naked party in the cesspool.

It was the night that drew the line between Libra and Scorpio. October 20th. It was also Saturday on a college campus. Harmony and horniness were inextricably bound, both doomed to be toyed with by wild, intoxicated youths. As the sun set and the prospects of that night danced in their heads, some students may have experienced a vague sense of premonition. It was going to be one of those nights. It was going to be a shitshow. Things would be broken.

The co-op down the street was throwing its annual naked party, a festivity by invitation only. An invitation with cartoons of monsters, some cute, some grotesque, all of them smiling with exposed genitalia. While others scrambled to find someone with an invitation to spare, I received mine with no difficulty. Let’s just say that I’m a pretty good friend to hippies, deviants and dogs.

I was nineteen, a sophomore in college. I had been to two naked parties before, one with all women as part of a female sexuality workshop, and the other in a basement with a pool table, blacklights, several erections and a tub of red wine. But this naked party – this naked party was the real thing. If you were lucky enough to receive an invitation, you bet your ass you’d be there. I was single for the first time in years, had taken my first visit to California over the summer, let loose at a reggae festival...let the liberation come, I thought, all over me!

I arrived at the co-op with a few friends, one of whom hadn’t planned to attend the party. Her name was Jade Paris. She was my first female friend in college and, really, since grade school. My other friends Jacqueline Kennings and Kaden Boyer were also with us. Jacqueline had been fretting for the last 24 hours because she was having her period and didn’t want everyone knowing it. Pubic hair was also a concern. “I’m completely shaved!” she moaned. “Everyone there is gonna look at me like a freak!” I told her to use a tampon, cut off most of the string, and that only freaks lived in the co-op so it didn’t matter. Kaden would only be staying briefly; he had a date with a French boy, Niko Something-or-Other. Kaden had just broken Numero Dos of our illustrious Manifesta only three days earlier. La Manifesta - in reality my creation - clearly stated: “Rule Number Two: No Boyfriends.” And what had Kaden gone and done? Agreed to “being exclusive” with some older pretty boy with an accent who wore his five o’clock shadow like his jeans. Close-cut and stylish. Soon enough I would be spitting at Kaden, “Exclusivity breeds exclusion!” but, for now, like I told Jacqueline, it didn’t matter.

We were getting there early so as to ensure sufficient blood alcohol content for the evening’s festivities.

“You don’t think anyone will be naked yet, do you?” asked Jade.

“Nah…”
“No way…”
“Not yet…”

We tiptoed to the front door through the cans, trash, and tattered couches littering the porch. I went to open the door, but it was locked. I was stunned; the door was never locked. “Just knock,” someone said. Without missing a beat, the barks and squeals of three pitbull mixes sounded. The door swung open, a curtain of beads parted, and there stood our friend Drew Bayne. He was naked. Jade will just have to deal with it, I thought, as I yelled, “Alright!” and slapped Drew’s hand high in the air. “Yeah, people here have been naked all day, man,” he said. We entered the house.

Upon entering the co-op, the stench of stale cigarette smoke, beer, body odor, compost, dirty dishes, dirtiness that has stuck to every surface, every corner for 30 years – all of it assaults you at once. (For me, it’s like a creepy molestation, one that tickles a deep perversion inside of me and so I adore it). There are two sets of stairs, one of which is climb-at-your-own-risk. Someone is always coughing. Paintings, scribbles, poems all over every wall. The word GENDERFUCKED scrawled across a red spray-painted anarchy symbol, for example. Or Uncle Sam farting in the face of America. Or dirty personal ads pasted over cracks in the wall. Saran wrap covering the windows. One of the dogs shits in the “dining room” at least three times a week, more often if its owners are lazy. And they are. Make sure you always check for toilet paper before taking a seat in the bathroom, and never use the shower on the first floor. Not like you’d want to once you saw it.

It was the poorest excuse for a cooperative establishment I’ve ever seen. I mean, the motto of the place is “the ******** Co-Op…where they eat soybeans and fuck like animals.” I can personally attest to both. It was not the kind of place you’d want to come home to. But for a naked party, it was perfect. So long as you wore flip flops.

