RAGE ON THE PAGE
by Delphine Lecompte

TWO WHORES CAN PLAY AT A DIFFERENT GAME

wee andy is silently zealously ironing his white shirt, it's a sunny coastal february day, the kind of day that drives gloomy people who sometimes hear accusatory flemish voices in their heads to taking double doses of lithium and to bludgeoning their dodgy neighbour's cattle and/or wife to death, thank god then that my dodgy neighbour has neither, wee andy is too fucking endearing for his own good, does he expect some kind of reward in his next life? a less fucked-up best friend in his next life? an equine reincarnation? better hair? more talents? a sturdier bone structure? a mightier cock? maybe there is no after-life at all, but i hope for his sake that there is: such a dreary corporate existence, and i hope for my sake that there is: such a violent whoring bondage, maybe the after-life is just more violent whoring bondage, but without oasis and without the illiterate rentboy and without pencils to dash down the misery and without walls to dash it down on, "it doesn't bear thinking", "what doesn't?" "capital punishment, it just doesn't bear thinking, and also: i really dread going to my neighbour this afternoon and having to tell him about all my sleazy stepfathers and their incestuously elaborate ways whilst he's poking my minge with a japanese longbow", "well at least he doesn't use arrows", "fuck you,smart cunt", i leave wee andy's house and comb the coastal arcades for the only rentboy i want to share my after-life with, he's taking guilty swigs from a bottle of cheap greek geneva on the doorstep of a disused tattoo parlour, i snatch the bottle and fling it at a fibre elephant that will blow a beatles song if you put coins in its trunk, sod the beatles, "come outside and play with me", "play at what?", "hide from our repulsive middle-aged johns in the deserted car park of the closed polish wheelbarrow factory and seek comfort in sniffing glue and stroking crippled alsatians", "ok", we leave the arcade and mournfully apathetically trudge to the car park, i: mournfully, christopher: both mournfully and apathetically, i have to drag him for miles, and now he's just standing still and refusing to budge, like some desperate bovine creature on its way to the slaughter-house, "if you're gonna do your mute traumatised retarded rentboy bit for the whole afternoon then that's fine by me but i'm not gonna stay here to watch it, cos it's just not entertaining enough and i've promised the kinky flemish fishmonger who lives in that lugubrious cottage opposite that sinister abbey where you once got raped by a stout mancunian playwright - at least that's what you told me - that i'd jerk him off for five codlings at three.. i've half a mind to kick your shins and to spit on your nape and to call you names, you know", "he was from liverpool,not manchester", we resume our mournful and apathetic trudge, "it doesn't bear thinking", "what doesn't bear thinking?", "life without wee andy", "is he moving??", "i don't know, he tells me fuck all, i don't give a fuck about that dour self-important twat, he can move to anchorage for all i care, he can die of skin cancer for all i care, good riddance it'd be", "but i thought you loved him", "don't be so bloody sentimental, christopher", we enter the car park and sit ourselves in a rusty volvo that's missing its hind wheels, "a whore is like the icing on your pervy uncle's birthday cake / she tastes so sweet but her empathy is fake..", "OH BLOODY HELL, not those silly rhymes again", "a whore is like a confessional box in a dreary empty church / you fill her orifices with crossbows and secrets and spunk, and then homewards you lurch / a whore is like an ominous alley you have to go through to reach your corporate job / she is quite minging, even a little bit scary, but at least she knows how to use her gob / a whore is like a fibre elephant in a seedy coastal arcade / you roll your eyes at so much cheapness, then you grab it tightly and never notice it fade / a whore is like the wee stain on your immaculate smart tie/ rub her as harshly as you want,she won't die/ a whore is like a mouthful of chicken that goes wrong / she won't stick around to save some repulsive john..", "they're getting awful now", we get out of the volvo and play at sniffing glue and setting a minging russian hobo on fire and selling our battered genitals to perverted austrian priests.

