Adam J Murray, click
here to update your pages on AuthorsDen.
Prose by Adam J Murray
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Rated "R" by the Author.
The prose of Adam. J. Murray
Steel Mill Town
Steel mill town…hot…hot…hot…sunken-eyed men channeling the lava and sweating out prayers from every filthy pore…sweat…sweat…sweat…pipes buckling…spires of stacks farting pollution…the entire town smells like drilled filling.
It hangs on you…a dry metallic stink…heaven and hell in an amputated limb itch…the only religion is surviving another working week.
The outsider hitchhiked into town with a bull dyke steel mill truckie named Bruce…her crack closed over in ‘69’…asked some questions…answered none.
He is sprawled upon abandoned house attic grimy mattress…in a dry salt lake of rusted tin cans…bloody kotex…dead puppies not long from the paw twitch of fetuses…comic books with every second page torn out…a crumbled K.K.K. jellaba devoured slowly by silverfish and earwigs…torn off birds wings tied with a piece of string a gift to an earth bound Icarus…pornographic magazines with the cunts cut out.
The river outside more oil and sewage than water…crumpled corpses stuffed in supermarket shopping trolleys sinking in the black silt next to pistols pounded flat…fish coughing as they crawl out to evolve into monkeys…shit and coke cans stain the gray snow below his window…quicking his fingernails with chattering teeth…night a black dynamo of terror to the bloodshot mandala of rapid eye movement…the sun sinks pushing the shadows up the walls to stain the waterlogged ceiling…candles flicker and singed moths smother the flames in liquid wax death throws…some nights he can almost hear the death rattle of each insect.
The moon, voyeur to the windows of the world, cleaver-sheen silver…riding the backs of dead vines through the shattered window…throwing its lupine howl over his pallid skin…seducing the Neanderthal dead out of forgotten tar pits.
The cold machine seizing brutality of winter wind dances dime store wedding dresses hung by nooses from the ceiling…lovers broken dreams to become pawnshop mockery…mothball and marzipan stinking ghosts that goosepimple his pallid flesh…ancient red wine stains like the unrecoverable blood of broken hymen making him hard…stroking himself to erectness below the grimy thin material of his Donald Duck wire fronts.
Homosexual simian urges under the dead tree sky of backwoods bad lands…where the only brothel dresses its girls in kimonos…redheads and blondes tripping in Asiatic mosaics of tight material from the cathouse doors…bruised candy-apple mouths eaten by herpes scratching crab cunts and thinking of Steel Mill Willy that doles out their papers with a gap-toothed smile…sulphur clings to the corneas of dopey eyed children watching the snatch parade.
Body bucking and skipping bedbugs from his skin as the outsider ejaculates…mouth moving silent as ventriloquists dummy…the choking stench of old ammonia…sweating insomnia fear until the dawn slides the night up smoke stack shafts…his eyes fall closed to dream of things forgotten upon waking…in a week he’ll go looking for work in that stinking mill…Hot…hot… hot…brush shoulders with shaved silverbacks and fight the urge to drink red lava…ozone teeth chattering stink…Sweat…sweat…sweat.
Cactus Sunset
You’re in my skin again. Clogging my pores and suffocating my very lung palpitation.
Last night you told me no.
You’re crazy for despite the unshaven legs, venereal disease and multiple lovers, I still want you.
Burn for you with razor blade blood and jackhammer head.
Swinging my legs out of your bed I smoked chains, controlling hand shake and tear as I blew smoke into the stillness of your sleeping face, watching you twitch as small coughs followed the serpentine exhaled smoke to a leaky tin ceiling. Your hand still clutched tight around the champagne bottle neck as you rolled over in one heel, loose bra straps tickling the pallidness of your comedown flesh.
You never knew baby but while you moaned in the grips of dream deathrolls and your fingers limply unfurled from the bottle, it rolled across the blood streaked floorboards and came to rest against my heel as I was stealing a memento from your underwear draw. The lacy ones with the bunny tag.
I’m wearing them now and although far too tight and semen stained its nice to have you close to me as I burn out in the last broken desire of come-shot comedown, a starburst in an eye twinkle and a bad bra.
