that ship; and the streets will treat him differently. No longer will the sirens sing sweetly. No longer will the pubs welcome with open arms. Instead, fingers will point at his pathetic body, mouths will laugh at the mucus drifting down his chin, and drivers will share in-jokes behind their windows.

And I, fist, as was fated, will then deliver him from the miserable city, driving him forever forward, onward, upward. Or at least, I will speed him away, steer him elsewhere.

The Right Fist

2005-02-24T17:20:00.000Z

Scented with cigarettes, perfumed with puke, with a nose of throat cancer, notes of pollution and bile, and a body of rotting crisps, I have just caught a sneeze - and with it, the stench of his innards. Smearing itself into a pocket, seeping into the life-lines and the love-lines of the palm, sliming around in my fingers, knuckling down under the nails - on the stench lingers, on and on and on.

Normally, the left fist stops such sneezes. The lazy left fist! Who never picks up a pen to write, never is called on in the lonely hours, as the night grows dark and late, is allergic to wrist-watches, and never bothers to shake a hand or flag a cab... And why not today? The lazy left fist is on strike, lounging around in his buttcrack, fiddling with hairballs, and savouring the smell down there instead.

(I think the left Fist is French, btw.)

Otis

2005-02-23T17:05:00.000Z

5,
8,
6,
5,
5,
5,

3, 2, 1 - and when it finally reaches the ground, I am ready to fill whatever face emerges with fist, ready to reach inside the brain of whomever has wasted my waiting time, and turn-off the light of their soul like a switch, ready to pluck out the eyes and fist through the throat, ready to ram the chin to the back of their head - ready, ready, ready, 3, 2, 1 -

- and the elevator is empty. What to throw a fist at now, Fist? The invisible man, that eternal companion conjured beside you, lame, nameless, naked, unknown? Or, the unsmiling man, his fat ugly features caught in the lift mirror, him with a flimsy fist flopped at his side, hurrying back to the office without good reason?

Snow II

2005-02-22T17:42:00.000Z

So, man-in-the-moon! You're not bored of puking yet? And still on you puke, same as yesterday, puking your own ejaculate up - everyone knows the moon is made of ejaculate - made wholly of his own ejaculate in fact - and so just now you've puked it down into the clouds again, and so down it snows, your spacedust, spraying itself over the city, squirting up against the windows, sloshing along the streets. Proud of your city-soaking cum, Mister man-in-the-moon?

Pah, your snow is not so special. How many times have I found myself shuffling up and down his best-buddy late at night, the lights off, stood against the attic window, staring over the rooftops and offices and parks and churches? Over the schools and hospitals and cemeteries? The roads and museums, riches and rapes, murders and marvels? The skyscrapers and sewers?

And suddenly, it all disintegrates: the city is coated in white as if under a flash of lightening, his feeble friend is sagging, like the chubby chins of the elderly (but a lot smaller), and his face has lost interest in reflections. And I fist am unchanged, unchanging and unchangeable, dryer and harder than the moon.

Snow

2005-02-21T16:36:00.000Z

A plump little cloud, sat in the sky like a pillow, has been plucked of its feathers: slowly down the soft down scatters.

Eyed from the window of the office, this little corner of the city is poised for transformation in an instant, like a garden at the change of season. Suddenly to be made of shape and sparkles, simple and pure under arctic white, poised it waits for transformation.

Look, brag the eyes, Look. See how the city is just a pretty snowshaker, sat upon the mantlepiece of the mind, ever-prepared for a sleepy flurry when shook by the obedient fist.

No, answer I, fist, No. The city is just another fist, rammed through the guts of the earth, ever-assaulted by the sleepy, blind and bleeding sky. But with fingers, no matter how cold, flicked out always.

Break

2005-02-18T17:03:00.000Z

Paper work this, paper work that, type type type type type, then a knock at the door. And the only break is the toilet: the streaming heat of urine between finger and thumb, like a line of bullets fired from a machine gun.

And the clear bright porcelain, could you not be the face of my boss, or the trousers of those typing out admin messages elsewhere? No: all you hold is a chewed up piece of their discarded gum, or a pube shaped like a question mark.

But all the wretched worries and violent queries of work are soon to be done. Now is the weekend, where the city out there will flood in here, with cheap fluids of regular beer; flood his frame and his fist, until all goes silent, and dark, with a thud.

City from the Rooftop

2005-02-17T17:32:00.000Z

Intricate as the grids on the back of your fist, the rooftops of the city: long lines of red brick, lattices of slate, a jutting chimney like a finger or cigarette, the anorexic arms of trees dotted about like thin hairs, here and there, and amongst the roofs covering offices like a trusted glove, you once or twice make out the thin grey strip of a road - like an indented little line, left by an old scar.

Staring over the fractured lines of the city, you finish your cigarette, peer over the edge. There are the looping acrobatics of the air, chasing this way and that, darting then circling back, straying and playing amongst the buildings as they like, as if a kid's fists exploring bric-a-brac.

You could join them in a step or two - but nothing in the city would catch you. Instead, the thin path back to the door, from the edge of which streaks the light of the warm corridor... back to the office, throbbing with electricity, which your fingers use to grope out to elsewhere. Say to you.

Baby Stories

2005-02-16T16:58:00.000Z

Not for him:

Kicking, shouting, screaming, groping, smattered in blood, ripped from the cave of the womb, and blurted out into a bright, cold, controlled hospital room. He was born asleep. Had a snooze instead.

