Jenni Fagan

 

Jenni Fagan is a Scottish writer currently based in London. Her poetry collection Urchin Belle is out now on Blackheath Books. She has been published widely online and in litzines. She was born in an asylum in 77 and believes it set the tone. Jenni is currently collating her next collection and has just finished writing her novel The Panopticon.

 

Links to Jenni Fagan's Work:

 Urchin Belle on Blackheath Books

Interview at 3 AM

Tate Modern

Beat the Dust

3 AM

Serendipidity

Pulp.net

 

 

Councillor

 

 

He has a small apologetic cock

epileptic

spasmodic

crying it's glue,

she doesn't care

she hates fucking anyway.

 

He jabs it in her throat

shoves an grunts an sniffs,

turns her over, thumbs

grip in anger

purple blooms mottle 

over yellow blues.

 

The snap of rubber,

cars beep beep

headlights slink

along the walls,

white hungry eyes,

looking.

 

Fists clench.

 

Pound pound pound,

tick one minute

tick two,

muscles shudder

release,

condom slumps 

to the side.

 

His trousers hunch

on the chair

his shirt

spreads its arms wide,

his pointy shoes

say 'we are leather,

we do the Times 

cryptic crossword.'

 

She doesn't fuckin' care

if he does Tim, Tom and Tit

she'll take every last note he has.

---

 

No Stars Pension in Downtown Cairo

 

 

The cat yowls at us,

hackles

like a matted

fur collar coat.

 

It will die in this heat.

 

Room 453 is ours,

an off green,

shower cubicle in the corner

curtained by lace

that once was white.

 

Someone has drawn

a heart, in the dirt on the wall.

 

Tinfoil holds the air conditioner

together, I lay on the bed

think of heroin

an' cerise,

an angel with dirty feet

in the photograph you take.

 

Keys in art deco wardrobes

wear dust

an inch thick.

 

Higher still a gap 

gapes into a grin

as I sleep,

down scurry scarab beetles

blues an' greens,

through bare

floorboards,

out cracks in the walls.

 

Cairo has seen this before.

 

They are here for you and I,

come to pick our bones

clean

of a love

we will soon

no longer know.

---

 

Abstruse

 

The guns

are too shiny.

We'll melt em

in the microwave.

 

I'm on the loo

skinning up

coming down.

 

Your breasts

pale in the bath,

you blow smoke rings

underwater, 'D'ye hink

they took ma looks?' 

you echo.

 

I lick the fag,

rip an' lie

to your dropped smile.

 

You got off the game

today

sweet sixteen,

a neophyte.

 

My purple eyes

swollen shut

blissfully

blind.

 

Locks of hair

fall on lino

an' the buzz

of the blades,

your newly 

shaven head.

 

Empress

of future castle

king, pierce my skin

again

with your instinct.

---

 

Shit Ma Ru

 

Murker Lurky's 

at the bus stop

wearin' nuhin'

but Voodoo Dolly-Anna's 

scanties

he's singin'

'la la la la la la la la'

throwin' all the moves

like a bitch

on ketamine.

 

Wendy tongues

the light lush

like a hot rod baby,

all the boys

sigh.

 

'To the spaceship James,

I'm late for jail,

or jus' court

let's be hopeful.

 

What's that you say?

Fourteen's an earner?

 

True, but not for you, 

I'd be my own boss

whips

an' chains

an' things, what you smiling at?

Prick.

 

Gotta float

whip you later

my poor

pathetic

Bolivian King.'