I butted out in the broken cistern, finally finding your stash and taking half, making sure to close the front door gently so as not to wake you. I kissed your little cheek scar before leaving, readjusting my crotch as I swayed above you still thinking of your words…
No Neon Joe, you’re a sweet man, but we can’t be together. Never baby.
You had pushed the pill over my tongue telling me it will stop the tears as we danced cheek to cheek to Edith Piaffe letting the drugs take hold and pushed our cold sweat lustrous bodies closer. Your hand constantly moving mine from under your skirt as you giggled…
Silly man!
And a toilet top line, a coffee table top gold credit card chopped nightcap and a small hit out of the little baggie in your rhinestone purse.
You kissed me deep then, telling the advertising executive fruit that it was a private party and that voyeurism is ugly as he hovered around us as space junkie trying to see my grease black fingernails in the depths of your skirt.
I told you a little guiltily that I had Rohypnoled your Tequila Slammer and you giggled telling me…
Silly man. You funny little rabbit. I have the constitution of a Wildebeest darling!
And then asked me if I had any more for tomorrow’s hangover as you held my head in your hands reciting Hamlet and twirling a hair curl, giggling as my beady eyes fought the squint haemorrhaging through my humiliation. Your friends laughed at the wit of pretending the skeletalness of my eating disorder features was Yorick’s skull.
So I rolled another cigarette letting the plumes of cancer follow me out of the gently closing door as you slept. A twenty from your purse and half your tobacco as I whispered that I love you.
The day breaking on me in holocaust brightness. A weak cab hail as my trench coat swished around numb heels. Spires and dead museum stacks of scrapers, tombstones of the city, reaching up around my bent frame. The living dead rolled for coins in the gutters of the world and ten thousand one-legged pigeons pecking viciously at each others eyes for the smallest crust dropped from the shit stinking fingers of street urchin winos.
And it IS love. You need to know that. It is, because it prevents me from functioning. Turning off my mobile phone and giving work no option but send police to my house to confirm whether I’m swinging in slow dance with rafter rope.
But no, it’s an empty fridge in an empty apartment for I’m here with you, but leaving now, ebbing out of your bedroom in small out-tides of pain as the small silver crucifix sways around my fingernail raw scratched throat.
A St Elmo’s fire consuming me and the stripper asking me to buy her a beer. Telling me a twenty will lap-dance cheer me up as I fall into the wild lust animal dynamo of a lacy blue g-sting writhing on my flaccidness. But it’s your twenty and I won’t cheat on you with a nipple sucked, anus waxed, fake blonde for another dire and grim ejaculation as she puts together hit and shopping lists in her mind whilst moaning counterfeit, making it in the mechanical automation of shit-life survival mechanisms.
No, I won’t cheat on you baby. Not with this candy-apple whore or that one. Not while you sleep in one broken stiletto or dance in two. Not while the harsh daylight is a jawbreaker. Not while birds at dawn, frozen fingers from last beer esky ice fishing, nose tickles and random gropes at the naked flesh of bed bug bitten Asian twins are all pieces of the same jigsaw.
Not while a meal is chewing gum to alleviate pill teeth grind and a drink is always strong enough to launch Apollo 13. Not while shit and bile and tears and urine occupy the same fetid toilet bowl water, all exorcised from the same hurting man.
The whore sips a Boilermaker through a coloured straw while pawing roughly at the bulge in my pin-stripes, blowing Havana Cuban smoke in my eyes to make them bleed seawater. Grimacing into her kisses and fondling the crown of her pierced penis stuffed into torn white fishnets and a tiny lime g-sting. But baby I told her…
Love-easy I can’t sleep with you tonight for I am in love. L.O.V.E. tripping and falling through my own violin heartstrings with a beautiful woman.
And the queens roared and roared in jittering, high pitched excited jabberwocky hysteria, popping champagne corks. The alcohol pre-semen of effervescence ejaculating over rims of grimy glasses clutched in the manicured bone crushing, knuckle dragging hands of truckers, butchers and firemen dressed in women’s clothing with far too much cosmetics applied by heavy hands too used to machine greasing. They doted and danced, sucking my tongue as the first rays bled under bar room door in wispy apparitions.