Delphine

� Delphine Lecompte
Reproduced with permission

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SHOWING UP AND SHOWING OFF

i am reading an enthusiastic yankee novel on the piss-soaked bench whereon i was raped one unfortunate sunday last august by a cocky yankee editor, i knew he was a cocky yankee editor cos he didn't just appear out of nowhere to rape me, he'd befriended me first, he was from michigan and quite thick and obese, i put up with him cos it was too hot to get up and run towards more exciting company, besides he carried with him crack and bourbon, and he cracked lots of crap jokes about ill-natured reindeers and bulgarian whores, he banged air drums and did an impressive jarvis cocker impersonation, i remember thinking: "this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship", but then he took out a pair of huge flickering scissors, he snipped my blouse and cut my bra straps, he bit my tits like a german smack-crazed fox, the smack german, the fox dutch, i didn't cry for help cos i didn't yet know the flemish word for "help", now i know that it's "help" pronounced with a vile "l", his hard-on was white and remorseless, his balls were purple and bloated, he arsefucked me and hissed his sad crippled poems into my ears, those poems were the worst part of the rape, the part in which he maimed my tits with a scalpel and stuffed my nipples in his cigar box was also pretty awful though, ach i probably shouldn't be this nostalgic about rape, i wonder if there are lots of squirrels in michigan, i wonder if they are malicious and gluttonous like the squirrels we have over here, one red specimen bit wee andy's hand last week, wee andy's wee generous effeminate left hand, i stoned the evil squirrel and bandaged wee andy's hand with my cardigan, he didn't die of tetanus, he's still amongst the unimaginative overprivileged middle class cunts in the week, and fawning on the illiterate rentboy and me on sunday when there's no-one posh left to fawn upon, anyway, i'm going over to my sheffielder angel, maybe we'll have mediocre sex, maybe we'll have mediocre sex whilst watching a pretentious french flick, maybe i'll have ferocious sex with his cock whilst he's stuffing his face with rum-soaked carribean boa cutlets, the latter is unlikely to happen, cos i'm not up for ferocious sex with his wee black cock, it's too small and too stingy ,i'm fed up with it, i've sucked it 913 times these last ten months, you do the maths, it's a whole lot of sucking, he only licked my minge 2.5 times, and he stopped before i could fake cum, stingy sheffielder yuppie cunts tsk tsk tsk; i take the elevator to the third floor, i'm sharing it with a tanned long-legged mancunian vixen who smells of randy siamese cats and dusty bass guitars, it turns out we're both visiting the same stingy sheffielder middle class cunt, he lets us in, pours us generous glasses of liverpudlian cider, they ramble about work cos they are colleagues, i go to the kitchen, sit myself at the table and resume reading my enthusiastic yankee novel, but i'm too jealous to read, so instead i cut my arms with a carving knife and make a scene and a mess, they come running into the kitchen, i rest my head on her huge solid bosom, my sheffielder angel disinfects my wounds all tenderly affectionately to impress his mancunian bird, i tell them about the kinky flemish fishmonger whom i fucked last night: "there was haddock spawn caked around his mouth.." i burst into tears, my sheffielder angel strokes my cheeks, "his name was bernard.." i burst into tears again, the mancunian bitch coughs and tells my sheffielder angel that she has an appointment somewhere but will call him tonight, the door slams shut, the elevator crackles, i unzip my sheffielder angel's pants and suck his cock ferociously for the 914th time, afterwards i write a poem about his cock at the kitchen table, it rhymes but i avoid the use of the word "rock", cos my sheffielder angel's cock doesn't rock, it used to roar and roll and spurt so gleefully in the good old days, last spring, but that's a long time ago, the poem's called "your cock reminds me of a weather-beaten surfboard", these are the first lines: "your cock is like a faded picture of greta garbo / i lick it, but afterwards feel low / your cock is like a ragged altar cloth / i like the stuff, but i hate the froth", that's all i have so far, it's not much and it's not very deep, that's why i'm unzipping my sheffielder angel's pants and sucking his cock for the 915th time.