That night I had chosen my jewelry carefully. With nothing else on, my earrings and necklace were the outfit. Why did it matter? Well, as with any party, there had to be music. And as with any good house party, there had to be a band. Except this was a naked party, and so the band would be naked. And the boy I had been seeing for a little over a month was in that band. The band playing naked. He was the singer. With a guitar. And soft bluegreengray eyes. Adam Brown, a sly, sexy sonuvabitch.

Drew led us up to his room on the second floor. His girlfriend Lily was sitting in bed, nude, with a silver platter balanced on her lap. She was drinking straight out of a bottle of wine. Her eyes shone with excitement as she leapt up to greet all of us. “Aaah!” screamed Drew. “Was there anything on that?” “Relax Drew, don’t be such a fiend,” said Lily, and we all had a good laugh. One by one we began removing our clothes (except Jade). We poured drinks. We cut lines on Lily’s platter (engraved with the title, “My Best Friend” for reasons unknown to all of us, Lily included). We talked about the band. Soon it was ten and we could hear them warming up. It was time to descend.

“You have a great ass,” Lily said to me as I led the group down the stairs, plastic cup held delicately in my left hand. “Thanks!” I replied. Really, I didn’t give a shit what Lily thought of my ass. Or anyone else in the house, with the exception of one. But it was nice of her to say so.

The music began and I was right up front, as usual. Everyone was dancing, cups in the air, beer spilling everywhere. Despite the beer, the room distinctly smelled like vagina. I danced with a few girls, all of us pretending there was an imaginary joint in the room, taking outrageous imaginary hits and passing it along. A tall boy with dirty, blond dreadlocks and a tiny dick hit me in the face with his pink boa. I lit another imaginary joint and gave it to him. In the future, I would share a cat, a house, and a lover with him, although none at the same time.

When the band started playing “She Came In Through The Bathroom Window,” one of the girls I was dancing with grabbed my shoulder and yelled in my ear. “Isn’t Adam your boyfriend?” she asked. I laughed out loud. “Oh god no!” I screamed back. “We’re just fucking!” She howled in response.

The police were outside, being stalled by some half-naked residents. The noise complaint would later reach $1200. At the time, I didn’t give a shit. I thought to myself: I’m naked, and I’m dancing in front of this naked boy who is playing the guitar and singing and looking into my eyes. He likes me. I know he likes me. I am young, and drunk, and I think I’m in love. I am on top of the world.

or you can store it in a treasure chest.

The sky and earth speak sternly as the girl with the orange scarf ‘round her head hurries across a great field.

The sky gleams sapphire.
The earth sits brown.

*

Earlier in the day, the girl was startled by a crone dressed in flowing black garments. The sun was just beginning to peek out from behind the hills, painting the sky with lavender, rose, thin bursts of gold. The girl with the orange scarf 'round her head was sitting under the great tree in her front yard. She had been writing in a book of blank pages. A fanciful line of six words and six syllables had just taken form with the ink of her pen, when suddenly a hard wind from the west started and nearly tore the scarf from her head. It caused her to look up from her words, whereupon she spied the old woman approaching. The woman was quite close by the time the girl saw her. She said nothing, only stared as the figure in black drew closer and closer. The woman paid no mind to the girl at first; she moved straight for the tree. She huddled close to it for some time, one hand on the thick, gnarly trunk. The girl did not move, nor say a word. The cold gusts tickled her neck. A sudden shudder shook her. The old woman then looked at her. The woman’s left eye was strange. The girl remembered her grandmother back at home, in the house behind the tree, and realized the woman now bending above her suffered from blindness in that eye. As the woman crouched lower, the girl took a deep breath. Pulling her dark cloak around the two of them, the old woman whispered in the young girl’s ear.

*

The sky gleams sapphire.
The earth sits brown.

Her shoes are thick with mud, so she tears them off and leaves them behind. With her feet bare, she is able to run through the dirt, hop over rocks and rabbit-holes as she stares at a forest across the field.

