(Act One) Mexico Desert

In the heart of suited Mexico with tight clothes and sweaty

hands and a tiny dick clawing pining for a drop of sandy
water sobbing knowing youll die one day a secret history
lost inside your brain awful knowing you might have the
beginnings of cancer skin cancer probably the sun is so hot
you wish for a takeaway and a milkshake. Drugs would be
quaint or a casio keyboard or even nail polish to restore the
sacred part of your feminine soul that has blossomed and
burned in the desert heat. Dreams comfort dreams here and
you remember that when you were 16 a teacher you sucked
off threw himself out of a building. The horses you put
money on have tripped and been shot in the head and there
is no one to help you except the wreck of a pistachio car
and the memory of a broken vase and a drunken rape. You
think about the girl with the boyfriend that you got drunk
on melon tequila so you could fuck because you were tired
of being a virgin that wanted to be a slut. You are tired of
wanting to cross-dress but being too afraid to buy a dress,
because you value money too highly and can only love one
gender. There is way too much sweat on your hands. You
think about what else you could have been doing tonight.
You think of the time you downed 13 espresso shots in a
row and bounced off the walls all the way to Los Altos in a
cheap yellow car with a poster of Chevy Chase in the
backseat. You cant help wondering where the man is that
brushed your cheek when he walked past in France 5 years
ago and 3 months. You cant stop yourself considering
what New York might have looked like at night because
my god youve heard good things. Even the extreme heat
cant dry the tears that drip down as you think about the
minor invasive surgery with local anaesthetic on your big
toe that you were going to have in 2-3 weeks. You still
remember when you were about 8 years old and your two
best friends said they hated each other and had only ever
pretended to get along. You dont remember anything else
from that year. You remember bowling out Joe playing
cricket with a plastic ball and some sticks from the brush.
You remember dreaming of Saudi Arabia on a hot night
after youd had an argument with your parents. You recall
being high on PCP when your girlfriend broke up with you
and telling her she was a slutty good-for-nothing bitch
anyway and besides where the hell is your Husker Du CD it
wasnt a gift you assure her it was a loan. But most of
all you remember the impromptu concert where that one
guy did that Neil Young song that was so quiet but
everyone shut the hell up and listened for just a few
minutes and it was just brilliant. And you guess this boy
was there from Philadelphia and you drifted towards him or
was that in Trafalgar Square...? You do remember the boy
though, who had high cheekbones and black slightly curled
hair and he was the most beautiful person youd ever seen
until 4 years later when you realised you didnt love him
like you used to and almost killed yourself knowing you
had lost the only thing which had mattered to you for so
very long.

You are lost in the hot Mexico desert, in a suit of all things,
and you think you might just sit down and rest for awhile.
The sand whips up and burns your cheek. There is a quiet
moment. It is very very hot. You dream of sheep.

(Act Two) Dreamd

i have seen the hyper palpitations of a body as it sinks
involuntarily into a cloudy valley, lungs burning with the
futile lightning of a body flying out to everything colliding.
i have heard the single boom of a thousand guns blinding
simultaneously, and i have seen a man thrown back against
a post with an irish face that sinks gently to its androgynous
knees and snow drifts through his head. in the darkest
moments of my fever i have seen the sterile pomposity of
the state, felt my swollen face and swollen lips murmur
breathily swollen words, burned my eyes out searching
furiously for a title for my new bipolar manic depressive
reading epidemic. (i woke up.)

have you seen a tide slide wildly up into the sky and froth
with rage over a small village at the outer borders of a
capital letter in a burned book. i have dreamed of the
attacks of a dolphin menace, a menace that chased me
through the world with silent revelry until i screamed and,
still screaming, fell in yellow byron fire into the twilight
dolphin'd waves. i explicitly recall the time, apropos of
nothing, i found myself abandoned in a burning car and, on
exiting, spitting madly on the red hot handle so i would not
melt and be crushed in by my own skin, found only a single
house, a green house in pakistan, selling bread. until i die
for the last time i know i will not forget the howling of the
children while they tore me into food as i slackened and
gush'd dead into the gutters of a los altos evening. in soho
where nothing is merry i have walked until my feet are so
blister'd that i crouch down and sob into the vicious iron
fence that walls me from the cool green water. having
walked alone in belgium, i was much surprised and doubly
perturbed to flounder unwillingly upon some crusted
mussels that i was distinctly sure were from a river far
away. when i enquired, a free portion was duly brought,
and the foul odorous stench of the french mud banks
swallowed me until i, only ash, mustered myself and fought
into the sun.