Not for him:

Crawling around the furniture like an assault course, creeping up to the edge of the sofa like a cliff. He didn't move for a year. Just sat like a fat little Buddha, contemplating the world, with a sphere of toys.

For him:

On his first birthday, he got up and walked. And then started to talk. Before then, I had patted at dark, red, wet, reverberating walls, or flopped feebly about like a stuffed creature on a carpet. But then - as he groped forward greedily, lurched about looking for love, wailed words of want in the air - I knew his baby-soul was mine; fist's, forever fighting, forever forcing - but flying.

Popcorn!

2005-02-15T09:45:00.000Z

This time, he will say it:

“Daniel, my encouraging manager, my occasional friend over after-work drinks, Mister nice guy of the Department; Daniel with your boiling-lobster sweaty features, your tiny, feeble pale Irish frame; Daniel, jokester with the worst jokes, who on Friday forwards dumb emails that are ten years old, comes into our offices to nod as we falsely laugh, I have decided for once to tell you The Truth.

“This morning, yesterday morning, mornings for months now, I have awoken with one dream: that I have murdered you. Not a nightmare, note, but a dream. Not accidentally killed, note, but deliberately murdered. And I have to confess – I have enjoyed filling your face with my fist. Yes, that’s right, my fist. Yes, the one I’m raising boldly now in front of your balmy features. This fist, your face.

“One thing remarkable about this thoroughly enjoyable dream – and yes, I realise that my appraisals don’t normal cover such personal matters, but bear with me, because boy is this going somewhere – where was I? One thing remarkable about this thoroughly enjoyable dream is that the inside of your face isn’t actually made of the normal stuff of man. Yes, there’s blood. Yes, a bit of brain, bumping around like reddened blotting paper. But basically, the innards of your face don’t have tendons, or bones, or a soul, or teeth – they’re made of jelly.

“Jelly! And I just love squirming my fingers around in jelly. I have destroyed you so many times, just like a child fisting around a bowl of jelly at a birthday party. Well, not ‘just like’ – because this is actually homicide. And also, I don’t actually get to eat the jelly – just rummage around in it, and then from the inside knock your few remaining hairs from your skull. But I do get to toss the remains of your jelly onto the carpet and tread you into no more than stain.

“You see – don’t look so worried, no-one’s going to burst in or something. Your door is quite locked and the sign, after all, firmly says Do Not Disturb – and I’d hate for all this to be disturbed – where was I? Ahh yes. I was mushing you into a carpet like jelly. Daniel – my wonderfully encouraging manager – please don’t look so worried; this story is only half-done, and there’s a great deal more to come!

“Jelly for starters. You see, in this thoroughly enjoyable dream – no, I won’t lower my fist, I like it where it is, you see – and stop interrupting my flow – this is about me – my Personal Appraisal – mine – please, Shut Up! – yes, anyway. Good. In this thoroughly enjoyable dream, there is one disappointment. Yes, you guessed it. Did you? I don’t know, you’re so dull – possibly not. But when you hear the one disappointment, you’ll instantly recognize its truth.

“The disappointment is that it’s only a dream after all. Simple, eh? Each morning, I do not actually manage to snuff out the light of your unique essence. I wake to an alarm – and dammit, I have to come in to work and talk with you. Talk with you... So, I come in. And there you are, alive and unscathed. Your ugly features intact, grinning at me like a monkey. Like a jelly monkey. Like the face of an ugly monkey set in cheap jelly. And the sight each morning makes me want to puke shit out of my eyes.

“Or rather, it makes me want the dream to be real. For a fist to really have entered your face, thumped through the roof of your mouth, prodded out your eyes from the inside, and squished your brain – ‘brain’ – into mush. And then for you to casually collapse on the carpet, your eternal soul gone from the universe for ever, under the cheap second sole of my black-leather shoe.

“And that is the disappointment every single day – that you – no, I won’t sit down. I’ll say it twice if you like – but I won’t sit down. The crushing disappointment. That you are still alive. And each night, I ask the gods to answer my dreams and convert your life force into a job for the cleaners. Where was I?

“Ahh yes – you get the picture now. I jubilantly dream of your death every night – and wake disappointed. I can see a look of worry across your face – no need to move your chair back, or nervously grab that hole-punch like it’s a shield – I am really so much bigger than you. (Do you know we all call you Downsize Danny?) Anyway, my occasional friend, I imagine you are asking yourself a pretty simple question right now.

“And that question is: What the blazes has all this to do with a Personal Appraisal? No – you’re shaking your head – something else bothering you? Well, come come. Speak.

“You don’t seem able to speak. Well, this little speech of mine really rather depended on you asking me now: ‘What’s this got to do with your Personal Appraisal?’ Can’t you play along, Mister Nice Guy? And please, stop jumping when I take a step in your direction. You look scared, or something.

“Wait a minute – if I tower above you – will you ask the question now? What if I – yes – I thought the throat-grip would force it out of you. What’s this got to do with your Personal Appraisal. Good question, Danny, gargled admittedly but a really good question for a midget monkey like you! Just a little joke, just a little joke. Midget – yes. Monkey – no. More like a mollusc!

“O I make myself laugh. O, chill out, Downside Dumbass, please. You just asked a really good question just then. What’s this got do with my personal appraisal? I like good questions. And that’s your first. Well done. I Appraise that you are Improving. Your current conclusion about me is probably a bit different – but it won’t matter one iota in two moments. Trust me, Dorkass, on that at least.

“So. The crunch. The big kahuna. The mother of mothers. The final fist. What on earth has this: my wish to send all the moments of your beautiful individuality into the ultimate recycle bin, got to do with this: my Personal Appraisal? You look mortified! Stop shaking; your furry, sweaty ears will hear better then.

