Mercury Boy/Faggot Girl


There’s shit rolling down his legs but you suck him off anyway because he’s  watching you with wet eyes and wet teeth, do it like you fuck your own mother, do it  like you inject mercury. You’re behind the fish market, grazing up against the bins  they use to throw out the organs. He’s probably dead, but he was there as you wiped  the blood from the corner of your mouth. Eden’s breast of bitches ran you down in  front of a little girl and her mother, but Eden was always sore at you because of  money or sex. The hobo, dead and alive, clenches and cums in your mouth. Such a  pretty boy doing such an ugly thing. But you’re already walking away, running a  sleeve across your lips. You skirt along the cars. The sun’s in your eyes and Eden’s  bitches are thorough. Sometimes, you crack your foot against the potholes so they  catch you. Sometimes, it feels good to let someone else flagellate.  Beady waves  you over. Is it Eden again? And she laughs when she sees your bloody lip. Beady’s a tanned bag with dewy, stretched eyes. She’s either from  Japan or China or both but she keeps quiet about her past. Do you mind, Beady? but  she throws a thumb at her stall and folds her arms. You give her a kiss and crawl  under the plastic table full of fish bone jewellery.

There’s Beady with her firm shoulders. You can taste her.


The local pervert cooks you dinner for one needle. You made sure to sweat a little so he lays a plate of bao over his erection. His girl is out, working her sharp fingers into  pig fat. I love the way they laugh. Not laughing. Screaming. You burn your mouth on  the steam and he hands you water. You’re still bleeding. He presses his forefinger  into the wet patch on your thigh. It sinks in deep. I love the way they laugh. He’s  talking to Eden through your fourth bao and he’s swinging on the apex, limbs  shaking, get it right you fucking faggot, mum and dad are six feet down, you ain’t got  no­one but me, and there’s a flourish, a silence, a tongue between the teeth. You  throw yourself onto his back and push a bao down his throat and he’s Rorschach  purple as he mottles, throttles under your hands. But the tone goes flat, bitch hung  up on me, and his hands skitter over his face. She’s been beating you again. It’s not  a question but you grunt through the pork. Try not to get too excited. She loves to  win. You want to tell him he’s wrong – that you’re human, just like him. You almost  ask him if he likes to win too, but he sagaciously says, I’m nothing like her, I don’t  need to prove myself, and the scars twinge on your chest and the bao goes down hard. The mercury hits the divot in your skull. There is nothing left.  I love the way  they laugh. 

His name is Adam.


You met Eden at the Greyhound back when she was doing shows, lip­syncing  Madonna in sequined skirts. It was a night of splintered edges and open wounds.  You were slumped in the smoking area and she was stood in front of you with her  excess heads sucking each other off in the depth of her back.  Eden to  you was a tree trunk with tits. Bold slashes across the face and the fuck­me­fuck­you swing in the hips. Old Fag beside you said, be careful, kid, she’s a stomper, and she  was there, in between his legs and you could imagine the purple ridges of skin  between her fingers as she squeezed. Amidst the howls, your eyes met and for the  first time in your life, you were hard. She could touch the ceiling with the crease in  her cranium and her dick kissed the balustrade, but it’s the tiger scars, the  flagellation, the ovarian scourge (countered, contained) that made you buckle,  mandible raring – yes, yes, YES. Garlic crusher fingers split you down the middle.  Could have died. Would have died. If you weren’t cumming so hard.

Sometimes you go back to drink. Most times you go back to get skinned.


