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Straight From The Fridge



Last Updated: 12/6/2009

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Gender: Female
Status: Swinger
Age: 33
Sign: Virgo

City: London
Country: UK
Signup Date: 7/3/2006

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Friday, November 23, 2007 

this poem is smoking crack
with underage hookers in Minneapolis
this poem is on a motorcycle deathtrip
through the murdered backstreets of Panang
this poem was written on a beer stained napkin
at the bar of The Gold Room, Hollywood, 1999
this poem is mud wrestling Ted Hughes
and drunkenly boxing Arthur Cravan
this poem is ingesting peyote at a party
insulting the host's wife
and making lewd comments by an exploding beer cooler
this poem slipped on a banana peel
and died of its injuries
this poem saw god
in your asshole
this poem is tongue-tied, dumb-jawed,
in a codeine haze
talking to Tom McCarthy (necronaught) in Soho
this poem has a mild kratom habit
this poem is carried on an optimistic autumn breeze
with the smell of fermenting summer garbage, 8:00am
this poem just got lucky
with one of Sylvia Plath's poems
this poem shot Andy Warhol
this poem is in Tangiers smoking a hookah
with Shane MacGowan and Dickon Edwards
"none for me, I have asthma"
this poem is doodling in the big book
this poem is snorting cocaine with Marc Almond
this poem is in love with you,
a frozen moment, crossing the 59th street Bridge, 2002
this poem is pissing in a cup
in Homerton Drug Dependency Unit
this poem is discussing poetry with Dennis Cooper
this poem is shooting dope with Clarence Cooper Jr
this poem is contemplating suicide
at a frigid kitchen table
this poem is shy, in a Chelsea bedroom,
"you use alcohol as a crutch"
this poem was shat out into the toilets of the Intrepid Fox, circa 1996 this poem has bled over a La Rocka suit, L.A. circa 2000 this poem is longer
and harder
than your poem.



Tony O'Neill
6:54 PM 
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Friday, November 23, 2007 

I dreamt that Dan Fante came over from LA to stay and all I had to give him was bread and cheese. A large quiet girl was in the kitchen washing up. I took him for a drive and it was raining and he looked out of the window at the streets and houses and "This neighbourhood is really rough, huh?" and I said "No, this is where the middle classes live these days. This is nice for England."

Ben Myers

6:53 PM 
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Friday, November 23, 2007 


Postcard of Frieda tacked to the wall
sat down is Diego, her hand on his shoulder

a commemoration of their wedding day
her hair entwined with bright desert flowers

on a Hessian mat the grand lady stands proud
I picked up the postcard in the ICA shop

spinning the stand, sat down was a face
smiling, white beard, sweet lulling voice

he asked me kindly if I knew who she was?
I answered yes and we spoke of Rivera

monumental murals, their blue walkway house
he said that he had a painting of hers

the one on the stand, Frieda in her bed
ex voto, deep ochre, skulls perched on far corners

I looked in his eyes, tranquillity shade
his soft wrinkled face held a history I knew

a masterful drummer, paralysed in the past
he wrote the tracks of a socialism lost

the death of the shipyards, political songs
music of beauty to match Frieda's colours

I wanted to crouch by his chair, stroke his hair
place a kiss on his cheek, hold his delicate hands

and ask him to sing is it worth it, one line
but the moment had passed - he knew that I knew

who he was.


 


 

Adelle Stripe
6:52 PM 
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Friday, November 23, 2007 


I was young once, naïve. Mentally and emotionally I was an infant, a terrible child, one who had savagely stunted his self.

We were on an island, in the South East Asia. I was nineteen at the time, maybe even twenty.
The island was small, quiet. It was night.
Outside our wooden bungalow the sea rolled onto the shore. We could hear it; the rhythmic rushing of water running up and down - its sound was soothing, it always was. My heart feels content when I'm near the sea. It always calms my soul. I can never feel anger by the sea, only peace.
A jungle was directly behind us; it was a thick jungle, so dense. I had never seen so many greens before - all shades imaginable. We were close to it, on its edge. We could hear it; the late night sounds of the jungle. At night the jungle was alive.
Inside our bungalow we were silent.
We sat opposite each other, naked, with our legs crossed. A mosquito net surrounded the bed. We were isolated. Alone. It was dark, except for a few candles around the room; their flames were alive; moving, dancing.
The opium hung heavy in our bodies. We were high, wonderfully high - sitting, as if on a cloud, drifting above the world, suspended.