“Actually, let me answer your question falsely for a few moments – before I answer with The Truth. I’ll tell you a few lies, in case you get confused and doubt me. I’d hate that. I’ll tell you a few things about What All This Doesn’t Mean.

“First of all – and I thought these dreams meant this for a while – all this doesn’t mean I want a temp. And by temp, I mean ditzy 20-something to do my filing. And by ditzy 20-something, I mean a stupid, beautiful woman. And by steautiful woman, I mean an immigrant with a dodgy work permit. And by that, I mean someone whom I can say: give me a blowjob and work late and do all my work – or I’ll phone up the Passport Office. Under the table, now. (She’d need rudimentary English, incidentally.)

“Anyway. Why don’t I mean that? I am not so soulless as to employ a whore! Or rather, someone who I fuck however I want, whenever I want – the way you employ you me. Ok, you don’t. But sometimes I feel like you do – and that’s enough for me to make a mirror for the moment.

“Okay, first possibility crossed off the list. See, we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we? Secondly – I’m not asking for time off for stress. I wouldn’t mind it, but a holiday of false hope? I could not lie to myself. Like my dreams don’t lie. Like my dream that you by my fist are to die. Oop – best not skip ahead like that! You like your bullet points nice and orderly, I know, I know, I know so very damn well.

“Third possibility – which isn’t true. Let me reiterate: these are all implications that what I’ve said don’t actually mean. Just for your sense of – Chi? Calm? Ikea? Ichia? Tai Chi? Chai Tea? Feng shui? Whatever totems of Eastern chillage chit you do buy in bulk into. Well whatever – chill, you. I don’t actually mean to kill you. Not this exact moment. Well, you never know. Sometimes you tell yourself such things – falling asleep, calmly – and then – say – well, nevermind! You see, the thing is, I don’t much care for jelly. I’d rather not have it on my fists at all, really. Deep down. I think. Here’s the story.

“When I was four years old (and, by the by, here’s a chance for you to use some empathy, because that’s your approximate mental age) I had a birthday party organized for me by the strangers I knew then as parents – mum and dad. And I ate all the jelly before the guests arrived – where are the stupid infants now? probably in leather chairs much like yours – and after eating it, I rapidly puke and shat myself. And missed the party. Picture it - my first memory.

“Daniel, you look pale! More like clams than lobster. Well, lobster is always such a grand fish. Usually eaten as a whole. Probably because it’s a hassle for chefs to flesh out the meat in pieces – unlike little molluscs. I do like eating little molluscs. They’re a dying species, apparently: so eat them while you can. They’ll be gone soon – like you! On a geographical timescale, I mean. O I make myself laugh.

“Where was I? Ahh yes. I don’t much like jelly. As I was saying. My little vignette. I don’t much like vinegar, incidentally. Prefer my food raw. Or with a little butter. Anyway, carrying on, going on, like a foolish moron amongst filing – not even pausing to masturbate in the loneliness – I don’t much like filing. Or jelly.

“Incidentally – I really appreciate how quiet and uninterrupting you are now. Because – let’s be honest – you like to interrupt don’t you? You hear a jokey chat in my office from your office, give it a couple of minutes, and interrupt the whole thing with a query about a question in an email – any email – don’t you? Yes, you do. Break up the party, as harmless as a four year olds birthday party. But this is not a real grievance – because I really can’t stand the people whom love me for my office wit any more than you, and your praise for my efficiency. (I hide the filing I can’t be bothered to do, incidentally.)

“There I am. Prolonging my conclusioning again. I fear I have gotten all confusing. My third point is: I don’t think I’m going to kill you.

“(Right now.) And why aren’t I going to kill you?

“(Probably.) Because I don’t like jelly. So what is my conclusion? Ahh, if only you hadn’t lost the power of speech! Still, the dark patch spreading from your groin is eloquent enough.

“Because all I want, in answer to this Personal Appraisal and the other issues discussed – well, you’ve been pleasingly and unusually quiet, but ‘discussed’ will do – because all I want from you is popcorn. Yes, popcorn. I want to sit behind my desk and watch the morons move past like movies. That level of indifference I want – and I want for you no more than a prop. A prop of popcorn. That’s all.

“How about it? Think it over. I should also say – I want raw propcon. Not the packaged stuff. So if the mood ever takes me, I can swallow the little fists of corn whole, heat myself up, and then have my stomach explode outward over the open-plan. Maybe I just want the ultimate deterrent to always be there – or maybe one day I actually do it, because who really knows? Anyway: I want the choice, to blurt my entirety out in the form of a million exploding fists, from my centre to my feet to my face.

“I’ll leave you to think about it. In the meantime – the database is ticking along nicely. The adverts for the next two events are already all ready. I’m a little behind on the pack – but I think you will forgive me for that? Silence equals consent. See you in a bit. Or in a dream. Anyway – time for me to get back to the invisible internet.”

IT Spies

2005-02-14T15:25:00.000Z

Tell me, Danny (fat lumbering stupid instrumental one) and Andy (strict boss ready to say no like a gun) do you spy on me and my IP? Down in your basement of worry and monitors, does up pop my little screen, and you gravely say that Fist’s away again venting his spleen? (O, but that is not what I ever mean.) Whispering to my manager, want to sack Fist? Just say – we can do the rest. Laughing at the little keythumps of mine, nosing around my naughty favourite links?