Beady throws you her flask and says, I see Eden’s girls stompin’ round the market, lookin’ for you. What did you do this time? but there’s no answer  because the cops are milling round the bins. Dead and alive. But mostly dead. What’s wrong with your leg? Beady scopes for bones with a particular sheen – in  gutters, grates, at the bottom of the bins. She once found a pearl in the bloody swirl  of cast offs, only to bowl it down the gutter. Are you still seeing Adam? You tell her  yes because you don’t lie to Beady. All them twins do is hurt you. It wasn’t a question  but you reply with a smile. There’s a cop looking at you, fingers grazing her  brow. The whiskey goes down wrong and Beady beats the broad of your back with  her great hands. My husband used to breathe this stuff. Gotta take smaller sips. The  husband is elusive. He’s the scars on Beady’s wrists and the drape in her left eye.  He was only like that ‘cus his mammy loved him too much ­ she cut him up down  there so he couldn’t fuck ennybody. So he liked to beat women up. S’only way to be  how everyone was telling him to be. You’re not sure what she’s trying to say but you  take smaller sips. Beady’s got a hold now. Valleys and hills in her brow. That’s how  it’s supposed to be. Do you unnerstand? You say, that’s how it’s supposed to be,  drunk staccato, an echo, but she’s shaking her head, lip curled. That’s what they  say. They all say that. The more you say, the more it ‘comes real. Unnerstand? You  tell her you do. You look back at the cop. For a moment, you think your eyes lock but  she’s so far away, you can’t be sure.


Here’s a common fantasy: cheese grater grunts in the tired tiled hollow of Eden’s  bathroom. A curl off your arms and an edge off your legs. Pink Floyd’s The Wall.  Masturbation is a hesitation round yellow tape that cast your hands in iron. This  excess flesh (a bell curve from the crease in your armpit to the column in your chest)  feels like the blue skin cast from chicken ribs – a perverse rancour, bitter to the  touch. Your father pilfered surgical knives from work, so you use one to do what you  have to do. The mercury hits the divot in your skull. There is nothing left. Carve.  Liberate. Sway.


Adam’s girl comes home with layers of pig fat on her skin. She’s 156 with a mean  mouth and red fingers stained from (I love the way they laugh). She kneads them on  the steel, stains, strains, and sometimes steals their teeth. You’re on the couch and  Adam’s sticking a needle into the antecubital, for letting me touch your pretty face.  Adam’s girl, Pig Girl, hovers at your left. Look how many molars I got, fingers spread,  red, around yellow hats. It was Adam who found you bleeding out on Eden’s  bathroom floor and, unlike his sister’s soft appetite, you were reeled in by his  voracious keen to inflict and you were, are, nothing more than a hollow fish, a  toothless pig. Catch any tongues? Adam’s girl, Pig Girl, laughs, caught a few but  they just writhed around in the gutters. She prefers the slaughterhouse because the  fish market’s not meaty enough for her (one’s called a market, the other’s called a  slaughterhouse). And though you’re passing out you can feel her barb fingers dance  over the wound in your face and she says, Adam, how long are you going to keep  this up? and he says, as long as you come home with molars. 

They are good at  pretending.


On Sunday nights you drink at the Gatehouse with the boys. They watch LCD porn  and drink fifty cent beer (Ass Fucking Yellow Sluts and cast off VBs) and Supreme  Leaders T and H recount their greatest rapes. You’re the dog boy, not yet initiated,  so you glean the scum from the toilet and uncap the beers as they become thrown,  dazed, and hazed in ass fucking and alcohol. You’re a week out from uncapping  your own beer, so the boys are raucous ­ more so than usual. You think maybe they  look frightened. Maybe they look anxious. But they’re so far away, you can’t be sure.  Who’s it gonna be, boy? You thought Pig Girl, at first, only because you didn’t really  like her. But no, it has to be someone special. Then there’s Madonna and sequined  skirts. Someone special.


Eden knew something was wrong but there wasn’t a name for it back then. When  you knew something was wrong, you told her you loved her. She likes to trace the  ridges on your chest, fanged Lhotses, twin peaks of scar tissue. Like you tried to rip  yourself out of your own skin, and she wears another like a body suit, foundation,  wig, heels. When you woke up in hospital, your father said, it’s a mental illness –  there’s nothing biologically wrong with you, and you could see the puncture wounds  in his white pockets. He could never look you in the eyes after that.

As if you were  too far away.

You told Eden and she laughed and said, my daddy’s dead, and kissed  you in a chokehold. And it’s there, when she throttles and fucks at the same time –  the kaleidoscope acidity of desire and denial. They come hand in hand, a twisted  bondage. And it seems so natural for her to straddle you and for you to groan under  the weight of her hips. Bonno and Clydette blowing the muzzles of their BAR and 20  gauge. Mercury Boy and Faggot Girl in perfect unity.