The sky grumbles and the girl looks up. The cold wind is growing stronger. The orange scarf whips into the girl’s eyes and she falls face down into the mud. She lies there for a minute, face buried in the earth. The earth stays silent, but she thinks she can hear its hushed groans. Her heart thumps powerfully against it. The earth remains unhurried. With fingers and toes clenching the ground, she raises herself onto her hands and knees. Limbs trembling, she howls at the sky but receives no answer. The sky feels sorry for her but cannot help. Some things must be done.

Then she is on her feet again, darting toward the thick line of trees in the distance. While she moves, she wipes some of the dirt off her face with the palms of her hands. Behind her, dark gray clouds are moving forward. They swirl swiftly, and before long the bright blue sky is overtaken by thick curls of clouds churning in different directions. The girl notices the change. She thinks of the old woman’s eye. As she nears the edge of the forest, she pulls the scarf off her head. The wind shrieks all around her. She raises it into the air with her left hand and runs into the forest. She can see the cottage from here. The little red cottage with the moss growing over it. The crone’s voice echoes in her head.

Upon reaching the door of the house, she kneels and sets the scarf down next to her, to her left. It is a curious little home. The moss completely covers the two windows, and the front door has no knob. Scratched into the wood of the door is one short line, beside which is also scratched a small circle. The roof is thatched. It reminds the girl of a bird’s nest, and again the crone’s voice sounds between her ears. With a throbbing forehead, she ferociously tears into the ground with her hands. A small hole is soon between her and the door. She picks up her scarf, marveling at its color. Despite the stains of dirt from the tumble before, its fiery hue shines back at her. She smiles for a moment and falls back onto her heels, nuzzling her face into the scarf. It is warm as she clutches it so dearly. The trees around her give rumbling creaks. The girl looks up at them, through their crackling yellow leaves, sees the swirling sky. One deep breath, and she buries her scarf in the ground. Before rising, she lays the palm of her left hand over the little brown mound. She whispers something. The wind continues with its screams as she leaves the little red cottage behind.

*

With no shoes and no scarf, she walks back across the field toward her own house. The wind ceases its crying, and soon all is quite still, except for the girl heading home. She glimpses her grandmother slowly moving around to the back yard, with a bucket in her hand. The girl quickens her pace upon remembering it is time to draw water from the well. As she jogs past the great tree in her front yard, she spies something out of the corner of her eye. It is the book of blank pages she left behind when she fled to the forest. She stops to retrieve it, and notices something black inserted into its pages. She opens to a black strip of cloth. The page on which just this morning she had written the fanciful line of six words and six syllables is gone.

With a furrowed brow, the girl turns her head over her right shoulder, in the direction of the forest. She imagines her nails scratching into the moss that covers the windows of the little red cottage. She wants to see inside. Then she remembers the well. The cottage will have to wait. With book in hand, she rushes to her grandmother.



For how long will the scarf call to her from across the great field?
For how long will she continue to listen?

I've Never Done This (Before).

I move through the streets of Edinburgh on a grey and windy morning. I wear dirty jeans I bought four years ago. A beanie I got at a dollar store in the US. Muddy shoes my younger brother gave me a few months ago. A shirt from India that I bought in Provincetown for $3. An old sweater that used to belong to my mother.

I wear glasses
so
you won’t look at me
but
I can see you clearly.

Iggy Pop sounds through my headphones. I chuckle to myself. It sounds like a horse’s hiccup. A vision slowly invades my mind. I let my feet take me forward as the vision takes hold.


…Here comes Johnny Yen again
With the liquor and drugs
And the flesh machine
I know he’s gonna do another strip tease.
Hey man, where’d ya get that lotion?
Your skin starts itchin’ once you buy the gimmick
About something called love
Love, love, love…


“ – yah, but whadya wanna DO tonight?” She poses this question to him with a tilted eyebrow. She lights one of his cigarettes. “Gahd, why do you buy these? They taste like cahdboahd.”

“Then don’t smoke ‘em.” He snatches the pack away from her and lights one for himself. They stare at each other for a minute. She daintily holds her wrist high and takes luxurious drags from the tobacco, never taking her eyes off him. He puffs silently, without the aid of his hand, allowing the white stick to hang on his bottom lip. He blows the smoke into her face. She giggles finally. “Ahn’t we gonna open a window?”