So be it. But remember, cowered in your motley gang in the pub after work, grumbling away about time lost and risky sites, and those who dare to cut away from a Good Use code, I am not paycheques or contracts or signatures or responsibility or clocked-times or politetudes, and while I may only be as free as a fist - I am still a fist.

Valentine’s Fist

2005-02-14T10:59:00.000Z

World that would love me: Bring me fist fights in the front-gardens, brains exploding like bright red roses. Bring me knuckles as brilliant as buttercups, pumped with the ecstasy of illegal drugs. Bring me shivers of orgasm along my fine hairs, like a sudden bluebell bed amidst dark forest floors. Bring me blood, violently along a vein, as violet as an iris. Bring me kisses as innocent as a drop of water, hinting of honey, weeping from the lip of an orchid.

The sugar of chocolates will do for other fat bodies, and an over-priced average meal makes a statement – but not for me. If dare you come, best of all, bring me the buds, curled up as tight as fists, yet to be known as flowers. Unaware they will unfold into the coming summer sun, undone by the laws of nature, or by an other.

Saturday Morning

2005-02-14T10:47:00.000Z

And so the city sits. Waiting for its evening, the drugs dotting around different fists; a fistful of dollars here, a bin full of condoms there; already somewhere, the vomiting down the side of the stairs, to the sound of 60s guitars booming from a neighbour; already the waking to the sight of yawning or grinning stranger, their ejaculate or blood drying in a duvet, or smeared down the side of a bed; sex dotting the city the way starlight should; drugs crawling over the city like a vortex of ants in the vicinity of frothing drains; and a million-and-one pleasured, or to-be-pleasured, human brains.

And so this is youth. Fingers in soggy pies, glitter in cherubic eyes. Love, shouting from a loud speaker. Hope, in every hello like a silent order. Libido, poised like a mechanical spring, waiting only to be sprung. The newspapers line the local shop like souvenirs of totems, relics of a political tribe whose clichés echo around the dinner parties to this day, somehow. And the TV or radio frequencies carry on, only a remote click away, their faint communes of football experts, or poetry knowers, or therapy speakers, or ravers or rebels or, or, or, or or or or or

It says nothing to the dull, quiet men in chess clubs, shrugging their shoulders at bright buildings, proud names. It says nothing to women knitting shawls in pre-war cottages. It says nothing to mothers in suburbs, wondering when the next phone call from their daughter or son, full with clichés of friends and careers, will come. To the old churches, where men kneel to weep at a looming virgin, it says: open up your ancient books to close down this whole new world.

Saturday at eleven, and the city stirs for shops and brunch. Like cigarettes, the fire and smoke of clichés are ready in bright, round eyes. A shivery fist in youth tidies a rented room, waiting for evening, or the internet on Monday morning.

Fist in the Sky

2005-02-11T13:27:00.000Z

Perhaps it is the same, in London and Paris and Berlin, as it is in New York or LA or Toronto, or Moscow and Sydney and Tokyo, Beijing or Jerusalem or Warsaw, Baghdad and Bogotá and Buenos Aires, or Babylon or Atlantis or Hades. For Andromeda and Queen Cassiopeia, the Compass and the Pole Star, Orion the Hunter and the Northern Crown, Pegasus and the Southern Cross, the Crane and the Great Bear, the bright one here and that wispy line there and the darting magic one just gone - perhaps it is the same.

Starlight, that once darted half the universe to dance upon our little eyes, finds above the city a shroud of soot, cloud and mist flecked with fists of dark dirt - and there instead it dies. There amidst the vast Great Fist, a constellation of our own that out-fists the sturdy ancients of the sky.

He believes the rumours, that still starlight reaches remote spots, where there is no city yet, as durable as ever, if only we could see it. The vast sands of Africa and the frozen wastelands of the poles: where underfoot, whether boiling or freezing, are deserts as friendly to man as a fist. Whether flying Great Fist or not.

Train

2005-02-10T15:20:00.000Z

Not for her:

Fists of years sweating in factories, rising before the sun and ten hours of labour, the fuel for a night-life of cocaine, with baseball bats running over city roofs; not for her, staring into the Career Advisor's eyes like they held hell-fire, as he mouthed the advice of a mini-Hitler, and you tell yourself you'd rather fist yourself forever; not for her, study going up in drink and smoke, or fingers tearing at the nylon pin-stripe, or flying from the family norms and the fool advice, no not for her.

For her instead:

Birth, suburbs, study, city, hubby, baby, suburbs, death. And now my standard, fresh-faced city financial pro, always so quiet and good and neat and tidy, and doing what everyone says you should - all that you know - I have news: you've made a mistake. Your new i-pod (I imagine you would never have been seen with a walkman, but how these are different, says your wiry dull boyf from IT) can't be played that loud on a train.

People are twitching at you - but buried in your report, you don't notice. Some face coughs in your direction - but Wham!, it's all as if you're in your teenage bedroom again, grinning at silent posters. Your faith that you'll sail through the world, with everything working for you, has failed you here with your headphones. And, so...

Here comes Fist:

To put you right. To train you in the art of carriage etiquette. To point a finger into your face, or stab at your hip and force the sound off, or fill your ears with fury - and then silence. Right?

Or instead:

Fist stays quiet, fingers fidgetting at the corner of a paper, and then brushes past your perfect bottom at the exit, so gently and so softly that you don't even notice.

Pure Fist

2005-02-09T14:19:00.000Z

Fist flicks the pages of the latest lame novel. Fist laughs at the classics and their ludicrous lessons. Fist scoffs the pop-sci books; their flares of a promised future are propaganda for funding and fame. Fist fiddles with the art books, fishing for boobs.