Delphine

� Delphine Lecompte
Reproduced with permission

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CAN I GO HOME TO LISTEN TO OASIS SONGS AND TO WASH THE ILLITERATE RENTBOY'S FEET?

my dodgy neighbour has tied me to his disused furnace, i'm stark naked but too out of my head on his cheap bulgarian crack to feel self-conscious, he's standing in front of me, he's reciting flemish poems by a perverted priest who was brutally slaughtered by one of his orphan choir boys sixty years ago, this wretched coastal town is full of statues, plaques and effigies to honour the perv, my neighbour's stroking my right tit, he always neglects my left tit, i don't know why, "there's a lash irritating my left eye, could you remove it, please,thanks", my dodgy neighbour pokes me in the right eye with his index finger and chuckles, "i don't take orders from cheeky tarts", i drop my head,close my eyes and pretend to be sleeping, he presses his cold flabby buttocks against my belly, i bite his shoulder, he unties me and punches me in the face, he drags me up the stairs and into his attic, he puts me in front of an old piano: "you have three hours to tune this baby, if it's not properly tuned within three hours i'll have to tie you to my radiator, pour scalding coffee and ferret's guts on your back and shove my heaviest crossbow up your arse, and afterwards i'll have to drive your battered body to that bleak reservoir in the north of france and there i will have to shove a frozen pheasant up your arse, break your nose and collar bone with a hammer, tie you up and bury you much deeper than i buried that cocky armenian transsexual!", my dodgy neighbour slams the door and locks it five times, i've never before tuned a piano, but i once jerked off a very endearing piano tuner, and after my ferocious handjob i watched him tune the piano of the posh girl next door, if only i had paid some attention to him instead of chatting up that posh tanned girl who wore such a beautiful shade of eye shadow, emerald with wee silvery dots in it, her tits were small but frisky, everything about her was white and luxurious, i felt like a tramp, i felt like a sleazy dyke, she didn't treat me like one though, she offered me biscuits and we rambled about liam gallagher, i play a melancholic tune on the dusty piano, i call it: "atrocious adagio for the posh flemish girl who rambled so tenderly about trivial stuff and who made me forget for five minutes that i jerk off kinky flemish fishmongers for a living and that i have mousy hair and a dodgy neighbour who shoves crossbows and stuffed squirrels up my arse and who calls me an 'arrogant tart' and who doesn't care for my stories and who always threatens to bludgeon to death the illiterate rentboy i share my dreary bedsit with and to poison wee andy and to rape my sheffielder angel", my dodgy neighbour enters the attic and plays a flemish hymn on his piano, he yanks my arm and drags me into his bedroom, he tears a turkish dagger off the wall and carves a triangle into my belly, it's not a perfect triangle, cos his hands are trembling with lust and anger, "it's a fuckawful triangle,old man", my dodgy neighbour punches me in the nose and blindfolds me, "cheers! at least now i can pretend morrissey's carving crippled triangles into my belly instead of a fuckin..", my dodgy neighbour gags me and then enters me, he spits at my chest, cums and shrivels, i kick him off me, rip off the blindfold and gag, go to his living room and run around his german table until i feel a little less restless, my dodgy neighbour puts me on his table and asks me for some entertainment, "spiritual,intellectual,physical or visual?", "all those things" he snaps, that old cunt is fucking demanding, i tilt my head back, stamp my feet and recite my latest story, "you call that entertainment?! pfff, fucking useless slut, the sedated siberian seals from the german circus that has just left town performed more passionately than you, and they were cheaper too", i jump off the table, lie down on his couch and sulk, "can i go home to finish my unfinished story about a minging orphan girl who gets chatted up by an obese mancunian architect in a seedy coastal arcade, he takes her to a sleazy north french motel, puts a knife to her chest and forces her to sl..", "NO YOU CAN'T", "can i go home then to comb the illiterate rentboy's hair?", my dodgy neighbour grabs my ears and slams my head against the radiator for two hours, i put my clothes on, leave his house and enter my bedsit, i crawl into my shower tray, clutch a bundle of unfinished stories and snigger when i think of my dodgy neighbour's tacky flemish furniture.