Neon Joe’s in love!!
They screeched, pushing tabs over my tongue. Mosquito jabs of hypodermic proboscises into my arm and laughed and laughed, the sound rising and rising in hyena pack crescendo as I stumbled in big boots with untied laces. Their joy and happiness held back the truth, my lips tightening around it to prevent its abortion into the world, snapping and snarling at their good humour. No, I couldn’t tell them that you don’t love me back, or back to front, despite my cunt smelling, tobacco stained trembling fingers or the mess of bed hair combed by pumice scrubbed cold shower wet hands.
How could I destroy the jeu d'esprits of crotch-less underwear wearing factory workers?
And the alley, the parking lot, the elevator in Pricewaterhousecoopers foyer were only stages to a great performance of fellatio as thick fingers clawed at my stomach and gruff pig-like groaning became prologues to beer-nut stinking saliva pooling in my pubic hair around a semi-flaccid member.
And it wasn’t cheating baby because I was thinking about you the whole time, even when the big, black one winked at me while sucking come out of the spent prophylactic while you kissed and flirted with boys two, three at a time, recruiting them for your many needs, promising things that you will never deliver or give me, but which you won’t admit to.
No, its not cheating baby for your skin scent is a layer over mine, a second flesh that bleeds my cornea but never the knife blade despite recurringly taking it into the shower with me only to carve little African savannah pachyderms out of soap cakes. For I don’t want to end this life, just numb it to a tolerable level with this beer and the next one.
Numb it with jaw and torso punches in bar parking lots by pimply offended kids that will never comprehend my love for you as I descend from the heights vulture-like to perch on their girlfriends seeking my pound of flesh hanging in this butcher shop window. He gets a few good ones in but I keep hammering his face into bitumen grit even long after he’s stopped squirming, trying to send him back to the womb in that head clutching foetal position. Trying to send him to hell and deeper as I fight the pain in my core from you vicariously.
Stumbling into the night, tripping on rusty tin cans and discarded picket fence posts in empty lots as the red and blue wails through the streets to sail a now toothless, one eye blinded, dying boy through cold underwater illumination of ambulance interior.
Because baby I love you, and if I have to suffer, then the world will suffer with me.
Silverfish and Sharp
The segmented chrome bodies of silverfish skating in long serpentine undulations across fetid bench top. Icy beer pulled from locomotive shaped icebox foams upon the stiff upper lip of the literate junkie. He traps them in a shoebox, screwing up typed sheets of his poetry for them to feed upon and closes the lid upon their steely gazes.
A shiny black automobile with gooseneck detectives inside glides past his apartment far below on the tarred nervure of street. They stare up and roll cigarettes as he pounds away at the stiff keys of his portable.
Sure, he can feel the heat closing in.
The insects in his stomach take flight on razor edged wings at the mere hum of dicks in back-alley cruisers. He feels pupae hatch within cerebrum knowing that his dealer is a huckster all too prepared to hoodwink him. But most of all he feels the incessant bites of blackened pinchers within his flesh as the junk falls from his mind like a dead songbird from a shit-stained golden perch.
The dropper rolls in spilt liquor upon the coffee table and the plunger is pushed steadily down.
He sees himself reflected within glass of hypodermic and then his true self as a red carnation of addiction blooming within the syringes body. He hears the blunt brachiosaurus plodding footsteps of the law climbing the termite ravished internal staircase of his apartment building.
The junk ejaculates into his veins as his every pore closes so that they may drink from within. His head lolls and a praying mantis clinging to the frayed electrical cord of the bare light bulb above stares down with bulbous eyes as it chews upon its partner. The record player skips over Mario Lanza in dry metallic clicks. Harsh knuckles molesting wood of front door.
Detectives on doorstep, dishes in the sink.
The hollow clink of the hypodermics cylindrical body hitting linoleum below and rolling under couch. Tourniquet slipping from arm to lie below as the husk of a serpent, again just a leather belt.
Thoughts still revolving around those silverfish that eat his words, those silent critics. Chasing each other’s tripod tails and grinning below silver plates of head armour. They fight and fuck in his closet and tumble in protoplasmic insectile copulations through his cutlery drawer. Cold pizza pie on grease stained cardboard and authoritative tone muffled by the front door as the dicks outside become impatient.
