Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Oedipus Wrecks

It is a huge pleasure to announce the arrival of the latest edition of Games Perverts Play. The theme this time is Oedipus Wrecks. Family and childhood are universal, and universally complex. I knew our writers would come up with something to meet the subject matter and they did.

I have put Marc Nash  ‘s new piece next to an essay by The Daddy of family romance, Sigmund Freud. Because I think Siggy would appreciate Marc’s take on that age-old dilemma parents have about talking to their kids about sex. And because there is something in the density and ‘clinical’ precision of both writers that is worth comparing.

I am delighted to be publishing two pieces of work by the inimitable Slava  Mogutin, who tells of childhood as trauma, and as sexual awakening. And as history on a small or larger scale.

New to GPP, bringing some poignant poems to shift the tone, are Bruce Coker and Danni Antagonist. And Christopher Herz hints at  family problems in an extract from his novel Pharmacology.

Not content with writing a short piece of work, the unstoppable Magda Sullivan has given us an extract of a novel that just flowed out of her, when she was given this theme to get her head round. I can’t wait to read the whole thing judging by this teaser.

What to say about Penny Goring ‘s contribution? It’s another tour de force from one of our (our meaning the world’s) most original voices at the moment.

As for me, unlike the other writers featured here, I was overwhelmed and defeated by the enormity of the subject I chose this time. Maybe I used up all my oedipal energy in my debut novella, Scribbling On Foucault’s Walls, and so I give an extract of that.

They do indeed fuck you up, your mum and dad. But judging from  Oedipus Wrecks, they also provide perverse writers with a hell of a lot of good material.

A special mention goes to Dan Holloway for continuing to bring brilliant writers to my attention.

Your editor,

Quiet Riot Girl


The Triumph of the Family By Slava Mogutin

this dreadful gray constancy

replaces for me today all colors

green blue red—what other ones are there?

i don’t find a place for me here don’t know where to sit

what to drink and to eat


was it long ago that daddy amused himself with his sonny?

the triumph of the family happened

mother was entertaining herself with the daughter

opening her mouth in the vicinity of hers


saliva poured slowly from here into there

never before two related bodies

were as close as then

green blue red

gray constancy


the identical you will never write like the different one

you were gone gone and the heart was beating

into the armpit like an exploded point

here is this one and here’s another one completely different

you are getting used to signs of differentiation silly

are you getting completely assimilated?


while father was amusing himself

mother was entertaining herself

the triumph of the family happened

green blue red


the russian word for “family” comes from the word for “pig”


1990, Moscow

Translated from the Russian by Vitaly Chernetsky

Guitar by Bruce Coker


I took my father’s guitar from the wall

where it had always brooded;

cradled the soot-black wood, hewn

from an oak that lost heart and died;

struck life into the brutal piano-wire

strings that stung my plump,

pink-fleshed fingers as I

strummed a fragile minor chord.


I picked a trembling, defiant arpeggio

that somehow scaled a forbidding rise.

The instrument opened its throat, swallowed once,

and sang again its unforgiving songs.

The booming bass crowed of Jay and his Rooks,

as sharpened accidentals, lacking sustain,

faded unresolved into the diminishing history

of a foreigner at home, a stranger to me.


It sang of piano-key teeth cracking

a syncopated smile, chewing

on a chicken-town sandwich. My father,

raising his ragged red flag over a broken castle;

laughing, uncomprehending,

at green Picasso beads. My father,

with my mother’s friends; slaking his thirst

with stagnant water,

and singing only of the past.


Curious Family By Slava Mogutin

In a tiny one-bedroom apartment there lived in misery one family. This family was far from ordinary: both father, mother, and daughter were all boys, and all of them were tough cookies. The boy-father would often send the boy-daughter to get salt: “My dear daughter, go get some salt from the third shelf!”

“But daddy,” the boy-daughter would say, “I have already gone twice to get salt today.” “And you will do so even three times if your father tells you to!” the father would say, irritated. And the obedient boy-daughter would get up on the stool trying to reach the salt. The boy-father and the boy-mother would then run up to the stool and kick it from under the boy-daughter’s feet and start beating her up, screaming, “You damn boy! We’ll tear your balls off!”

They beat her up frequently and brutally, because the daughter was a boy, and also because, due to the fact that the entire family was of the same gender, the government wouldn’t give them a new two-room apartment. But one fine day the boy-daughter realized she was a goose and flew away. It was right on time, because otherwise she would have been simply thrown out of the thirteenth floor window, where the poor family was residing.

1989, Moscow
Translated from the Russian by Vitaly Chernetsky

All rights reserved © Slava Mogutin, 2012

Embrace By Danni Antagonist

Eyes for the whole world, your mother’s every fear.

She sighs, and holds you near,

Would hold you closer if she could.

But you struggle as these reins embrace your burgeoning zeal

Blank canvas, clean slate, yearning for Experience’s seal.