Delphine

� Delphine Lecompte
Reproduced with permission

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THESE ARE THE THINGS WE AREN'T LOOKING FOR

i'm sitting on the warm white radiator in my sheffielder angel's living room, the illiterate rentboy is sleeping on the fluffy rug in front of the flemish stove, his right hand is clutching his left wrist, he looks stressed, he looks like he's dreaming about that perverted vicar who maimed his chest and cock with a carving knife last night, that's why we came here, for some sympathy, a pat on the head, a few shots of liverpudlian rum, a handjob maybe, but all we received was indifference, and later when we tried to rip his clothes off a smack against our heads, so we poured ourselves many shots of his expensive brandy, played with ourselves and listened to smiths songs; i stroke christopher's hair and then go inside my sheffielder angel's bedroom: what a repulsive creature, so incapable of compassion, such horrendous taste in music, inadequate genitals, weak eyebrows, no spine; i shake my head wearily, leave the bedroom and sit myself on the radiator again, i'm reading graham greene, i'm throwing graham greene out the window, it's not that i don't like the book, it's that the copy belongs to that harsh sheffielder cunt who revels in writing dreadful poems about welsh sheep and scottish middle class vixens and about all the carribean places where he's fucked them, the vixens, not the sheep, truly mediocre poems, banal words, hardly any suffering and no feelings of guilt at all, i shrug and refresh the blade of my stanley knife, i'm cutting my arms, christopher wakes up, he wants to leave the apartment and comb the beach for coins and broken toys, i stuff a bottle of dutch tequila, twenty insipid yankee novels and hundred bland norwegian jazz albums in my suitcase and leave behind a note: "fuck you,harsh cunt" it says, it's short but at least it's not sweet, we pawn the novels and albums and buy tuna sandwiches in a grocery store, we wolf them down on a piss-soaked bench in front of the zoo, mine has dolphin in it, we listen for a while to the wailing buffaloes and whimpering hyenas, we down the bottle of dutch tequila and walk to the beach, the tide is high, the gulls voracious, we have to fight them off with our cans of tear gas and nasty english words, we comb the beach for hours on end, my suitcase is bulging with doll arms, plastic soldiers, branches, feathers, broken combs, rusty safety pins, empty jars, tagless collars, shark teeth, fossils, blood-drenched cardigans, dead hares and what not, christopher is carrying the suitcase, the sun is setting behind a north french oil rig, the illiterate rentboy wants to go back to my sheffielder angel's place, i want to stay here, on this derelict weather-beaten pill-box, i put on my headphones and try to write a story, but i hate too much and am too drunk to write a proper story, i write two hundred spiteful rants, tear them up, cut my chest with a broken beer bottle, i jump off the pill-box, wash my hands and blouse in the sea, there's someone coming towards me, it's the retarded flemish cook, he wants a blowjob and some sympathy, "don't be so demanding" i tell him, i unzip his mustard-stained pants, pull down his ghastly drawers, suck his cock ferociously, i spit his cum in the sea and bandage my chest with his checkered shirt, i watch all the illuminated north french rigs and factories and brothels, he retarded flemish cook is moaning about his mother, "she's attached to a huge cream coloured device that wheezes all day and coughs all night, and she's always moaning cos i squander all my money on a minging french whore - that's you - who charges and complains too much, and she says that i should drop you and lick her cunt instead", "you can't lick her cunt,she's your mother" i say indifferently and not convinced, the retarded flemish cook pushes me onto the wet sand, rips off my clothes and bandages, kisses my minge and blubbers on my tits till the north french lights go out and the sun very reluctantly and very wanly comes up.