“It’s too fuckin’ cold,” he answers.
“Yah, but I hate the smell,” she whines.
“Aright, aright, anything foa muh dahhhlin.’”
He stands up, still smoking, and opens the window. She giggles again.

He sits down with crossed legs. She lies her head in his lap, sending the smoke to the ceiling. “Why is thea neva anything to DO around hea?” she says to his chin. “Oh baby, thea’s plenny tuh DO, just naht much to go OUT foa.” He strokes her head, leans to his far left to stamp out his cigarette in a glass filled with coins and ash. “Can we just watch Trainspottin' tuhnight then?” she flutters her eyelashes. – “Fine but ya just gonna fall asleep as soon as it gets goin.’” – “So what? Ya parents ah at the lake house, right?” – “Yeah.”

She sits up then. He turns around and digs under the ratty orange couch. He retrieves a backgammon case, complete with locks and a handle for convenient traveling. She puts out her cigarette in the dirty glass. “I’m gonna wash my hands. Be back in a minute – oh wait, you got Qtips?” she calls back. – “Uhh…yah.” – “You got cotton balls?” – “That’s yoa shit. I don’t use ‘em.” – “You got alcohol?” – “Yah.” – “You got-” – “What the fuck, just wash ya damn hands!” – “Fuck you! You got wata?” – “Fuck…nah.” – “See! Basics, baby, basics!”

With that, she slips into the hallway and then the bathroom to her immediate right. She closes the door behind her. Looks at herself in the mirror. Feels slightly nauseas. The yellow walls and bright lights bask her in sickliness. She sits on the toilet. Waits. Thinks of the ocean. Swimming. Waves crashing into her belly. She lets a long sigh escape and twists the faucet to her left. She holds her head with her hands and stares at the linoleum floor.

The door swings open, hits the wall behind it with a loud bang. Her head snaps up. “I can’t pee!” she moans to him. “Yes, you can,” he says and fills a glass with water. “Drink it fast,” he tells her. She gulps down the water, feels it sink and splash and slide into her stomach. It feels cool. He takes the glass back and fills it again. “Make it quick,” he says, and shuts the door behind him. Suddenly, she feels the tickle and lets go. What relief, she thinks. It doesn’t last long but it’s enough. She flushes, washes her hands, splashes water onto her face, dries it with a rough yellow towel, applies red lipstick, smiles for a second, fluffs her long, red hair with her hands. She turns around, scoops up a few cotton balls, looks into the mirror once more, and returns to his room.

The smell of the stuff is what always hits her first. A combination of matches, heated metal, and sour flower petals makes for a deathly aroma. She sits on the mattress, which lies directly on the floor, and drops the cotton balls on the black sheets. She gags. He hears her. “Ah you gonna get sick already babe?” – “No, I’m fine, why ahn’t you usin’ the candle?” – “Candle died last night. Only got these fuckin’ matches.” – “Fuck you, we just had a lighta somewhea…” – “Christ, baby! Watch whea ya fuckin’ goin’!” – “Oh gawd, I’m sorry baby…oh! I was sittin’ on the lighta anyway. Can I light some incense?” – “Yah, whateva, gimme that lighta though. Use the matches.”

He extends his hand, palm up, eyes never leaving the spoon. She places the lighter in his palm and, striking one of the matches, lights a stick of Nag Champa. Standing up and swaying on the mattress, she holds the incense in front of her face and watches the smoke drift between her eyes. Suddenly, she feels a cold wetness between her legs.

“What thuh fuck? Did you jus squirt me?” she asks him. He laughs at her, syringe in hand. “Yah, so what?” – “That means I get to go first.” – “Fine…anything foa muh dahhhlinn…” – “And I get to pick the music.” – “Fine…but no Bowie tonight.” – “I wasn’t gonna anyway…Iggy?” – “But wea jus gonna hea that shit in Trainspottin’.” – “Yah, so? It’ll put us in the mood.” – “Put us in the mood? What ah you, off ya rocka babe? I got the mood right hea.” – “Come on! We might not even watch the movie an’ you know it!” – “Yah, fine, I’m just givin’ you a hahd time. I like Iggy.” – “I know you do, mothafucka!” – “Hey, is that any way to speak tuh ya man ova hea?”