Adam injects mercury into Pig Girl’s lip and throws her against the door. They call it  rape season – twenty episodes of quiet violence and an epilogue of insouciance.  Because Adam’s the original sin and Pig Girl is the cunt; it’s the monotony of  scattered molars and smashed needles. You watch, because we need a witness.  There’s no point doing it if there’s no witness. That’s how it’s supposed to be.  Afterwards, Pig Girl crushes the molars beneath her feet and sits beside you in  silence. Episode one. Emplace. Situate. Who’s it gonna be, boy?


The night before your initiation, you arrive at the Gatehouse late. It’s near empty.  Supreme Leaders T and H are popping beers on the leathers, watching­-not­-watching a Black Bitch Getting A Good Hard Fucking. T tells you the boys are out, hunting for  faggots with their stompers and hard edged teeth, and H pulls his dick out and starts stroking but he’s not really there. Come watch with us, T says, so you sit across from  them and watch H squeeze his dick in 4/4 to the girl’s screams but nothing’s  happening, and T’s staring at the screen but his eyes are off centre like he doesn’t  know where to look and it’s then, it’s then you realise that they are both ill. Could be  they’re dying. Could be they’re sleeping with their eyes open. And you think of their  fathers and forefathers who sat in the Gatehouse before them, drinking and jerking  and raping and stomping, and how it’s the code, and how between that and  womanhood there is an empty space, and how you’re hovering there in that space  like nothing else ever existed or will exist and the only way out is to drink, jerk, rape,  and stomp, because that’s how it’s supposed to be.

So who’s it gonna be boy?

But before you can reply the boys bang in, roil the air with their sweat and red knuckles,  and they say Eden, but you just stare at the screen, watching the black bitch get a  good hard fucking.


On the day, you go to the fish market to see Beady but her stall’s not up. It’s gutting  hour and there’s a churn of fishermen by the bins, elbow deep in organs, grinding  cigarettes and spitting chew. You ask them where Beady is but they go, dunno a  Beady, boy, who s’at? and they say there wasn’t a Beady at all. Like the scars on her  wrists and the drape in her left eye she’s inverted, nothing. In the space between the  bins and fishermen, the guts and the callused fingers, Beady is erased, and there’s  the swell inside the column in your chest and you see the shadows on the ground  and the police tape licking gravel (such a pretty boy doing such an ugly thing) and  you can’t help but laugh and laugh and laugh because it’s there, it’s there where  Beady and your inversion rests.


They stomped me good, and they did. You can see the signature of her face in the  drunken blue of dusk and she looks like a broken oyster in her crude shell ­ make  you bleed, lever the knife, consume. Her makeup’s shifted, not so unnatural, not so  sharp, and she’s soft, wet, and unsound. Her wig’s gone too and you can see her  Adam’s apple pulsating, stretching the scars into etched grins, lewd, gross. In that  moment, you think of how God is a man and how Eden is the bark on your chest, a  flaking, itching echo of your father’s pilfered knives and that sudden, bidden  desperation. And there’s the local pervert, your flagellation, her brother, and his girl,  Pig Girl, and the yellow molars swathed in red. Episode One. Emplace. Situate.  Episode Two. Foment. Actuate. And you say to her, I hurt myself, like it’s an  explanation, and she says, I know, and it’s the consent given at gunpoint. And so it’s  you, condensing her and seizing her just like the girls in the Gatehouse (4/4 and off  centre), and you’re nothing less of a god. It’s Mercury Boy and Faggot Girl being how they are supposed to be and when you look down at her, as you tear away her vocal  chords, you are warm and you are sound because she’s never been so far away.

©Yuki Iwama, 2016



six oh oh: junkyard race war

Originally published in Voiceworks, ISSUE #103 ‘BANG’ (page 89-91).

I’m a yellow bitch who paints their skin white. At dawn, I move through the streets like a zipper lining. At dusk, I piss blood. The magazines tell me gasoline wrecks the liver, but I suck it up through a hose anyway. There’s old newspapers on the floor when I trample in—dog shit on the soles again—and when I call for X, I remember she’s not here (she used to sit on the ground, bare ass sticking to the tiles, reading the paper with a fag between her teeth).

