We love you and we love your bile

It’s time to stop pretending that certain things aren’t there.
We’re all aware of the small piles festering, turning brown
and smoldering under the heat of the summer sun.

For years they have been following you down the street on a string and stinking.
They are your mistakes and embarrassment.

You felt the heat on your heels as you stumbled through pubs and ascendant shops. For years you flinched each time the piles skidded to a halt outside a church and left a sweaty stain. You tried to mask that stench as it dribbled from your most pleasurable spots at dinner parties. Why, what's that hiding under your napkin? Whatever is that coating the plates and forks with a film that the chipper hostess could not scrub away.
Who me?
Stain the sidewalk?
Do not blame the humble hounds. Do not play the proud citizen, the mayor or the virgin mother…
You convince no one by hiding your guilty eyes behind the gossip column.
You are too old.
The charming young lie has died
for your stinking sins.

We recommend you embrace them. Plunge your hand in deep and confess the piles are your own bile.

Its time to befriend fear and embarassment. Bring the bile round to OURS for dinner. We shall crank up the phonograph, don our lobster bibs and slice it thick upon the guests plates.
Mashed it neatly with a fork,
Let us sup upon sin and self-loathing!

Do you like the taste? Do you like our company?
Among us you will not find carpools and cardigans.
We love you and the strings of spinach between your teeth.
Yes.
The time has come for us to reveal...
WE love bile
and
we love you.

To us, bile is a thick delicious nectar that the unwilling human flower secretes.
It is this nectar that attracts us to you.
We are training.
To harvest it like beeeees.

Sucking is the secret.
You mustn't be afraid of a little dirt or hair
or put off by the funky odour of human condition.
You must pirate irate desire and think painful thoughts.
YOU MUST hear the dark inky centre.
YOU MUST widen as you suck.
You must set it free in fields of raped seed

As you home in, your nose is filled with a scent of excrement,
A memory of erection,
A host of erotic encrustations.

Your time is limited,
you are not the same.

You will learn to trust us and obey when we command you to rise from the pavement.
Brush the mud from your knees and the hedge from your hair.
Do not attempt to return to normal society.
You are one of us now.

Even though your head hurts
and your cheeks are sore,
you must keep sucking.

MANIFESTO

It is not your tired, your hungry or your weak we want. Give the shite lot to the others.

It is not your brainless existence of pub crawls in pink polyester, scuffing around in cheap pointed shoes, shuffling our sagging flesh to brainless bopping tunes.

No sir. For us, this will not do.

WE WANT to tingle. we want to hear what you are thinking. we want to see the dark centre of your eyes widen across the smoky room. we want you to let us in to the age of desire pirated by sound and painful thoughts.

WE WONT BITE YOU too hard. we will nibble just below the nape in your most pleasurable spot. we want to turn you on so that all is revealed. even the bile that the others hide beneath a flattering floral pattern.

we love you for your bile. we love you for your mistakes and your embarassment. because that is where all the delicious thick nectar lives. a nectar we are training to harvest like beeeees from the unwilling human flower.

you will learn to love us. to trust that even though we make your head hurt and your cheeks sore from sucking, it will all be worth it in the end. you will arise from the pavement wiser, surprisingly happy as you brush the mud from your knees, pick the hedge sticks from your hair, shower, and return for a few hours to mingling in normal society.

your time in normal society circles is limited now. you are not the same.

the corner of infinite pain

come visit me where i live. in the corner of infinite pain. bring bee stings, bring tweezers, bring ancient neighbours that howl and tear their hair in the night.

together we shall crouch until our knees go numb.

when we're hungry, we will pine for the light of the open fridge door and cold noodles--but we won't dare rise to scout for snacks. instead we will steep in the pain of empty stomachs and growling hunger and thirst.

in the corner of infinite pain it is cold for me. for my wife it is damp and feverish. i long for a warm wool sweater to cuddle my purple chafed elbows---but it is not to be. mary-jo needles me as i whine, chiding me for weakness in the face of simple low temps.

PRESS ON SOLDIER! IN THE CORNER OF INFINITE PAIN THERE IS NO SURRENDER!
this is our cry. sometimes we yell it aloud and set off the howling mutts. sometimes we mumble it as we chew on our shirtsleeves, dreaming of pigeon pie. chewing on shirtsleeves leaves them damp and disagreeable.
generally adding to the pain.

once there were pigeons in the corner of infinite pain. they scratched about, scrabbling for crumbs and pooping on every available surface. when mary tried to spear them with her knitting scissors they flew away. now only feathers and crusty shit remain as pigeon legacy. strangely, i find this makes my craving for pigeon pie even stronger.

INFINITE PAIN. i do not remember how long have we been in this corner, or what i did before the world of bee stings, rats and creeping sewage was created. nor can i say how long we'll stay. the pain changes every day.
we grow thinner.
paler.
a raft of sores grows on mary-jo's chin. to enhance the pain, i poke her sores with a broken pencil.
she responds by crushing my swollen testicles with her cancerous cane. it is love that moves her to chide me. love for the contract. the contract of the corner, the corner of infinite pain has consumed us. the corner has become our diner. our church. our bed. our garden.
our bath
our work place
our recreational paradise.
we are patriots of pain.
if there is one thing we know, it is the sensations that make us hurt, turn our skin to a bloodied mess and flood our sensory organs with fear!

think of us when you have goosebumps by the fire. when your child burns his tongue on hot lasagne. in our corner these moments would be infinite.

that's why they call it the CORNER OF INFINITE PAIN.