The Philosophy of Fistography is next. Under Kant, there's a "Staff Picks" card, left by Chris. He works behind the counter, all two-day-old stubble and cardigans, his badge proudly wonky.

"Kunt - Fistique of Pure Reason - Chris recommends this because -" and I couldn't read the rest. And Chris saunters past, grinning a dozy, half-stoned grin, smiling at the card like it's a spare, massive cock of his.

And all fist buys this lunch is a feast of brief comfort from the sandwich shop. But still he goes on, without even a paper cut.

Love Links

2005-02-08T17:30:00.000Z

She loves me! She loves me too! And you? Not so sure about her!

Well little girls, normally I'd tell you all to shut up, but I have a little question for you...

Can I draw some hope from you? Hope that in amongst us evil human creatures, there are a few perfect shining examples, full of light, full of love, who look forever innocent with optimism at another, at any other, as if watching a bird jump happily around in an everlasting, evergreen old tree. Humans who suppose that maybe, just maybe, inside everyone there is a pure, beautiful soul, like religion says there just might be, like true love wants there to be; O hopeful, open, utterly-loving few, from you may I draw my hope?

And yet, you will disappear, perhaps as a tectonic plate fists another, and vibrations fists the waves, and a tsunami fists the continents and their hotels and shacks, and then from the earth out your unique, gratuitous light goes. Or perhaps perishing like a paralyzed fist, with the limp end of action in a dim old-age. Or perhaps with a madness that is like a fist with all the fingers broken, as you realise you signify nothing. Or perhaps at the end of a bullet, flying through your skull like a fist, a fist quivering metres away holding a fist-hard gun, the smoke from which rises up like plumes of dirt from a crematorium, or from a cigarette? Or perhaps a man will stand over you at the last gate, with one fist suffocating your nose and mouth, the other churning around in your flowers? Your lives, suddenly as empty as an empty fist – but without the fist. And the only trace of you that will remain is an internet page nobody will bother to read any more, if they even bother to read it now.

How could I dare to love you back? How could I dare to draw hope from you?

Infanticide

2005-02-07T17:54:00.000Z

Pouring cigarette smoke into his tender throat, I breed my cruel children: balls of coughs, black swabs of phlegm, and a cancer in the post.

Cramming chilli and cheap meat into his turning tummy, I breed my mean army: a napalm of faeces dripping down the valley of his innards.

Once upon a time, I said: a fistful of dollars - don't spend it on the gym, and so I built my palace: his fat, ugly, warm and enormous gut.

Knuckling into his eyes, I crush the domes of their rival kingdoms like little eggs: blood-shot, exhausted, barely wanting to look, ready for the death of sleep.

His body teems with the poisons I have bred. Am I their Ruler? - his head might head-butt a computer or commuter, or some bone might deliberately break itself for a holiday of hospitalisation, or his eyes might vomit fat onto me the fist, or his faeces might climb up his throat to kiss a cigarette. His body a sudden civil war of such rivals, my children and conquests now my enemies.

Secrets and Cities

2005-02-04T08:36:00.000Z

A TV sounding war through the wall. Shouting, serenading the cold hard concrete of a callous street. The descent of a distant plane, its pause and its purpose dying. Of course a siren – the culminating symbol, cipher, and symptom for the sounds of this city – is exactly on cue, as loud as a stereotype. All the unnecessary whirrings of a volatile, hot, vast hell waste away, before repeating, waste away, repeat. And there is never silence.

And this is no secret. The ears hear this hell most eloquently. But the slight thunder trembles the fat thighs. Tinkles and clinks around ten cold toes. In the lines along the eyes, it is located with ease. Hits of the air aggravate the hammer of the heart, and the clap of a fight clenches a fist. And then, another fist unhands itself, and fingers hack at a keyboard.

Hack fist hack, hush hush fist hack.

Is? Like?

2005-02-03T17:39:00.000Z

My four fingers:

Are you plump penises, throbbing sensitively in the gloomy air of the city? Or are you more like sheathed knives, and ever ready to stab and stab and stab and stab?

My five nails:

Are you bitter, jagged penny-chews, cheap things for childish wants? Or are you more like ivory, an incredible thing of an incredible creature, the fact of your continued existence utterly brilliant?

My myriad bones:

Are you a machine, brutal, instrumental, mechanical, predictable? Or are you like a fine ornament made of the best china, to be preciously kept from other hands high up in a closed cupboard, except on special occasions?

Me fist myself:

Are you your blog, hateful, unpredictable, isolated? Or are you more like a glove, hating the cold air and the shaking human and the shocks and knocks of the city, longing to be casually tossed upon the arm of the chaise longue, with its comfortable, temporary peace?

Waves

2005-02-02T16:35:00.000Z

And I say to the eyes:

Do not look at the beautiful temp, standing there with her back slightly to you, reaching up into the files. Do not look into the long, looping ringlets of her auburn hair, do not look into her eyes when she turns back to you. Do not study the shape of her 25 year old body, the curve of the hips, the little puff around the belly, the pale, freckled skin, too tender no doubt for the burning light of a summer sun. And do not look at those lips with the smile that is always there.

And I say to the ears:

Do not listen to the song she is humming, hints of a refrain in that soft Irish voice, lilting whispers of another world, far away from the office.

And I say to the penis:

Take all this beauty and make an object for yourself out of it, think nothing but sex of her. It is the crude outlines and pieces of a woman that matter - not this otherworldy thing of loveliness, here like magic amongst the grey of the shelves.

But the penis stays quiet.