She was then lying on her back.
Her body looked limp in the languid light. She was confident in her nakedness. There was never any embarrassment, only ease with her bared body, with the way she held herself. There were never any cracks in her self-confidence. She simply was, and that was it. Until I met this woman I was always frightened of my own body, afraid of another seeing it in full. After sex I would cover it, nervous of what they might say or see. It was not until I started to be with her that I could relax and feel some semblance of ease.

Her thighs slowly parted.
I looked down and saw the slow reveal of her sex. Her vagina was tight, compact. She had recently shaved it, leaving a single thin line. Her fingers drifted downwards, hovering along its edge, slowly swirling.
Her eyes were on my eyes; watching, waiting. Her eyes then fell away and drifted down to what lay between her legs - it was a silent command.
I sunk down on my front, snaking my body backwards as I did so. My hands hooked around her thighs, fingers holding hips.
Everything in my perception looked soft in the light. Dreamlike. It was a dream. My real dream. It felt as if nothing was real. As if all were manifesting and projecting from the depths of a vivid dream - a phantasmagoria of erotica, brilliant and blazing.
My tongue lightly licked her clitoris, exploring the delicate folds of her skin. I looked upwards, past her small pert breasts, to see her face – her eyes were now closed, relaxed; serene, like Buddha.
I wondered how she felt with the drawn out tease on her sex mingled with the opium washing gently within - opium, such a dream it seemed to me. Opium, with its waves of warmth. Opium, running ripples of wonderment through my soft and inexperienced soul.

After some time (though how much I could not gage, as there seemed as if there was no time) she rolled onto her stomach and told me to lick between the cheeks her bottom.
I had never done this before, but did not question.
I looked down at her bottom, at the way it was shaped; it was like a black woman's; rounded, but so tight, curved outwards, but so firm; defined, magnificent.
My lips kissed along the contours of her buttocks. My hands gradually caressed and then parted her buttocks. My mouth moved in between her buttocks, my tongue went out and slowly I licked around the rim, slowly in a circular motion, slowly with pleasure, slowly with newfound joy.

It all seemed to go on for so long, like an eternity - infinite, with no beginning or end. I felt cocooned from the world, in a womb, in our womb, with nothing else but us.
There was no world right then. There was nothing - no society, no people, no government, no rules, no hate, no hurt, no envy, no greed, no violence, no war. There was nothing - nothing but flesh and sensations and pleasure and touch and taste. There was nothing - nothing but us; cut off, alone, with our bodies abandoned to each other and each other only. There was nothing - nothing but us and the invisible hands of time evaporating out of our hands and our flesh. There was nothing – nothing but the closeness towards her inevitable departure, followed by mine - her back to Norway and myself back to England to face the same rain and the same streets and the same houses, back to the same claustrophobia, to the same small southern town that I had fled from hoping to stall the death of my spirit.



Matthew Coleman
6:51 PM 
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Friday, November 23, 2007 


At one time I was an apprentice Upholsterer. I worked in a tiny Victorian building halfway down Pig Alley. There were four of us and we each wore leather aprons that contained a variety of specialised tools. We also had a high-pressured staple gun each, which was connected to a high-pressure generator.
 
Being the apprentice I was put in a corner next to the generator. Often I would sneaks look at the generator out of the corner of my eye and wonder what would happen if it blew up. Instant death, I ruminated, but I never told anyone of my concerns, for fear of ridicule. The generator generated a good deal of noise, and because of the noise I always had to get people to repeat what they said, until I began to think I was deaf.


Sometimes we had staple gun wars. Being the apprentice my gun had the least amount of power. The others could fire round after round of high-pressured staples, while mine could only splutter out a few staples at a time. So during the wars I was at an obvious disadvantage. The others would gang up on me, but I was young and nimble, and able to get a few well-timed shots in of my own.


It was three days before I discovered that a woman worked upstairs, alone. No one had bothered to mention that she existed. Upstairs was really just a loft in the roof, with sloping sides. The woman sat behind a big old sewing machine. She looked to have been there forever. Scraps of material littered the floor, hiding her dainty feet, which pressed the pedals of the machine. The machine made a whirring noise. It was gloomy up there, no natural light, just a single low-wattage bulb, glowing dimly.