There’s a deadline at six. It’s the lack of weight in my shoes that makes it hard to breathe. I’m leather stretched over blood sanded to the splint. I drink bleach every morning with rice, till there’s nothing left but splintered organs, and there’s a hollow where my stomach should be. When I strip the paint off my skin, there’s nothing left. Just a sharp tasting space and maybe a cunt or a hollow dick, but mostly a space. Inverted. Nothing.

It’s five oh five and if I make this deadline I can pay the rent. I work in grooves for god particles—show them white smiles, bullet holes in black, freaks selling sodomy—I am the horn to their gramophone. But the mandible hangs loose, muscles dither, torn. Work my jaw or never work it again. I go for a fag anyway, stick my neck out the window, forehead resting on the glass angled away from the sill. Half in, half out. Cigarette smoke curling from my pores.

Five floors down isn’t much of a jump, but it’s what separates the sugar cubes from the ants. There’s a stretched disturbance underfoot. Shrieking, sometimes warbling. Black men jaundiced through the throat. Yellow girls validated with their baby bald cunts. Brown queers, dirty queers, shit-strewn queers in stockades down Swanston. And when it rains, it rains white. Pressure cooker slants in the East have cracked, laughed, run, till there’s nothing but white and coloured bodies crushed between gears. In the West, whites are taken hostage and browns are shot down. Five floors down isn’t much of a jump, but it’s a shock to the boys skidding along tram lines in skate shoes. I see X through the ember—great stone face, grateful hate—as I tumble, spin, down, down, down. And as I crack the concrete, snap my neck, there’s an ember of white-fanged spite. It’s raining.

Five fifteen and a knock at the door. I’m certain it’s the police. But it’s the black kid, errand boy, down from the newsroom. There’s a riot down at the junkyard and won’t I come and check the scene for tomorrow’s deadline? I don’t tell him I’ll be five floors down at six. But it’s what I do—paint the whites as heroes, paint them god. It’s liquid propaganda to bolster the gears. I colour myself white, grab my notepad, and follow him out the door. There’s a noose around his neck whenever he passes a white man, but the kid doesn’t seem to notice. A chink in my paint is a chink for the rape—for a moment I stop, hand out, steady, breath, waver. Down the lift and the kid’s already outside, watching skate shoes yelp against the slick lines. A car is waiting, door open, and the kid wants me to go in first. The junkyard is down the road, to the left, not ten steps away. But it’s raining.

Five thirty, the rain eases up, and the junkyard’s on fire. The kid’s off, sprinting into the fight. He skips along the way, grabs a broken bottle, and slides into the filth with a warbling war cry. There will be hell to pay if he ends up dead before tomorrow’s deadline. The driver turns back to the wheel and starts up the engine. I’m out, into the heat. Five mountains of shit, churning in piss and blood. There’s the smell of burning hair, not quite human—there’s more than junk melting in the fire. Fifty blacks, browns, and yellows, throwing bottles and scrap metal into the gears. Twice as many whites, oiling the cogs. Bevels groan and helicals splinter. If it goes on much longer, the earth will stop spinning.

Five thirty-five and the kid’s lost his arms—chewed up by the gears just beneath the soil. He lands against a broken washing machine. No paint could save the stain. The guns are out, both sides, blacks throwing wrenches and dogs into the gears, whites throwing girls to slicken up the spurs. Canisters explode somewhere, deep in the valley. I’m left standing in the tire tracks. The paper’s too wet to write on. The rain’s started up again.

Five fifty seven and I see X in the ember. Screaming bitch, skin on fire. She used to play dress up, drunk at three. Sock down her pants, black on her skin, heeled boots up to her thigh. X wasn’t X unless she had a second skin. To be a one, you have be consistent, she’d say, and as she swung her hips, the fag between her teeth went bobble, bobble, bobble. But I’m not one, she’d say, I’m zero and a hundred. And there’s that laugh, almost like a groan, a sad little groan, from the embers of her teeth. But when she saw the splashes of white against sidewalks in the city, the markings on the walls, the colour of salvation, her cunt cleaned from the inside out, once, twice, three times—five floors down wasn’t much of a jump. It was a cruelty. No rain that day. It was warm, beautiful and sunny.