He slaps her ass. She squeals. “Siddown,” he says. “The music!” she stamps her foot. He sighs. She slips a record out of its sleeve, places it on the turntable, sets the needle, presses Start. “I Wanna Be Your Dog” begins. "Weeee!" she shrieks, twisting her hips and playing air-guitar to the first chords of the song. He smiles back at her. As the drums come in, she plops herself down on the mattress and rolls up her left sleeve. Grabs the glass bottle filled with alcohol, pours some onto a cotton ball and wipes the crook of her arm clean. “Okay, do it for me,” she says. “Please?”

Everything tightens. Tension builds. She growls, Fuck you Fuck you Fuck you, as is her custom. With her right hand, she digs her nails into the flesh of her stomach. She grits her teeth and holds her breath. Nothing in the world moves. Her eyes are fixated on the tiny barrel. Finally, on the third try, a red swirl bursts through the golden brown and she Thanks God. “Loosen the belt, baby,” he tells her. “I don’t want ya ahms lookin’ like mine.” She does what he says. He withdraws the spike. She exhales, a colossal wave mounting up her spine, crashing over her head, drowning the whole room. Everything is warm. She shudders and a deep groan escapes her lips. She leans, falls forward to kiss him for what seems like three lifetimes.

Later, he will lie on his back croaking “that’s – like – hypnotizin’…chickens” over and over through the puffs of smoke he propels to the ceiling. “Let’s go to Scotland someday,” she will murmur from the mattress. “We’ve been trainspottin’ a long time now,” will be his response.


I stop the music as I approach the office of Scottish Literature. Check my phone to discover I am actually a bit early for my tutorial. Must have been walking fast. A hunched elderly man shuffles out of the building and lights a cigarette. He coughs. I cough. After considering the prospect of my own tobacco, I decide to inhale his smoke for a minute instead. I think about Henry James’s “Art of Fiction” and scan the cobblestone street of academic buildings, academic people. My eyes search for the girl I see every Wednesday morning. Her short brown hair always lies so neatly on her head. There she is. Exiting the building across the street. Cheeks pink before her face even feels the wind. She lights a cigarette with those fingerless gloves of lace. A grin creeps onto my face. I turn around, direct the grin at the old man, and make my way up the stone spiral staircase to room 201. Behind the door, a doctor of literature awaits my thoughts. I enter.

Introductions.

The Biography of Breena Aideen Davies (formerly Breena Lockett) coming soon.

Two Poems & Six Months

i would try his wood
to see if he could balance
my bold young stare
red dress and hair

with his mad sense of
our boiling blood
said,

“no we will never sleep
only at death
let us drive hard
make music
think surreal
dream glorious
know rhythm
perform more art
hear a full symphony
and after
have sex.

do you out here in the open.

stroke, dazzle, storm,
create colors and
capture fall with you.”

he was always like a song for me after that.

---

my big cat purrs, “I’m in love with your nerves.”
outside our window, the Sun blooms Orange,
and, playfully, my cat,
my Lion,
bites my lip.
his purr now a low growl and I –
sent high on the crest of this wave,
surging forward, rising up,
flowing onward, and churning within –
I, I
I
I bite back.
the Sun spills over our bed
and the gold in his eyes,
tiny blazing mirrors of the blooming Orange,
brings my breath hard over.
The Orange, whose peels curving backward send showers
of glorious luster across our faces,
sings triumphant and celebrates,
dancing salacious rumba to the rhythm of our breathing.

I can feel the embers burning now,
the slow twist of smoke
as it reaches up,
stretching, and spiraling
outward.
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
twigs and branches glow.
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
leaves burst into flames.
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
wood begins whistling.
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
this is breakfast, baby.
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
lips locked together,
now I am purring.
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
he smiles.
Snap…
Crackle…
Pop!

your fingers are skilled magicians,
and you play me like an instrument,
so I shall sing mystical melodies
just for you.

when we make love it is pure, magnificent poetry.
Supreme, Supreme,
Supreme.