You stretch for the out-of-sight and out of reach.

Pioneering ever outwards like spilt milk.

When the border from mischief into malevolence is breached

Swiftly forgiven is this face of spun silk.


But relentless years advance

And bombard your eager eyes

With experience.

Hardening the shell

And crossing it with lines.


Until you first smell your own sweat,

First puncture the skin,

First taste your own blood.

Toil dirty days, play filthy nights

And wash off the mud.

Faith’s broken and repaired,

Naïveté impaired

Never quite worn away.

Old enough to smoke, old enough to vote

Old enough to make your own mistakes.


Then you learn you’ll never be a rock star,

Not quite the Messiah,

And the best laid plans turn to dust.

And that you learn your lessons too late

But learn them you must.

Like how to listen to your gut,

When to trust your own instincts

And when to ignore advice.

And to break the rules sometimes,

That nothing is sacred,

And that every win has its price.


You step into the unknown less often these days

Than your younger self would.

You are still your mother’s every fear,

She will always clutch you near,

Closer if she could.


From Empty Threats (c) 2012

Danni Antagonist


This is the fourth edition of Games Perverts Play.


I was a bit anxious about this one, because it is such an obvious concept in a way. Isn’t all ‘perverted’ sex and sexuality dirty? I thought it might be a bit ‘weak’ as a theme. But thanks to some talented writers with very dirty minds, it’s amazing.

Dirt includes some aspects of sex that have been considered ‘dirty’ for centuries. The inimitable  Jonathan Kemp  and  Slava Mogutin link homosexuality to sadomasochism and uncover the complex dirt within.

Some of the writers have taken the word quite literally:Sarah Clare Conlon ‘s ‘Dirty Books’ are actually in need of a good clean. And the extract I chose from  Richard Dyer ‘s book White, looks at how whiteness is presented as ‘pure’ in society.


Regular brilliant contributors to GPP,   Penny Goring and Marc Nash   do dirty things with words. Language is the focus of their perversion in many ways.

Magda Sullivan and Dan Holloway leave us wondering if dirt is actually sinister.

And finally I am delighted to introduce a new writer to GPP, Betty Herbert. She shows how dirty talk can be quite romantic.

Photos by Bruce La Bruce, Robert Mapplethorpe,  Pippilotti Rist, Fenner Pearson, @Thewinepoet,  and a mystery photographer (and others).
Your puritanical editor, Quiet Riot Girl (It’s a Dirty Job, but somebody’s got to do it ).

Paradise Fossils Are Free


knows a girl red fog rose

butter dishy spider sweet

when she smile long bunch wilt

when she dance peach leaf streak

when she ride narcissus fly

spider wishy butter treat

leaves a trail of tulip fire



I love flowers and flames and insect blight

that’s what she said on her last night

is that what dirt feels like

egg worm belly frog drop

spread her stubby little legs

pull tubers and stones from her belly

with the crown of the lily exposed

belly-white dirt in the dark



What I don’t understand is in reality how I’m no longer actually much more appreciated than I might be right now, I am so, I am so, elegant, you know


I am the only lover you can fuck in hell


I am bringing a silver teapot to your loaded table. You are sat alone, looking up from your newspaper as I swoosh-swish my silk-encased thighs. Standing by your elbow, I pour, leaning forwards acceptably to you. Shifting to a low slouch, you slide your left hand beneath my skirt, lingering on my stocking-tops, the cold bloodstone ring glancing my skin, and the starched bow of my apron, tied tight around my tiny waist, trembles.


lover you can fuck


Your heavy gold cuff-link upsets the sugar bowl. Cascades of finest sparkle sugar rush hissing to the floor. Holding the feather duster, lifting the white damask, I go crawling under the table.


you can fuck me


It is dark and cramped down there. Your knee nudges my head. I twist my upper body to face your splayed crotch, place my hand on the bulge area. You immediately get harder. I carefully lower your chrome zip, lift the thick of your cock, tight circle my fingers, tease the bare dome with my feathers. To remind ourselves of why we are here. To keep ourselves on the up. To not fall asleep, face first in the marmalade, over breakfast. My kiss slips wetly when I slide my lips over your cock, licking it with my tongue, firm or sloppy, hand squeezing up-down the stiffness, my fingertips gentling to cup your soft balls, almost helpless.


I hear the stirring of your teaspoon and the buzzing of your mobile ‘phone.


I open wider, and take the whole length of your cock to the back of my throat, to attraction your heart and soul. We go in-out-in-out in the thrusting position, until you are lurching ecstatic, spurting your frozen spunk in my mouth. I swirl it and swallow, tastes like angry afternoons, and I tuck you away, wiping my lips on your slacks with the knife-sharp creases.


fuck me in hell


When I get out from below, I stance my waif-legs either side of your chair. All this time and you haven’t really moved much. I swing you backwards and lower my chuff to your mouth. You look silly wearing my old-style fuzz as a tash-piece, I’m smirking as I look down, and meeting your eyes, we are laughing. Holding me by the waist, you tumble me onto the carpet, and we roll over and over in each others arms, like we used to.


fuck me in your own hell


I am picking myself up, brushing the silverware and porcelain aside, and bending across the width of the table. Standing close behind me, you spread my legs. I am luscious, with the crown of the lily exposed.