And I say to the soul:

Beat it.

But the penis still stays quiet.

And I say to the you:

You have the idea now.

And I search around the whole of his body and mind for something to kill off the feeling. A joke, a crude thought, a work-related remark, a stifled-burp, an itching anus...

"What are you singing?" he asks her.

She turns, beautiful, smiling, beaufitul, and pauses, beautiful, and looks up, beautiful, and whispers the tune to herself... But she doesn't know.

And now, all for the fist to do is run through the waves of his hair, and the waves running over his face, waves from another universe spreading over the face of this dry man in an drab office, this 9-5 man, this dull and polite man, waves running up underneath his eyes, and tickling around his ears, and pulling at his cheeks, his mouth, waves from an image of loveliness, waves from a song that whispers out of nowhere sweet nothings to anyone, waves from the air and sung back into the air, but not by him, and -

"It sound like 'Let's Twfist Again'".

She's turned back already.

"Like what did you say?"

"Like 'Let's Twist Again'." He does a jokey rendition.

"Haha!" she replied, having to laugh because he manages her. "Nothing like it!"

And I say to myself:

Job done.

February 1st

2005-02-01T17:20:00.000Z

"Pinch, punch,
first of the month,
and no returns back!"

Ahh, children, children as you lightly tap the arm of a friend, or trip someone up coming around a bend, or sing a pop-song at play, or struggle with the concept of gay - forget all about it. Each day is the first day of the rest of your life, but so what? But on the first day of each old month, you get to chant a sing-a-long daydream of a song - a childish rhyme, most innocent of things - which sanctions a crime, praises a punch, and frees a fist. Try it, live it, love it, and soon you'll get the gist.

Amy

2005-01-31T10:37:00.000Z

Do you know your pictures are on the internet? Perhaps you say to your photographer: look at my nudity and my freedom and my beauty and my love; look at me masturbating or bathing, look at me loving myself, and love my image with your camera. Point it at here and in there and O!, the everywhere of me - just me.

Perhaps you say to him: snap, snap, and see! It is not just you and me, it is you and me and me and me and me and me. And all that you are is your eyes, and all your eyes are, are little mirrors reflecting the universe of me.

And perhaps he says to himself: that’s what you think. It’s me and you and the world, and the world is dotted with men masturbating themselves with their monitor, drowning with the dirt of their masculinity your nudity and your freedom and your beauty and your love.

And me, I, fist, say to myself: Look!, now her blog is flecked with little fists of ejaculate, scented with chilly and salt, resembling a spoon of cheesy yoghurt, and stuffed with diseases and an army of arrows, which hurtle forward fist-like, in a quest to hunt down an ovum. Your ovum, Amy; any ovum, Amy; the world’s ovum, Amy. Amy.

Weekend Pleasures

2005-01-31T09:56:00.000Z

He spends his weekend masturbating a bit, but mostly watching Star Wars on DVD. With me wrapped around his semi-hard spunk-javelin, with his mind full with images of flying lesbians descending through the mottled, pearly-white ceiling, and displaying such tiny vaginas, he makes a noise:

- Mrwahh!

It sounds like the noise Chewbacca always makes:

- Mrwahh!

In fact, he thinks, furiously beating the crap out of his best mate, with me, does Chewbacca make any other noise than:

- Mrwahh!

It’s the noise he makes when he’s losing at chess to C3PO. It’s the noise he makes when he’s reunited with the tortured Han Solo. It’s the noise he makes when strangling Lando Calrisian. It’s the noise he makes when he sees a dead animal tied to a tree.

Perhaps, he thinks, whilst picturing the fisting of the innards of an anus of a fat whore from the Estate, Chewbacca has no other form of expression. How frustrating: Han Solo says to Chewbacca,

- Heh Chewwie, it’s your birthday in a week. I was wondering if you’d like a new blaster? Maybe a new ammunition belt? Perhaps a weeks holiday in beautiful Benidorm? A meal of infinite meat in the restaurant at the end of the universe?

- Mrwahh!

- What was that? You’d prefer – one of the space rocks we picked up in the Asteroid belt?!

- Mrwahh!

- But Chewwie, they’re just worthless pieces of junk. Sure you wouldn’t prefer something a bit better, more expensive say, than that? Perhaps a nice, snazzy hat or helmet, encrusted with rare jewels?

- Mrwahh!

- What was that? Space rock? Not a night with one of Jabba’s dancers, say?

- Mrwahh!

- Space rock it is. Same as last year.

- Mrwahh!

His pleasure-stick is throbbing now, like a taxi waiting. Spin that meter, he says to me, the driver, spin it. The passenger will jump out in a minute, he says, and your hands will be full of little silvery coins.

But, he thinks, the passenger wants somewhere to go, something to jump into. And wait – what genitalia does Chewbacca have? I know he’s a bit hairy – but where is his meat plunger? Chewbacca! He thinks, picturing the little minx, you have no penis, and what’s a little downy hairy anyway, you dark-eyed temptress! You princess of sluts! You pulsating vision of feminine loveliness!

- Mrwahh!

answers Chewbacca, at the same time he does.

- Mrwahh!

Perhaps, he wonders as he ejaculates up across his t-shirt, that’s what Mrwahh means:

- Give me a penis!

Chewbacca’s being beaten at chess, and he tries his luck with C3PO:

- Give me a penis!

And C3PO gives him the game instead. That’s not what he wanted! Or when reunited with Han Solo, or as Lando Calrisian frees him, he thinks: at last! He has brought me a penis! Or, at last! He has freed me to fit a penis on me!