That miasma of emotion tunnelling as a habitual mole through the twisting subterranean woven world of his arteries. He has a map of the metro subway system surfacing as hammer hungry veins in the cleft of his arm as he pulls a lucky strike from crushed packet. German cockroaches scatter from below pizza slice as he pokes at it disgusted now not needing food for the hammer has a fire in the back of his throat that replaces his every need. His senses explode, osculating from him in long ribbons of orchestrated feeling. He can hear the murmur of those trench coat wearing woodlouse upon his welcome mat and smell their Old Spice aftershave. He can hear the moans of counterfeit pleasure from the whore next door and smell her sex as he is reminded of that time when he had walked in on his mother masturbating.
His father had caught a home run slug in the leather glove of his heart during the war three weeks earlier and the junkie, then just a kid, had ditched his afternoon at school. Running along the gravel road to a home static with suppressed emotion his dusty little shoes pounding the ground and his books swinging on the tether of belt that bound them. The autumn breeze warm against his sun dappled face and blowing dead leaves in small eddies along the roadside. His shoes had clapped across the midday porch and the double doors swung inward under grubby little palms. His pupils had become mouths vicariously devouring the scene before him.
His mother upon couch with her wedding dress hitched up upon her large thighs. A tattered brown photograph of his father in a military uniform gripped white-knuckled and the other hand kneading her exposed genitals. Her moaning severed, she had taken flight from the couch, a scowl cutting her forehead in two, her bare feet mauled the distance between them. His confused, awkward smile slapped from face by back of coital smelling hand. The excitement of feigning illness for an afternoon at home spilling from his face with the blood that seeped from swelling lip. His mother had dropped weakly to worn knees howling her grief as she rocked his head against her empty hot water bottle breasts. His blood had stained her wedding dress with scarlet blooms. She would hang herself in a fortnight. Swinging lazily in the cellar as the rope creaked sorrow.
His blood stains years later would be scrutinised by workers at the Chinese Laundromat as they argued what exactly the caked maroon streaks were upon yellowed mothball and marzipan smelling material. They grin over chemical vacuum steam as they agree that it is the blood of broken hymen from the night that was an epilogue to the dressmaker’s skilled hand.
Cockroaches take flight on shiny translucent wings as the front door splinters under shiny shoe and suits with cyclops revolver arms held aloft penetrate the dimly lit hallway. Lucifer match before drawn features lighting lucky strike as salmons in trench coats fill the room. Their fishy beaks clacking as they read him his rights and bulbous eyes on the sides of scaly heads scan the apartment from below homburg frowns. The snarl of handcuff upon wrist and the animal of addiction clawing with bloodied teeth and claws within as his face is divided by wide fist.
The flare behind his lids reminiscent of how a page of poetry earlier had caught fire as it curled onto candle from the paper wind bar of typing machine. The way it had flared under a hot spray of Johnny barleycorn dime-store scotch cast upon the flames in a futile attempt to quench them. The fire had spread as a quick infectious literary apocalypse and devoured his words just as he is hoping the silverfish will in their shoebox accommodation.
Fat bulls with sunken necks like male pigeons in full courting display shunt him from grimy apartment so that latent flatfoots may search for exhibit a, b and c. the silverfish tipped from their holiday suite and crushed underfoot, the typewriter dusted for prints to match with those upon a home-made special that had recently been fired.
The literate junky starved of both pen or sharp watching the striped curtain of peeling, black bars refuses his one phone call and curls up upon the grey mattress. Bedbugs skip over his skin as he contemplates the revolvers hollow pop as it tore open his brides forehead on their honeymoon two nights past.
Books 1 & 2 of Never Leave Your Monastery, both in one volume. This Collector's Edition features the ORIGINAL ART of the Author, over 25 hand-drawn illustrations.
Although available elsewhere; the author urges you
A young man’s need for respect and his search for love enables him to be coerced into becoming an undercover cop. Follow this man to see how others see him and try to understand why the job he becomes obsessed with and his quest for love, tear him ap
