I didn’t participate in NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) last year. Possibly out of laziness. Possibly out of self-doubt.
This year, I’m still lazy and full of self-doubt but I’m going to give it a crack anyway. April is the month to clear out the bottom drawer, get some air through dusty works and generally get the poetic muscles moving again.
Having said that, my kick off work is not one I wrote today.
This is a piece I wrote recently as a performance piece. The gig theme was “horror films”. I was given Hitchcock’s classic Psycho.
This is my response.
A response to Alfred Hitchcock’s film “Psycho”
It was hers.
The night was hers.
Fender flying, road singing baritone, dashboard light glowing plutonium dreams, WKBV the smooth sounds of Fairvale blasting Eddie Cochrane, while the power of twelve cylinders hurtles her along a trajectory marked “fuck you”.
The vibration of rubber on tarmac, doing it to her better than any screw she’s ever had. Christ! This must be what men feel most of the time.
It was hers. The night.
Neon flickering, sticky-breast, fan-humming. Mosquito-buzz, it’s Shelby Jones with you from midnight till dawn, and now we’ve got Johnny Ray singing for all you lovers out there. She was a lover; a bad-girl; a mistress; a whore. She never wanted to be a wife. She liked screwing too much for that.
She grabbed it, this night that was hers.
Radio blaring, clothes shedding, self-touching, beer glugging, peeling layers of office girl filth, seeking absolution under dribbling hot water, sticky cold shower-curtain curling around her arse, her sublime come and get me arse. Why lock that away in a pair of Goretex pants and an apron?
He’s had her in a thousand motels before. But this time, the night was hers.
Delicious fingering, lip parting, wetness dribbling, nipple hardening, warmth flowing, mouth opening, curtain pulling, hand reaching, final ecstasy
She would join all the other bad girls. All the motel, back-seat, parking-lot, cock-sucking, bra unclasping, erection mounting, home-wrecking, no better than they ought to be, whores.
They were all asking for it.
They all got it.
But the night was theirs for one shining moment.
Until he: the named one; the one who will live in infamy; the star; the fucking big-shot, came along with his hang-ups and his fear of women, and his absent father and his cruel mother and his psychopathic impotent dick. And took credit for the night. The one that had been hers.
While she is left to fall back into the earth. Taking her cheap perfume and her lack of self-respect with her.
But she will not become one of the missing missing.
Because I will stand witness to her demise. To my own. To those of all my bad, bad sisters.
Her name is Marion Crane.
And that night was hers.