Tell Me I'm Worthless(57)

Alice hears it. A click. She looks up, away from her friends, and sees the second door. It has been there in the corner of the room, always shut. Always locked. But she looks and realises the door handle is turning. Something on the other side is opening it.

“Ila,” says Alice, but she doesn’t hear. She’s listening to Hannah’s bubbling, angry words.

The door begins to swing inwards, slowly. The crack widens. On the other side… Alice is entranced. There is no shape opening up the door, nobody on the other side.

“Come close,” whispers Hannah. “Come close. You make me sick. You want to leave?”

“Yes,” says Ila.

“Then come close. Lean down to me and let me speak how.”

And the broken thing that used to be Hannah tells Ila what to do. But Alice doesn’t listen. She stands, nervously, and looks through the newly opened door. Through it, she sees something, a colossal body wreathed in sunlight. And as she watches, it begins to dance.





You


And did those feet in ancient times… did they? Well? I have yet to be given an answer. I am in the dark, asleep, perhaps. I have not woken up for I cannot see the sun. I have not woken up now. I cannot see my son, they have put him into a flat box and thrown it from the roof with great and utter joy. I jumped after him, or tried to, but they pulled me back. The woman – its mother – the child’s mother – jumped after the child, falling to her death onto the cobblestones, a bloody pulped mess of a woman. Call the cops on this worship, they are trying to build Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land, not trying to build England’s green and pleasant land in Jerusalem, which is the correct way of going about things – nothing so green nothing so pleasant about the work that sets us free – but no matter – the world is one great house with England at the heart of it, as the master bedroom perhaps or, no, the master’s study, the master’s tools made in the master’s study by the master, well actually the master thinks up the ideas and gets the women out clawing at the walls to create the master’s tools and they cannot dismantle the master’s house genuinely as they are made from the same materials as the master’s house, so when you try to take a bit off the master’s house, the tool just replaces that bit, on and on like that you see? Some see nature all ridicule and deformity! Some scarce see nature at all! I can’t see nature at all! All I see is things to build or use to build! But don’t forget that England’s green and pleasant land is and always will be holy land, better land, strange land, both God’s own country and a godless place, where the earth-mother still dwells and pulls herself up from deep under the thick green moss showing off her white skin showing off her fertile body don’t you want to fuck her hard God reaching down from the heavens, his prick firm and hard, entering into Mother Earth’s tight wet cunt, and that is England born from that coupling don’t you see, witches burning black suns into the sky, and a virgin hanged from the great oak in the middle of the forest glade. Beneath your feet Albion lays. Further down, further than anyone would ever dig. He lays, and he dreams of rising, but he doesn’t. It stops him.

It sits under a tree, the same tree the virgin dangles from, birds pecking at her now, she’s been there long enough, it sits underneath her looking up her skirt admiring the view. It sits from a high ivory tower admiring the view. It sits building things, knocking them down like little games. It sits and waits. It gets up it walks down at night with its friends to smash in the windows of fags and synagogues and fag synagogues and Jew fag bars, and breaks up the headstones of AIDS victims in the cemetery with the worker’s hammers, with the master’s tools. Dead Churchill, pulled down from the place his corpse hangs, and mutilated, circumcised. Unstitched. Like an older sweater pulled until he came undone, and you laugh at him, because it’s funny, because it’s funny to see the old cunt dead and gone.

There was a little boy being circumcised. They slipped, they cut the little baby boy’s penis open into a flower and in the emergency room turned it into a little vagina, and the little boy grew up never knowing, but he wanted to be a boy, see, and however many times he pleaded to G-d that he should wake up the next day as a boy G-d did not answer, and that is how you know that we are either holy or unholy, either a part of the grand design of the universe or a flaw or a symptom of perfection elsewhere. They studied the boy. Like an experiment. And he hated them for it, and he hated himself for it.

Jacob is a fifteen-year-old boy who dreams that he is a girl. Every night he wonders what it is like to be a girl. His girlfriend dresses him up in one of her dresses, puts make up on, and crawls underneath his skirt to suck him off. He dreams that it could be like this. She tells him it is fine if this is just a fetish but he might seriously have a problem actually, so he tells his mother, mother sometimes I wish I was born a girl, and his mother beats him half to death with a frying pan. He dreams his name is Alice and he is in his twenties and he is a rape victim stuck in the innermost room of a haunted house screaming whilst his best friend and rapist stands with him screaming too, and beneath their feet a girl who is a symbol lays and she dies then, finally free, and the room pulses and stretches as tall as the sky and they stand within the redness of it screaming and sobbing and holding one another. Jacob dreams this. He watches in the dream as one girl tries her best to stop being who she is, while the other tries to be who she is. One girl breaks her nose like an egg, bleaches her skin until it shines, then she bends down and takes the other girl’s cock in her hand and tries to cut away, tries to open it up into a flower, and Jacob doesn’t want to watch any more, and one girl is saying to the other don’t you want to die as a girl?