Delphine

� Delphine Lecompte
Reproduced with permission

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I'M NOT LAZY

my dodgy neighbour is designing another flemish escutcheon at his kitchen table, whilst i'm downing shots of calvados and rubbing my crotch against his broad left shoulder, he gets up from the table to fetch us a bottle of german cognac and some crack from the living room, when he's gone i take his pencil and draw rabies-crazed badgers and british obscenities all over his bloody flemish escutcheon; he's quite angry when he gets back and notices the changes i've made to his escutcheon, "i'm sorry" i say, but i'm not, and if i ever find that cabinet in which he keeps all his flemish escutcheons, then i will break it open and draw rabies-crazed badgers and british obscenities all over them as well!, and he knows i'm not and he knows i will if i ever find that cabinet, and that's why he's ripping off my blouse and pinching my tits and twisting my nipples and spitting vulgar flemish words in my face, they all mean whore; his quivering fingers are sliding down and inside my knickers and up my cunt and across my uterus and right through my heart, but no not really, cos he's pulling his callous fingers out of my cunt and i'm still alive, so very much alive that i feel like sobbing and slashing my calves and gutting codlings and writing self-indulgent coastal poems and punching myself in the nose and calling my sheffielder angel and pouring slavonic abuse over him, but i don't do any of those things, instead i unfasten my dodgy neighbour's belt, unzip his ghastly old man's pants and start rubbing his ghastly old man's drawers, such thin walls, i can hear the smack-starved junkies nextdoor curse their mothers and dealers, i can hear the vicious russian cow killers cry for more heifer blood, i can hear my endearing illiterate rentboy sidekick shriek and plead with his nefarious pimp not to send him back to that malicious priest who always shoves a dead peacock up his arse and always breaks his beautiful face with a mud-stained shovel and always slashes his testicles with a rusty hacksaw and afterwards always tries to convert christopher to his dodgy brand of catholicism, and i can hear my mobile phone vainly ring in my bedsit, it's only that retarded flemish cook who wants another pitiless blowjob and a few pats on his nether belly, that bloody useless retard who thinks i'm gonna fall in love with him eventually if he continues cooking me port-soaked mackerels and yolk-anointed reindeer loins and garlic-sprinkled raccoon liver and what not, and buying me bottles of cheap liverpudlian gin and heaps of slutty knickers that hardly cover my clit and batches of disappointing indie albums that hardly haunt me when i'm roaming these coastal streets unemployed and hungover and that i usually sell to wee andy who's a sucker for mediocrity; my dodgy neighbour pushes me onto his kitchen floor and enters me, he's wheezing stuff that makes me sick even if i can't understand what it is exactly, he's breathing hot boozy air inside my mouth, prying my mouth with his wee slithery reptile tongue, prying my arse with his spiteful flemish fingers, to cut a long story short: it's an awful fuck; i'm shuddering behind a flemish escutcheon, i'm pinching my tits, hoping to wake up from this, i don't wake up, i fall asleep, i'm a slapper in my dream, the dream resembles my life, the dream's a nightmare of sorts, i wake up, it takes me ten minutes to find my mother language, and then my name, and i've no idea how old i am, it could be anything between ten and forty; my dodgy neighbour drags me from behind his flemish escutcheon, kicks me in the lungs, grabs my fringe, pushes me onto his kitchen floor and hisses a medieval maxim in my ear; we're sitting at his kitchen table after the awful fuck that took him a whole night, the sun is reluctantly coming up, the skylarks are mournfully singing, or actually that's a concrete mixer, we're drinking black coffee and my neighbour's stuffing his face with stale biscuits and smoked kippers, every time he takes a bite from one of the biscuits i flinch, every time he rubs my sore nipples he nearly chokes on his mouthful of smoked kippers, there are dozens of portraits of dour flemish ancestors on his wall and mantelpiece, he's telling me about their skin diseases and crack addictions and homophobic inclinations and literary ambitions, they don't scare me now, i can even spit at them and walk out of this place, but of course i don't.

Delphine

� Delphine Lecompte
Reproduced with permission

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DELPHINE'S TOP 10 FAVOURITE THINGS:

1. writing stories

2. listening to oasis and morrissey

3. shoplifting

4. shagging

5. booze

6. reading henry miller's tropic of cancer

7. telephone conversations with chafik or maff

8. getting pissed and maudlin whilst watching my manics dvd

9. writing letters to noel gallagher

10. taking my autistic cousin to the zoo

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