Brighton Swim

by brightonsauce

Wrote a tribute piece after the narration event in Clapham.  Made some wonderful friends – but my written piece is ropey, so…so I’m gonna burn it, smoking, watch its flight through window.  For your information there’s pretty pics on the Open Pen Twitter account.  I’ll be SHrek  in the back row, sun-light on my face, highlighted moron, mmm.

Got to thinking about John and those days before the farm when I lived on a bicycle, and swimming, miss my swimming.  Here’s an old John piece…a little up-dated x

[sense bumps, top half]

Too Excited in Brighton.

Papa Smurf is due round my place in twenty minutes, says he will run me down the beach.

‘Fetch, Matthew.’

‘Heh heh heh, John John John.’

‘I like you Mat.’

‘I like you John, but have got no money.’

‘I like you Mat, because, ha ha ha, because you’re so bloody weird.’

‘Thank you, daddy.’

Already he has telephoned.  He shall arrive in his Daimler.

#

‘Brought the Jag, I see, hee hee, hee hee hee hee.’

‘Boy. It is a Daimler.’

Last time, this, this Captain Spitfire, took me down the pub.

‘A bijou number, in Patcham,’ he said.

I imagined oak beams, bitter.  What I received was a Harvester.

‘Marvellous place.  You can have the fish cake, or chicken nuggets, my boy.’

But today, seated in his car, I shall not open the window.  I understand motor issews.  He has air-conditioning, parks the car close to our beach.  Not a beach – Brighton beach.  Regency flats line strand for a mile.  Looking back upon these flats, we choose our flats.

‘I’ll have one of those: two bedrooms, and a balcony.  Shall suit me fine,’ he says.

‘Oh not for me.  I like 1930s apartments; what style in my tap dancing shoes. We dress for dinner.’

‘Low ceilings?’

‘Yes, I suppose so, John.’

The path runs forever along the South Coast.  The city beach -though not quite Brighton central beach – that sits a flick of the head back long the way.  Hove is more sedate, and shabby.  I might say refined but maybe I cannot.

‘The plan John is…we’ll walk for a while.  When we have run out of things to say we will turn around and walk back.’

‘Stroll here a moment.  A whiff of wind and that skirt shall flick up like a bride’s nightie.’

‘What?  Oh yes, mind her pushchair.’

Five bare-chested men jog toward us.

‘Wankers.’

‘Wankers.’

The sun shines, there is even a ripple of surf upon pebbles.  People swim like…we’re on holiday – somewhere else.

I say, ‘it is like France, people sunbathing and…’

‘Hang on, pause upon the railings; down the front, topless twelve o’clock.’

‘Oh yes, long distance..woman.’

‘Two of them.’

‘Well, of course.’

‘Her friend, you fool.’

‘I’m going to swim – there,’ I say.

We stumble on to pebbles.  I strip in front of the old man.

‘I’ll swim to the buoy, then I’ll return.’

‘I thought you might.’

Lounging on the stones, we throw pebbles and groucho tells me his life story:

‘Seventy years and I say sixty-five.  Roll lucky – there’s twenty years in me to play. What I needs a fine widow to pay for the holidays.’

‘But, way back?’

‘You know London, Aldwych?  A flat with my mother, Drury Lane and the market traders, “have a cauliflower,” they’d say all cockney fellows.  Met a girl, she took me to Belfast.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘1965, her father’s the Orange Order superintendent.  “You dig with the right foot?” he says.’

‘What.’

‘Well, I did not.  I was a Catholic laddie.  The Dublin orphanage?’

‘But, Drury Lane?’

‘Before that, you doodlebug.’

‘Got it.  Hey J, that’s gotta be rough.  A Catholic boy with a pregnant Protestant lady.  Does he dig with the right foot?’

‘I dug with the wrong foot.’

‘He’s not right, the boy, digs with the wrong foot.’

‘Exactly.’

Post Chap   

[Charles Bukowski tribute, one failed submission AND rather coarse in the narrative of things.  When I sent it to the sub, Bukowski character said ‘post man’ rather than ‘mail man,’ tch tch, a dreadful translation error, good in parts…but sub was disappointed  in me, I was disappointed in me.                              

After thirty-one years as a mail-man I decided to pen my fucking memoirs, and hey, I don’t care what you fucks say about me. I am the man your mommas warned you about, eh eh eh, eh, eh?

I lit a cigarette, lay down on the bed. TV flickered with the Cheerios, Walmart, Tootsie Pop commercials. Then I saw my candy. She gave it up, all kinds of good teeth on the screen. A good body, gave me a good feeling at the weather channel. Sort of a fragrance, them potatoes pushed up and squeezed into the continental land mass. I groaned, ‘titties,’ I said to no-one in particular, unzipped it, wood[y], gripped it, beat my meat, wood-chopper through the breeze, pow wow, and the aftershave stuck up my ass from before. I forgot about the bottle.

‘Jezus cheek, it fucking stinged my crack, that whore,’ I said, ‘some prick should make the bed.’

Later, my bitch came home. I sent her get me whiskey and Salisbury steak for a griddle. I drank the fucking whiskey, chewed meat and we fucked all over the floor, over the stool, on my dirty sneakers, the bathroom lino, all over walls I fucked her and fell asleep in the hall.

The next day new lady bunny came by, see me about my publications. I fucked her, fucked her sister in the car outside. I drank whiskey at the table of the lounge, swilled that taste in my mouth of pussy. Thought about it some more and wrote a good poem.

Being a mail-man ain’t easy, since you worms have enquired –there is the dogs, see, and then there is the broads. One day I was walking, whistled with my post bag when this butter – broadway steps out to the porch,

‘Got me a letter for me, mister postman?’ she said it and wore that negligee, cuting, down below the knee at least, and dropped it round her tootsies and I, like a dog of war got down on the floor, in the shade licked tootsies, ten tootsies, each one suckled in my lips. My beard dribbled in man dribble. I said,

‘Do you want your fucking letters, lady?’

‘I want a package,’ she said.

‘I got a package for you, baby.’

‘I bet you have, mail boy. I’m gonna open your package,’ she said, ‘then I’m gonna flick every folio into your funny little face.’

‘What are you talking about, you crank,’ I said, ‘get inside, get me whiskey.’

No waiting for a bedroom date, I stepped the shitty kitchen, threw my uniform into her pet dog’s face. That fucking dog ate my uniform. I had a whole neighbourhood to deliver letters and I got me no clothes on.

‘I got no whiskey neither, honey,’ she said, this hot hochito down below, I have explained, she’s a shuffler. All minxed up in heat she was, and lingered by the refrigerator door.

‘Fuck it, I’ll do the letters,’ I said, and was walking with my sack of letters over my white skin a peeling.  Man, in the sweltering heat of Fran Sandingo.

Anyway, I got the letters done and went home, see my real fox babe funny fucks two electricians on my sofa.

‘Cut the fuck,’ I said, and holy crap grabbed those motherfuckers by their cocks, slung ‘em both out of the window. I broke the window again.

‘You idiot,’ said Michelle – she is my number one fanny. ‘Last time it was the radio. Why you throw my cocks out the window?’

[please see A Radio with Guts by Charles Bukowski, Post Office by Charles Bukowski]

Advertisements