i was astounded to find the charred corpse of hilaire belloc
while searching for a typewriter, and in his eyes was the
kindness and crackling blue veins of an unfortunate demon,
drawn parallel from tequila rivulets and thrown cruelly into
a cruel world in the crushing steel of space and time. this i
think was the moment when i quite quietly said to myself
'you are going to die my boy', and i touched belloc all over
his body and thought how dangerous it was to love a man
so much.

but it was when i dream'd the following night that i had the
most horrifying realization, that broke me and removed all
memories of the truest dearest loves i could recall. while
musing tiredly and donning the white buck'd boots for
moonwalking that i keep under my bed, my mind crossed
back three million years and i thought of robespierre
standing tall and elegant in suffering and undignity, the
guillotine behind him framed as a hungry man reaching
forward with eager lips. and i thought of this and,
examining his face more closely, was amazed to see the
most virtuous face my eyes had ever branded themselves
with. and he stepped forward and lowered his head, and
that blue lightning of the old days exploded in loud ungodly
rifts upon the open sky, and the rain fell onto the tousled
hair of my boy preparing for the end, and i realized with a
pain as yet unknown that i would give up everything i
knew, remembered, loved and thought for the chance to
hear his voice echo in my ears when we were alone.

(Act Three) Disintegration

i wish i had not wasted so much time; going about my daily
life. i wish i had spent more time wondering outside how i
am, outside, in the dusk, in the hyper light and the half-light
and under the wreathes of acre'd space. i wish i had not
dared to look away, at anything, and had fixed my eyes on
the end of a fine era. i wish i had stumbled in the piss and
spit of future london lifeforms, rather than trotting around
the suffering metropolis at dusk looking for a way home.
remembering my father's waterfalls i wish i and oedipus
had in a barrel rolled from the one long extending blue
wave that crashed, through the sky, onto the rocks where i
sat devouring a picnic reading poetry about green fields. i
wish i had walked longer and slept in a dirty barn rather
than being driven over mountainous roads for days never
resting until i came to the bed i knew where i could lay and
dream fitfully of what it would be like to sleep
undreamfully.

i wish i had abused my power on the way to my old house
and forced my way through the door and under skirts into
the money i had laid waste at the corner of a cocaine party.
that i had tripped and stumbled back in time away from
sore throats and the rough coarse brain of the indentured
master crawling awfully away from the torturous white
hands beaming all over his soft flesh and bloody face. i
wish i was a better writer and i had perhaps not plastered
pink faces over the brown leather of dissolving silent cows,
instead writing "coward" all over my mouth in ulcers and
perpetual illicit fucks. i wish it had been evening when i
wrote so long on my sheets. i wish even more than i had
written this in the evening when my head catches itself in
fire and men in brains come out to taunt me with their
erotic corpse. belloc and the rest; my darling wrote me days
ago and i have replied a thousand times in a corner of my
mind, while my body idly strokes death and prepares to
negotiate the cold storm. i am in a fever, a new york fever,
suspended like a harp among the indignities of my newly
slated ignorance. abandoned by ugly interesting men and
left by the gauche roadside, yorkshire beckons vaguely
from the back of a red pinto and suggests himself a man's
choice; A Man's Choice for A Man.

i had forgotten to wish. packing my bags i leave behind in
mexico what i remember, leave in dreams what i have,
scared stiff, fled from nightly for an infinite primary time,
starting from the moment i vomited in a sink at the thought
of my father. at the door of a red pinto i leave behind the
wishes i have so studiously collected, the daylight dreams i
have left quietly unshared, the abstract absurdity of true
thoughts that jump and writhe inside the fever dreams that
will not ever ever cease. high on acid and remarkably calm,
i board a ship to deep black space and rocket, screaming,
into the rainbow sky and the white child clouds that my
men in brains, too, once stared at longingly.

forgetting to think, turning off the audio, i lift myself into a
regression, to tear me away from all those troubled years
and words and all the strangeness that befalls a man. flying
higher i begin to crash, into large metal hunks of spatial
awareness, and as my ship disintegrates mexico and dreams
and the pinto fly in all directions and scatter mostly toward
soho on a thursday raining night. from behind apollo
breathes a new vision, the sight of two men i know well,
a boy and a virtuous man, their arms linked and
stretching out towards me. leaving behind the troubled
paradise, i erase everything i have ever known and fly,
on fire and as yet alone, into the arms of robespierre and
keegan. but then, halfway, i stop and start, and turn a
fraction to see even my memories of these hurtling away
from me. their arms look menacing now and their faces
are new and fresh but older than me. i turn and, as they
call my name, sprint through the colours of the galaxy
and scream blood as all my fevered memory escapes to
the dark cold hands of men in brains.