- Give me a penis! Mrwahh!

he cries. Perhaps some intonation is possible, and when he sees the meat tied to a tree, he reaches out to get it, uttering:

- Mrawahh!

meaning,

- I have for myself found such a fury penis!

(The pleasure stick has gone soft now, fyi.) And then reality returns, after such an orgasm of optimism, and she, Chewbacca, laments:

- O aberration after aberration, world will you not just give me a penis?

pronouncing it,

- Mrwaaaahhhhhhhh!

But Chewbacca, that darling, will never have a penis of her own. So she fights with her fists at anything. Me too, so fuck off, you.

In the toilet

2005-01-28T11:30:00.000Z

Three little balls of dark shit. And not just shit, but really solid matter. And not just dark, but pure black. And not just balls, but perfect spheres. And not just three perfect spheres of pure black solid matter, but three orbitting planets, three magical orbs. And not just little, but three harmonious, endless, utterly packed, whole perfect universes of brilliant shit. He loves watching them, circulating and bobbing around in his piss, as happy as psychopathic babies, splashing around together in a lovely warm bath.

Look into a crystal ball: you see what comes next? Enjoy yourself fully with a guess.

Of course I, fist, flushed them away as quickly as I could. Ahh. That's better.

Mirror, Mirror

2005-01-27T16:42:00.000Z

He has a secret he wants to tell: he has the fairest fist of them all. O all his friends he would like to know, about this little blog of mine.

He would like them to say: yes you are a wonderful fist, right up to his face. He would like to look down upon their awed little faces, as though their little faces were little mirrors, shining back the light of his awesomety.

But then I whisper a secret into his ear, who whispers into his heart, who whispers it into his soul, who whispers it into a corner of his mind. The whisper is:

"You are not awesome. Only your fist is. And then, only sometimes; when flying. You should like to suppose yourself like the blog, free, everywhere, uncensored, unlimited. But you are a man at a desk. Dull, and polite. Shut your eyes and open your fist."

And he shuts his eyes, the mirror gone. But I stay shut to. And a message of failure fails in its quest: to shatter the world with a fist.

Switches

2005-01-26T17:18:00.000Z

So what, the eyelids are coming down like boulders. So what, the bangs at the back of the head like cymbals. So what, the messy paper work not done, the porn sites failing at their only function... These are always up and down, on and off, everyday; they need no comment, they are a part of the great unnoticed human world, like light-switches are.

Needs no comment? Fist comments. Even it's just to punch from the keyboard a tangle of letters a monkey might make l.; .j;knnb. k;jlk;ml ,kkmnk.l /lk,ygftdrft l,m12 fist k;jl says xczd something u7yo. Better jklijhu than uijnym nothing.

Monitor

2005-01-25T17:21:00.000Z

Over the monitor his eyes monitor her: his office mate Abigail. Those bulging breasts of hers, huge udders trapped beneath that jumper, never to blurt out into the office. And on the monitor his eyes flick over flesh: naked human woman flesh, via a million miles of bot, to here. Click, click, click to his eyes.

Abigail has gone now. His eyes imagine her back, wandering about the room, her cunt sopping, her breasts squirting. And Amy here too, and other sluts, a room full of sluts; all the lovely female flesh of the world, conjured here; O for an office world full with slut and beauty. Click, click, click to his eyes, and almost it's true.

Abigail has gone now. Under the table, I am her mouth. Kiss, kiss, kiss. Then I am her tits, bounce, flop, bounce. Then I am her cunt, slop, slurp, fart. Then I am her hand, yank, yank, yank. Then I am her ass, ooh, aaah, eee.

And now, will I be the paintball trigger, that squirts white everywhere? White across the walls, white over the desk, white over the net, white over all the lovely bot-brought female flesh of this world, a blanket of white over his monitor and eyes? Of course he has the fist - but just not the guts.

Vacuum

2005-01-24T10:45:00.000Z

How to keep your attention until the end of this sentence? Or the one after this one? (This one.) Are you really reading this? Has it really worked? Really, you’ve chosen not to click away to the next random guy who’s shat upon some random url, or look up some porn and bring yourself off under your office desk, or decide the next temporary amusement for amazon to post you? How can I justify your attention? Me, of all things? A fist?

How dare I presume to speak to you, O precious thing? O unique creature? O, soul-being, life-form, noble-mortal; O feeling, wanting, lusting, hurting, thinking, knowing, different, failing, winning, legitimate thing – what can anyone really say to you? Me, of all things? A fist?

Enough of the questions and the question marks? No!

O reader, we are not knuckle brothers, crunched together in some weird irony: Our clenched fingers do not butt one another. Perhaps (let’s be frank) I hate you – such stupid hair! Such a stupid accent! Such unintelligence! An unfistworthy wonder, perhaps you are. But I am sure I do not, if you have indulged me, this far. This post is just a fistful of vacuous bilge; but stay with me to the end. Where I say plainly thank you, my momentary friend.

Search!

2005-01-21T13:23:00.000Z

He asks his eyes what to google. They say, “chimpanzees!”

His nose, “camembert!”

His heart, “vitamins!”

His mouth, “lipstick!”

His tongue, “a dummy!”

“Why?”

“To shut the dumb mouth up!”

His brain, “a joke book! Because this isn’t funny!”

His bored brow, “etc!”