All I can hear is the breathing. All I can smell is me. All I can see is the fog.


Lay your index finger the lengthwise along my swollen red lips, keep it still for 2 minutes – that is a long time – now flex the tip, slip it in.


the only lover you can fuck in hell


You slice the edge of your hand down my soaking hot gash, all I can feel is the thrilling. You shove four cold fingers in to my mouth, all I can taste is the losing. You thrust your cold cock deep inside my hot stash, your eyes pop all shiny like your shoes do, the way you fuck suffocates time. You are in me right up to my nipples, if I were intact you would break me, my clit is almost too sweetly, sweat ready skin slush careens. I am slick engorged flesh pulsing throb red, the size of a planet in orbit. I am the actual solar flare of the moment, possessing the hot red fog, in case God truly exists –


I go up in flames on the end of your cock


You are fucking a pile of hot ashes


That’s how you like it


Heaped and weeping



foxes turn to stone in the alley

how does real love happen

pigeons drop from the sky

how does real love happen

oiled in irrational circles

all the time, care for it, up



The stars are opening their mouths really wide and they’re screaming out loud

he can see their teeth shining white light

the sky rips in half, right down the middle, and an avalanche of dirt pours out

dirt clouds gather, the stars move closer, screaming dirty words


she opens her mouth really wide, she wants you to climb inside


all he can see is dirt

this dirt survived the largest air-raids and most terrible plagues

he walks on the dirt, unhampered by history

dirt past, dirt future, it’s all the same fucking dirt


she rolls over and shows you her arsehole, she wants you to squeeze yourself out


he works in the dirt, heaving the dirt over his head, blinking when the dirt rains down on him. He shovels the dirt and he mutters and then he crawls all over the dirt, panting like a dog


climb to the top of that dirt mountain

egg worm belly frog drop

spread your stubby little legs

pull tubers and stones from your belly

your dirt is her dirt and her dirt is yours

show her the promise of dirt


he scoops a handful of dirt and he massages himself generously, seeking the release he likes

he rolls over, mooing and bleating, until dirt spills, belly-white dirt in the dark


The stars hang from their tin trapezes, twirling upside down, baring shiny teeth, leaking belly-white tears – 50 years, 50,000 years – the tears shed over dirt


he claws at the bosom of the dirt, burrowing the bulk of his whole body inside and under her soft damp dirt – head down, determined, tunnelling to her heavy core


her face is the dirt and her tongue is a pendulous dirt song


he carves out a hollow with his bare hands and he snuffles and snuggles, a rootling runt, blind in her bowels of dirt

there is no light in the dirt, only glory, and no space, only heat

and the soothing in-out of her breathing

buried alive, he thinks about types of dirt:

bible dirt . dumb dirt . dog dirt

shame dirt . soul dirt . brain dirt

dead . disturbing . dirt

proportions of dirt, dirt perspective

dirt in its manifestations

dirt dimension, dirt girl


she keeps eel worms in her hillocks, that’s why she moves so jelly flesh dirt


he discovers catacombs in the deepest dirt down inside the dirt girl, and he uncovers 9 trap-doors, where he can peek out, throwing dirty looks – when a dirt dude stumbles past he coerces him by the goolies, drags him to her dark domain, and she entertains and consoles them with dirt


this community of dirt dudes thrive in her mountains of dirt

they believe that if you are feeling unhappy dirt will help make you glad again

the dudes of dirt ride big dirt bikes, tell dirty jokes, die dirty deaths

kissing dirt

dirt to dirt

under the dangerous stars

dig it



leave your layered long cold charms

show her how you growth spurt

any time after petals fall

show her the promise of dirt

on blasted fruit

on killing grass

on pink grubs, waxing



It  might be said    slug belly hates embrace

here and there were      wiggle juice loves caress

let me remember      maggot bug jelly hates warm

let it go on      cold eel belly loves suck

tell your children      bad storm poppy hates stink

he formed wild theories      egg bruised bug loves small

here she began      maggot juice sticky hates late

behind the circle      egg worm slug loves free

he never understood      eel bug jelly hates taste

but she wanted it show me the dirt

he grew to believe some kind of dirt



You are soft and young and your teeth rival the shiny white teeth of the stars

but one night they will swoop down from the sky and bite off your head

the dirt of you will shoot from your neck stump to explode in the dark

and you’ll fail

like fireworks




flesh flame flowers

flesh flame flowers

paradise fossils are free