Opposite the cottage was a barn-like structure. The barn had two floors. The ground floor was crammed with lots of old furniture, some of which had been there for decades. The older furniture was covered in thick layers of dust. Sometimes I would blow away the dust and a golden leg would be revealed, or a patch of bright, beautiful colour.


But upstairs was an even greater wonder. It contained the foam room. I loved the foam room; it was wall-to-wall foam, all different sizes, shapes, and colours. About once or twice a day I'd be asked to fetch a certain type and thickness of foam from the foam room. I would dive into the foam, wrap myself up inside the springy sheets, and caress the sponge. And there I would lie, safely ensconced, until the cry went up from across the road,


'Where's my foam?'


Most of my days were spent stripping settees and armchairs, pulling staples from worn-out furniture, thousands of staples, a never-ending supply of staples needing to be pulled out. After a few weeks I began to dream of staples at night, millions of staples marching off to battle against millions of other staples, in the great staple world war of death. And one time I even shot myself with a volley of staples to the stomach. The other upholsterers said nobody had ever done that before, it was a first, and for a short time I felt unique. I showed my friends the wound in the pub, four dots, not much of a wound, but a unique wound. Everybody laughed.


Being the only apprentice I also had to make the tea and get the lunches. I didn't mind because it got me out of the gloomy cottage, and sometimes into the sun. I would eye up the girls in the tanning saloon on the sly. Most of them had orange faces, but given the chance I would've poled each and every one of them. However, dressed in my funny leather apron, and with bits of foam and staples hanging from my hair and clothes, I always passed by unnoticed.


Another job was button production. I liked this job. I cut out tiny squares of material and then covered each square around a metal disc. Then I inserted the disc into a punch machine, and with a swift twist of the handle, out would pop a button. I made new buttons every week. Despite making thousands of buttons I always liked the look of a new button, perfectly formed, like a conker or a kingfisher.


Then there were deliveries, another chance to get away from the ever-present threat of an exploding generator. We rarely got tips, but if we did it was from the poorer people. The rich never tipped and always appeared annoyed, but that's just the way of the world. We also had contracts with luxury London hotels. This meant a drive into town. I enjoyed the drive into town. I could watch the people going about their business and wonder where were they going and why they were in such a rush. And then there were the sites, the river Thames, Big Ben, Trafalgar Square, the houses of parliament, and other landmarks.


Each hotel had a tradesmen's entrance situated at the rear of the building. We always entered through the tradesman's entrance. Often I observed the rich hotel guests. Mostly they looked bored, aimless, senses dulled by comfort. As I moved furniture around the hotel I was amazed to see toilet attendants and cloakroom assistants, and the food delivered to the loading bay made my mind boggle. Live lobsters and crayfish and boxes and boxes of champagne. For a while I thought the rich lived off nothing but lobster and champagne.


One week I had to work outside. It was mid-winter and very cold. I had to clean the legs of five hundred chairs from a banquet room of the Dorchester hotel. It needed a special chemical to clean the legs that could not be used in a confined space. My hands got very cold. Every now and then one of the other upholsterers peered through a window and laughed at me.


It was while I was cleaning the endless legs and freezing to death that I saw a plane flying high in the sky. I swore that one day I would be on a plane just like that, flying to some exotic location far, far, away, never to return. I was paid each week in cash. For some reason the boss always paid me in five pound notes. Despite the fivers my wage was very small, well below the minimum wage. Every Monday I was broke again.


After nearly two years I decided to quit the upholstery trade. I'd found another job, which paid better, not much better, but enough to make me want to leave Pig Alley. When I told the boss he appeared disappointed. He didn't want to lose me, he said. I had a moment of weakness then and asked if he could match the salary of my new job. It was only a few pounds extra, but the boss shook his head and didn't look me in the eye.


After that I walked out of Pig Alley and never once looked back, and although I didn't know it at the time, I was about to embark on a series of great adventures, which would change my life forever.