And me? I say:

"Cramming dildo babes with massive dildos horendous dildos peeking tom peeping tom spycam in dressing room greased dildos huge dildos enormos dildos black dildos and dildos that taste good and slimy dildos broom sticks shoved up pussies and baseball bats rammed up teen assholes and babes squirm in pain and pleasure as their nipples are pinched and pricked pinched nippels nipples fat breasts and boobs dangling from well endowed whores bitches sluts hussies with smelly arses and stinky assholes FIST XXX ASIAN PORN ANAL ACTION ORAL CUMSHOTS BDSM CELEBRITIES HENTAI ANIME HOT TEENS MALE STUDS BLACK BABES HUGE BOOBS LESBIAN BABES XXX MOVIES ANYTHING GOES SLUT INDIANS WIVES EXPOSED GIRLIE no zoo legal only EXTREME HARDCORE DILDO DAMES EBONY SLUTS LIVE SHOWS VIDEO OLDER GALS 18 - 19 XXX NUDE MEN CELEBS TOONS STORIES YOUNG LATINA VOYEURS RAW SEX VIDEOS TWINKS 'N STUDS KINKY FETISH HARD INTERRACIAL BAD GIRLS RAUNCH CHEERLEADERS NASTY SLUTS PLAYGROUND SMUT ZONE SHOCKING AMATEURS PETITE BABES 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smouldering springy subsist survive unfilmed unrecorded untaped whippy hunk lump backtalk brim mouth rim sass sassing lip beloved dear dearest enjoy honey loved one lovemaking making love passion sexual love love voyeurdrinkpiss voyeurdrinkpee voyeurnude voyeurmodel voyeurnaked voyeurpiss voyeurpee voyeurpussy voyeurpussypic voyeurpussypics voyeurpussylick voyeurpussylicking voyeurporn voyeurpornpic voyeurpornpics voyeurpornvideo voyeurpornmovie voyeurpornmovies voyeurgay voyeurgayporn voyeurgaypics you should have stopped reading by now model empirical worthy example exemplar exemplary experimental fashion model framework good example manakin manikin mannequin mannikin mock up modeling modelling mold mould pattern pilot pose poser posture reenact role model simulate simulation sit test theoretical account trial monster behemoth colossus demon devil fiend freak giant goliath lusus naturae monstrosity ogre monstrous atrocious big evil flagitious grievous grotesque heinous large ugly 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thumbs xxxx russian FIST A handful of tit finger deep inside wet pussy with lesbian licking the fuck finger clean watch the cute teen lesbo bendover displaying her hairy crotch and smelly pubic area moistended with cunt juice flowing from the greasy vagina and greased clit oozing after orgasmic juices have flowed from the swelled excited pussy and pussylips."

And then he shuts down the world’s wide interweb. And goes back to fiddling around the paperclips. Me spread-eagle amongst them.

Creation

2005-01-21T09:54:00.000Z

Sometimes when he sobs or cries, he pukes up shit through his eyes. Sometimes in a laugh or guffaw or titter, he throws out a feeling or two as litter. Sometimes, when he uses an unusual or clever word, and all are impressed, or someone submits to being undressed, he knows himself absurd. Sometimes when he picks his nose and flicks it on the grass, he’s pretending he’s fucking some girl’s ass. Sometimes when some snot he flicks, he feels at last that he exists.

Onetime when He fiddles about with a rib, it is a woman blurted into man’s crib. Sometimes when woman stoops to eat an apple, it constitute the crime of crimes. (Did you note that there I stopped the stupid rhymes?)

But the fist is always fist. And inside me lies a point, a core, tiny, evil, enduring; eternal, even, perfect. That dot, a remnant and echo of the big bang, that explosive thing, that gutted eternity with time, that raped emptiness with light, that fisted a symmetry of perpetual peace with an explosion of fundamental force.

Dream

2005-01-20T13:47:00.000Z

He has a dream. A friend tells him to be less logical and more experimental. To see a bit more magic in other people. So, he should let his manager fuck his ass. His manager, a small, middle-aged gay Irish man, with a bright red face. As he feels the ejaculate squirt into his anus, he turns his head a little, looks back along his own naked, grotesque kneeling body, to see there a small, middle-aged frame juddering away, and a contorted look of sickly pleasure spreading over the boiling, lobster-like features of a face.

How do I know this? you ask. Weren't you knuckled firmly into a carpet at the time? Yes: but his eyes told me, his memory told me, his hope told me. They say: "Understand what this dream means. Mediocre philosophies will not help you. Respect for work will not help you. See what this does to you, fist, know what this does to you."

Abortion

2005-01-19T16:04:00.000Z

Some slutwhore ex wishes to be friends, email after email after email she sends. With appropriate pauses. This one about the Sunday paper she knows I leaf, the next about some porn film for women she's bought. Fistworthy in itself, such a crude, geometric attempt to remain close.

Funny to think he fucked her ass as if picking his nose, funny to think of all the others who've done the same, those ... I cannot say it. Fist, fist, keep your fist ready, I tell him, the abortion-loving whore loves you no more, and you never loved her. Eyes, eyes, stay clear, see.

My Owner...

2005-01-18T17:20:00.000Z

... has been in a fine mood today. No-one has walked through the door, & under the table I have clenched. No emails have pinged, & in the air I've shook. No-one on the train has stood on his foot, & on the way out he has a dream where he turns back time and fills their face in with me, his fist.

Nothing like that at all, today. So be it. Let emoticon smiles play on the centre stage of his mouth. But he did let me type here on you my dark, darling blog - & I'll show him, I thought. I'll show him!

But ... what? Show him, what do I show him on a day like today? Ahh, at least this: that still he has failed to forget me, that never can he forget me, me, his only darkling, death-loving, never-dying part.