Sunday, 11 September 2011

Mary's Pet Boy

Today's guest blogger is Jon Stonehouse. Jon will be familiar to anyone who frequents the Blue Room or Gillespies as he's one of those people who's always buzzing round the place with six projects on the go at once. Jon also writes poetry... and does nothing with it. I've persuaded him to take one of his pieces off his perpetual back-burner and serve it up for us... (it's a bit spicy, parental discretion is advised)

Mary’s Pet Boy

From the first time I tumbled from my humble slumber,

To find her mobile number carved into my chest,

I knew she would be trouble,

But, accessory to murder, I never would have guessed.

We met like any modern esoteric couple I suppose,

Boy meets girl, girl bites boy,

Teaches him the number 7,

And gets him blood stains on his clothes.

Our paths first crossed at caged asylum,

(A fetish club up North),

She drank a green Chartreuse,

And smoked a Christian Dior.

Midnight-eclipse-raven hair,

Porcelain-velvet skin,

And plutonium eyes that seem twice their size,

Mary Elizabeth St.Claire.

And there I was held in her stare,

As my clumsy mouth attempts a feeble prelude to coitus,

Her smile is that of an inmate,

Applying my brakes like a dangerous snake,

Her cigarette disappears as she shakes her wrist,

And a tiny little flame takes its place,

I can tell by her face that she’s raised the stakes,

She mouths the words: “Let’s… go… home!”

And now I am deep in a pit of love,

But I’ll never know whether I fell or was pushed.

She told me she must fuck on top,

With her shiny knife against my face,

Watching my bottom lip tremble in its vicious mirror,

Hiss whispering ancient secrets in my ear,

She insists I must not resist and keep the isobutyl to my nose,

And as le petit mort approaches I slip into an episode,

A mass of painful black envelops,

And suddenly I am only a short distance from our sacred sun,

The same sun we share with everyone,

Life-giver of the skies,

But this gift of negativographic eyes,

Allows me to stare into her other side,

The evil twin she hides inside luciferous domain,

The white and gold a mere mask for her lime-sulphurous flames,

And there I am weightless and in her darkness bathed,

I feel nothing transfixed in her fiery gaze,

But an awareness of frequencies inaudible to my range,

And electromagnetic static through my spinal chord and veins,

And at that point in space and time,

The fabric of it all is mine,

And then…

“You’re back in the room, what have you done?”

My eyelids open like a length of scarlet velvet fallen from an altar,

My alter ego, he goes, and I’m no longer in my bed,

I wish I could be, but unfortunately,

I’m somewhere far much worse instead,

As I take in my surroundings my belly fills with dread,

The spade the mud,

The blade, the blood,

The wound in someone’s head,

Flash bulb illuminates crime scene,

To show me stood over the body face down,

Naked from the waist down,

My erection only subsiding now,

Her laughing distracts me,

It’s a part giggle-part choking sound,

And as she throws her hair back I can see the semen in her throat,

She swallows hard and continues laughing,

Shaking the Polaroid in the rain,

Apparently my face is “priceless,

With the colour drained”,

As my tears streamed she held me,

And while stroking my hair explained,

That the combo of murder, fear and cum keeps her life sustained,

She’s the last of the Merovangians,

The blessed Christ bloodline curse,

And when the body and the blood gave up on her,

And would no longer quench her thirst,

She had to think on her little feet,

And turn to ancient verse,

She kisses her Polaroid keepsake,

And puts it in her purse

Promises she loves me,

And will always put me first,

Maybe even a little boy,

If he survives the birth,

And when I die, eternal life,

For my services here on earth,

She snaps her fingers putting me nice and clean,

Safe and warm and back in my bed,

She assures me she burnt the evidence,

And goes down to give me head,

And when it feels that good,

Forgiveness will come quick,

I guess I let her off with her Vampire shit,

Because she knows how to suck a dick,

I can recall a hundred more of our ritual nights,

But we all know love is blind,

Even more so nowadays,

Since she cut out my eyes.



Ste said...

Thanks for posting Jon, glad to see your poems online instead of collecting dust in a drawer. Very jealous of this one :)

Ashley R Lister said...


I agree with Ste. Poems of this calibre shouldn't be kept in a drawer. I hope you'll be joining us again here in the future with more of your exemplary work.