Joe Ridgwell
6:50 PM 
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Friday, November 23, 2007 


Lady Augusta stands at her work station, the stained oak table her dearly beloved departed on, and squints at the stinking mess in front of her. Her apron is smeared viscous red and syrupy yellow and her huge breasts fight each other for space beneath it. Earwigs scuttle over slug trails and woodlice congregate in damp corners. Her fat, red fingers poke at ingredients, peel skin, dip into steaming bowls and needle at feathers and bones with a dexterity barely expected of such digits. Forgotten things fall from the table, butterfly wings, egg shells, tiny eyeballs, nail clippings, fish scales, the occasional snake skin that floats to the floor like a discarded stocking. In wooden cages birds cheep and squawk, pulling out their own feathers in disgust. Beside a small heap of brittle spider legs a cleaver gleams. The sound of a bell ringing draws Augusta's attention to the door and as it sweeps open a man steps hesitantly inside, a felt hat in his hands wrung like a sopping handkerchief.


"Too early," the woman bellows and the man visibly shrinks at the noise, if not the stench, emitted from that mouth. He backs up till he is standing against the wall and can back up no further.


"Wait." She yells. And he does.


A scrunched up baby watches him from a hammock nailed to the wall. Its fingers clutch at something in the air, a moth that flutters to and fro. Its nose is caked in snot and its mouth is a purple pucker. A piglet runs past, over the man's feet, curly tail bouncing. It is followed by a red-haired boy, arms outstretched, his feet barely able to keep up. The pair disappear beyond a thread-bare curtain.


With obstreperous fists Augusta plucks a petrified chicken from the confines of a wooden cage with much scrabbling and writhing and black and white shit daubed on her hands. But deftly she takes a wing in each and snaps them; lifts each yellow leg and breaks it like a twig.


The man against the wall twitches. The chicken lies still on the table, eyes open, its body rising and falling with every breath. Occasionally it lets out a throaty squawk until, with an almighty heft of the cleaver, the woman separates its head from its body. A stream of blood shoots out in an arc and fills half a glass with scarlet. She throws the scrawny chicken body over her left shoulder, perhaps for luck, and it lands on top of a pile of fowl corpses, all in varying degrees of decay, from the fresh and still-twitching at the top to the sopping putrefaction at the bottom. To the half-filled glass she adds a little of this and a little of that before stirring it with her finger and then sucking it clean.


One last ingredient. This is the part he finds the most revolting. She unfastens her apron, unbuttons the top of her dress and coaxes out one gigantic breast. It is veined like Stilton and the red nipple bulges with sores. As she squeezes it gently a good stream of yellowy milk fills the glass to the top and she hands it over to the man before forcing the tumescence back into her dress.


"Drink up," she says almost maternally. And he does.


"Same time next week," he says in a phlegmy whisper, before throwing his money down on the table and heading for the door.


Lady Augusta nods, lifts her skirt and tucks the notes into the crease where her stocking cuts into the flesh.




Rachel Kendall
6:49 PM 
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Friday, November 23, 2007 

Everything is miniature. Everything is about 1/50th of how big it should be. Your face is the size of a marble. My hand, touching your face, is the size of a breadcrumb. Your mouth, opening and saying something, is the size of an eyelash. My mouth, opening and saying something else, is the size of an eyelash. We are miniature. We are sitting in a room (bathtub), watching a TV (golfball), under a sheet (handkerchief).

'How big do you think my heart would be,' I ask you, 'if I could take it out of my body and look at it?'

'I think it would be about the size of a fist,' you say.

I take my heart out of my body and look at it. It is the size of a new 5p. It is beating and no longer attached to the rest of my body. It looks stupid. It looks like something dropped on the floor and picked up again and blown on.

This isn't possible, I think. Why is nothing happening? Why are we sitting here watching TV? Whose fault is this?

Your face is sad. It's confused-looking. There are things we're not saying, that we probably should be saying; sad, confused things; things like two hospitalized people on drips, attempting to play table tennis. The hospitalised people take it in turns to serve and never get a rally going. They wander around the table tennis room in slow motion, awkwardly searching for balls under chairs, getting their drips tangled in the curtains. The things needed to be said are hurtful, maybe, if you take them a certain way. They are things best said with all the lights and the TV turned off. But instead I'm wasting time, acting like a twat and taking my heart out of my body and looking at it, showing off, hoping you will look at it instead of the TV, hoping you will nod at it or something. What am I expecting from you? Is it me that's making all the mistakes, and not even realising?

