Thursday, May 19, 2005


It is not your tired, your hungry or your weak we want. Give the shite lot to the others.

It is not your brainless existence of pub crawls in pink polyester, scuffing around in cheap pointed shoes, shuffling our sagging flesh to brainless bopping tunes.

No sir. For us, this will not do.

WE WANT to tingle. we want to hear what you are thinking. we want to see the dark centre of your eyes widen across the smoky room. we want you to let us in to the age of desire pirated by sound and painful thoughts.

WE WONT BITE YOU too hard. we will nibble just below the nape in your most pleasurable spot. we want to turn you on so that all is revealed. even the bile that the others hide beneath a flattering floral pattern.

we love you for your bile. we love you for your mistakes and your embarassment. because that is where all the delicious thick nectar lives. a nectar we are training to harvest like beeeees from the unwilling human flower.

you will learn to love us. to trust that even though we make your head hurt and your cheeks sore from sucking, it will all be worth it in the end. you will arise from the pavement wiser, surprisingly happy as you brush the mud from your knees, pick the hedge sticks from your hair, shower, and return for a few hours to mingling in normal society.

your time in normal society circles is limited now. you are not the same.

there is bile and it is dribbling.
and it is beautiful.

dripping like nectar and candy, joyful to wallow in like a sickly sticky pool of clinging pleasures.
we love you for your bile.
we will take the bile you shower upon us, scrape up from the pavements the small piles of it that you leave festering in sunlight.
we will refuse to scent it with roses and marjoram, but dribble it over fields of rapeseed and set you loose in them to frolic. there you will get neckfulls of bile.
all the way up.
and it will tickle the bottom of your nose in a scent, half erotic seduction, half the encrustations clinging just beneath the toilet ring.
and you will love it.

this is the story of the bile. it is not always a happy tale, it is not clouds and fluffiness to spring from. it is not the first scents of spring or daisies or muffins, not shiny sparkly candy wrappers tied to your hair.

this is the bile and it is rank.
and it is beautiful.

the bile exists to plunge your hand deep inside and pull out a fistful of gooey gooey goodness. minds like to wallow around in the goodness. there are no sharp edges in the bile, no definites, just a mushy seeping world of goo that oozes and squelches into corners, big fat luscious droplets spreading slowly across the planes of non-bile. a sticky fuzzy coating, like old microwaves with honey spilt across the bottom left to rot in storage, like the top shelf in the kitchen where nothing is stored but a film of tackiness and dust. sticky dust.


Do you recognise them? the small piles festering and turning brown and smoldering under the hot sun?

Embrace them. Plunge your hand in deep because they belong to you. They are your bile.

For years they have been following you down the street on a string and stinking. they are your mistakes and embarrassment.

For years you have tried to mask that stench as it dribbles from your most pleasurable spots. Coating them with a film that cannot be scrubbed away.

the time has come for us to reveal.
We love bile
we love you.

we are attracted by a delicious thick nectar lives in the unwilling human flower.we are training. to harvest it like beeeees.

You must pirate irate desire and think painful thoughts.
YOU MUST hear the dark centre.
YOU MUST widen.
You must set it free in fields of rapeseed

in your nose is a scent of excrement, erection, erotic encrustations, and so we know you will love it. You are one of us.

you will learn to trust that even though your head hurts and your cheeks are sore, but you must keep sucking.

We command you to rise from the pavement. brush the mud from your knees and the hedge from your hair. return to normal society.

your time is limited, you are not the same.


It’s time to stop pretending that certain things aren’t there.
We’re all aware of the small piles festering, turning brown
and smoldering under the heat of the summer sun.

For years they have been following you down the street on a string and stinking.
They are your mistakes and embarrassment.

You felt the heat on your heels as you stumbled through pubs and ascendant shops. For years you flinched each time the piles skidded to a halt outside a church and left a sweaty stain. You tried to mask that stench as it dribbled from your most pleasurable spots at dinner parties. Why, what's that hiding under your napkin? Whatever is that coating the plates and forks with a film that the chipper hostess could not scrub away.
Who me?
Stain the sidewalk?
Do not blame the humble hounds. Do not play the proud citizen, the mayor or the virgin mother…
You convince no one by hiding your guilty eyes behind the gossip column.
You are too old.
The charming young lie has died
for your stinking sins.

