FOUR WORKS
BY GAVIN SALISBURY
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UNDER THE SKIN
I have these fat deposits, you see. That's what my doctor said they are. Just under the skin. There are small ones on the joints of all my fingers: soft little lumps which are thrown into relief when I make a fist. I don't mind those. They're a talking point.
But there's this angry one too - right in the middle of my chest above my nipples. I can't remember when it first appeared. Maybe around puberty. It was tiny at first: a pimple small enough to ignore. Always red, though. Inflamed.
It has grown over the years, and now has two distinct peaks, side by side. It is hard, and its surface is taut and shiny. Sometimes it itches when it rubs against my clothes. Maybe I should have it removed. But I'm afraid if I do that, it'll grow back somewhere else. And maybe it'll be bigger next time, and painful.
Anyway, I can't let it go. It is a mark of something, I'm sure. Labelling me as someone.
Yet I hate it, and can't bear to see it in the mirror
of revulsion in her eyes when we make love.
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CONVERSATION
A boy and a girl get on a tram in the early evening, but there is no double seat free.
'We can sit there,' says the girl, who is sun-tanned and naturally blonde. (Her hair is long, her fingers small and manicured.)
'Where?' asks the boy, who is sun-tanned and naturally blond. (His hair is short, his face full of angles.)
The girl sits down on one of the single seats facing sideways, next to where the tram bends to go round corners.
'Oh!' says the boy, who sees that the double seat beside her is only half-occupied: by another boy sitting next to the window. Our boy sits down to face her, quite contented.
The two of them chat away happily, while the other boy stares out of the window. Until -
Until the girl notices that the boy she doesn't know sitting next to her on that seat looks almost exactly the same as the boy she does know sitting next to her on that seat. And at about the same moment our boy notices that a girl sitting across the gangway from him looks almost exactly the same as the girl with whom he is talking. And neither of them can understand why they should be talking to one of these 'doubles' and not to the other; as a result their conversation dies away. And it doesn't seem worthwhile starting another conversation with this second boy (for her) or this second girl (for him) - when someone else almost exactly the same might well be along at any minute.
The rest of the journey passes in silence. The blond boys and the blonde girls all get off the tram at the same stop, but head off in various directions without looking back or saying a word.
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EXTINCT
In a shadow of space
where life has departed
time hangs by her endless neck,
her flesh rotting
down into nothing.
She hungers for the quick
pulse of men,
but has only her own acid
milk to drink, a sickly dribble
that can never quench
her death.
She can consume herself
forever with waiting.
Forever
if just for a second.
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THE NEED PUT INTO WORDS
I The Library
I steal into the library at night. It is dead
quiet apart from the rustling
of pages not being turned. I want
to breach your copyright, take a leaf
or two from your book; highlight
the whole of your text
and learn it later. To speak
your life in your words,
make it mine. It's better
this way: to possess you
without your knowledge is enough.
II The Recordings
No:
your knowledge of me
is what I want.
I must listen to your recordings
over and over, as if I had
the ears for love. And maybe
in time I'll grow them -
those most fragile mechanisms
of sense and uncommon
sense; of vibration
and untroubled lust.
Yes:
your knowledge of me
is what I don't have,
what I need. Your love of me
I need.