I put my heart back in my body.

I don't say anything. You don't say anything, either.

I look at your shoelace-sized leg and need to go to the toilet.
Chris Killen
6:46 PM 
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Friday, November 23, 2007 


Making Rodins with the duvet
The pale length of you
Unfurled like rope, binding me to the bed
Being my girl
I was your glove, wrist deep, a red pulse.
Hand in hand, the perfect dark of your kiss,
You found me abandoned in night-time doorways.
You stuttered - I am stuttering, interrupting
The bleak texture of a policeman's overcoat opening old wounds
and an elegant wilt, leaning against a wall.
You were my girl, never man enough for me.



Heidi James
6:45 PM 
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Friday, November 23, 2007 

She said that it might put things in perspective, but I wasn't really sure how lying on the floor under a blanket was going to help there.

"Things look different when you're lying on the floor under a blanket." Said her text, well, I'm pretty sure that they do.

"Are you alright?" I texted back.

The strength of this break up had floored her. Literally. Imagine being in that much emotional pain that after the shock and the alcohol had worn off, the nicotine levels dropped back to normal, the sobs that had followed, racking her body; all this had passed until she lay down on the floor, pulled a blanket over her self and started sending texts. The second step in sending out communication fronds.

Her first step had been to pour it out on the internet message board. She had written about crying so hard and then feeling numb and then noticing that she had scratched her arms, big red marks down her arm, but still not feeling anything. She hadn't scratched them in a self-harm way, just that she'd been holding herself in her own arms in the absence of anyone else to do it for her. And then in that way that when you are upset and someone holds you, you cry harder, and they grip harder and hold you and you cry some more, and deeper. And she was gripping herself, holding herself and crying and then realising that there was only her to hold herself from now on and the poignancy of this made her cry even harder, and it was then she noticed the scratches on her arms.

And so this is how it was that she found herself on the floor of her front room texting me. Well, ok, I texted her first when I read her post, but she seemed like she needed some kind of response, and I couldn't resist. But she responded, and how she responded, the raw honesty of her emotion shocked me.

She had spent the beginning of her relationship with him lying on the floor; I remember her writing about it. This was before 'us' of course, this was when she had just met him and we had never met, and I doubt she even knew my screen name let alone my real one. But I had read her words and they were more than just words on a screen to me. I'd seen her photo as well.

I remember her describing how her feelings for him had so floored her that she spent whole nights when she couldn't be with him lying on her back in the middle of her front room floor, high on red wine, smoking cigarettes and listening to his music. So it seemed almost apt that at the end of it she found herself floored by it all again.

The fact that it was the same floor that I fucked her on when they had broken up the first time probably never crossed her mind.

But then the piteousness of her post and the fact that she was so bereft pulled away any lasting malignancy I may have felt towards her. That and the thought that I might get to fuck her again spurred me on to greater textual platitudes; I offered to come round.

Still under her blanket, at least in my mind, she responded suddenly back to her cold, blank little texts of the end of our affair: No, she was fine; her friends were on their way round with food, wine and cigarettes. But Thank You. And one kiss. I knew what one kiss in any mode of textual conversation with her meant.

However, the thought of her sobbing on the floor under a blanket, vulnerable and slightly drunk was enough to give me a boner and sufficient material to keep me going over the next few weeks until something more substantial came along.



Lisa Payne
6:44 PM 
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Friday, November 23, 2007 

It's the silence of things
That surrounds me when
I sit beneath my favourite
Tree, the leaves unmoved,
The squirrels elsewhere.

You gave me a toothpick
Once to help pick away
The dead flesh from
Between my teeth and for
Some reason I kept it –I still have it in a shoebox
Under my bed with the
Other things you gave me:

A ticket stub from a play
I hated; the cork from a
Bottle of cheap fizzy wine;
Your handwritten quote
From Stevie Smith about
Forward-looking; your
Expensive turquoise earrings
(Although you never gave
These to me); the tennis
Ball we scribbled on in
Black marker pen; the
Disgusting mosaic vase I
Never gave you for your
Birthday that year; the final
Letter you ever wrote to me.






Lee Rourke
6:43 PM 
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