We recommend you embrace them. Plunge your hand in deep and confess the piles are your own bile.

Its time to befriend fear and embarassment. Bring the bile round to OURS for dinner. We shall crank up the phonograph, don our lobster bibs and slice it thick upon the guests plates.
Mashed it neatly with a fork,
Let us sup upon sin and self-loathing!

Do you like the taste? Do you like our company?
Among us you will not find carpools and cardigans.
We love you and the strings of spinach between your teeth.
The time has come for us to reveal...
WE love bile
we love you.

To us, bile is a thick delicious nectar that the unwilling human flower secretes.
It is this nectar that attracts us to you.
We are training.
To harvest it like beeeees.

Sucking is the secret.
You mustn't be afraid of a little dirt or hair
or put off by the funky odour of human condition.
You must pirate irate desire and think painful thoughts.
YOU MUST hear the dark inky centre.
YOU MUST widen as you suck.
You must set it free in fields of raped seed

As you home in, your nose is filled with a scent of excrement,
A memory of erection,
A host of erotic encrustations.

Your time is limited,
you are not the same.

You will learn to trust us and obey when we command you to rise from the pavement.
Brush the mud from your knees and the hedge from your hair.
Do not attempt to return to normal society.
You are one of us now.

Even though your head hurts
and your cheeks are sore,
you must keep sucking.


we would like to encourage your bile. tickle you under the chin with biley fingers until you open your mouth and let the big wet fish of a thought spew out and onto the table with a flolopping shudder, slipslapping its tail in the canapés. we love the scent of your bile. for we are the bile nectar harvesters.

we would like to suckle the bile from your skin. slide our tongues down your neck an inhale bitter mouthfuls of biley goodness. we would leave big biley hickeys. people would look at you in the street with disdain. no longer locked up inside, the bile would be tattooed all over your skin in an erotic display of bile-bruised joy.

your foundation couldn’t cover the bile hickey.
your sister suggests toothpaste but all that it does
is make you smell of peppermint
and dentists

the bile that you have locked away for years would like to be set free. a big bile kite trailing through the sky behind you as you trot down the street. it would tangle in the clouds and stain them with big rusty blotches, an alcoholic’s ruddy skin. it would dip and splatch upon the pavement, big piles of gloopy bile that smell like warm skin and septic tanks. you take pleasure in your bile, however hard you try not to. it is the comforting smell of your own farts beneath the duvet. it is the flecks of scab encrusting under your nail when you scratch an insect bite. it is underwear that has been left on the carpet for a week, but it is your underwear and the stains are justified.

we say: revel in the bile.
we say: send us your bile.

bile does not package well. it is too moist. trying to tie up a bile package and cram it through a letterbox is like trying to decide whether toothpaste is solid or liquid. it is oozy. there are holes that the bile seeps through. soon all you have left is biley hands and a soggy envelope. a puddle round your feet that schoolchildren would point at and giggle. but there are no schoolchildren in your house, where you package your bile. the young and the innocent are terrified of bile. they are fools. you understand the bile, and eventually you shall come to love it. then you will know the love of god.

people say that god is in the details. these people are idiots. god is in the bile.
and in the fishes on our shoulders,
whispering fishy bile words in our ears.

there are people somewhere sometime who work as professional bile packers. they could teach you a lot. if you wanted to learn.

you could take on a fine bile art of your own. you could become a bile gardener. cultivate great flowerbeds of bile. it is a persistent crop, unharmed by neglect or frost. the bile grows strong, crawling up housesides and penetrating through cracks like the voice of a telemarketer when you’re in the bath. at first you are angry.
then you begin a conversation with the bile.
you wonder if it is wearing crotchless underwear.
you wake up in the morning and the bile is gone, leaving only a damp sheet stain in its wake. a feeling of nausea and loneliness in your gut.
bileless breakfast for one.
toothpaste rubbed on your neck.

the bile may be rank,
but the bile is company.


Blogger Mateo said...

i <3 the bile

the bile <3s you

bile bile bile!!!

10:02 AM  

Post a Comment

<< Home