Six oh oh comes with the most frightening kind of violence. The quiet desperation of being trapped in the bubble before death. The kid’s splashed across the washing machine, still searching for his arms. He’s breathing like a shot rabbit, impossible, stunned, but still searching. Blacks, browns, yellows. They’ve seen me now. Paint stripped. Naked space. Inverted. Nothing. Heels come down, sunk in gore. There’s wavering, an expectation, well? Well? Aren’t you coming down? The rain, the rain just keeps on coming. Oblivious. Dirty. The gears are almost dead. There’s a rise in the air as the earth slows to a stop.

They keep looking at me. Waiting. Steeped in ignorance, wrest from god like wounded animals. They have the same proud savagery in their jaws. Mute enough to burn their own homes to the ground. X would say otherwise. But she was cleaned from the inside out, once, twice, three times and every time I looked at her there was nothing but white. Dirty white. And though the window was angled that day, I ask myself if I pushed her out of jealousy or disgust. And as the kid convulses, I see X in his triumphant, ragged breaths.

It’s not until I throw a wrench into his head that I realise he’s seen god, not here on earth, but in his own blood. He’s zero and a hundred. I can never be. When I walk away, the earth slowly, slowly, begins to turn again. I follow the tracks back home.

Six oh one. I’ve missed the deadline. The rain keeps on coming.

©Yuki Iwama, 2016


sun spit tastes like…

Published by AlienShe @


she doesn’t have a face, so she sits in the room with a sheet over her head. Daddy’s built a sky for her and nailed in each blade of grass. only the best. only the best for my little girl. the sun hangs from the light fixture. does the sun spin? yeah and it spits. it spits so much it spits up acid. isn’t it beautiful? i wonder what sun spit tastes like. it tastes like…

when she’s happy, she pulls off the sheet and pedals in the air. she likes her legs:  smooth, curved; sexy. if people looked at legs first, they would find her beautiful.

she wears mini-skirts and bras and marches around the room, glancing at the window. there’s my reflection. don’t i look hot? don’t i look gaw-juss? don’t i look FUCKABLE? she does. she knows she does. even if she really is disfigured,. abnormal. sometimes a monster and a little shit and a good-for-nothing bitchcuntslut

– just like Mummy.

Mummy, Mummy, Mummy hated her face. Daddy said it wasn’t good enough.

slap some colour on those blue lips. fatten up those tits. shave that pussy bald. i want to fuck a little girl.

too fat. too big. too much space. Mummy liked to spread her legs. Mummy liked her rolls. don’t i look hot? don’t i look gaw-juss? don’t i look FUCKABLE?

but he feels dirty when he fucks her. she smells like cunt:. fish. strong. sharp. bold. her cunt is too here. too loud. he feels dirty. he feels dirty.


she doesn’t have a face, but her tits are growing in: small. bulbous. pink. they look so scared. like eyes, wide shock. she jumps but they don’t jiggle.  like they’re supposed to. too small. too small. not sexy yet. young. just wrong. the nails are coming up. worms in the rain. but it’s just sweat. her toes are ripping up the green. Daddy would be mad. Daddy would be mad. fuck Daddy. FUCK DADDY. she’s glistening. panting: YES.

under the sheet, she can see his face. not Daddy’s: a man’s. handsome. brown eyes. aquiline. he’s something like a god, if there was one. or the sun that spins and spits in the patchwork sky. she can imagine his dick. it’s smooth. brown. pink. pretty pink. small and friendly. she draws a face on it and swallows her fingers. under the sheet, there’s no air. and for the first time, she sees her own face.


one time she watched Daddy in the shower. he was he was rubbing himself. shampoo tears. hand a desperate mouth. he ate himself. ate himself, spat out the sun. i wonder what sun spit tastes like? it tastes like…

it’s her thirteenth birthday when she tells him. breath between teeth, a double skip. but her tits itch and her fingers twitch and she knows she has to say it.

i want a man, Daddy.

and he does it. brings the mirror out and stands her in front of it. a flagellation, a rape. look: a handprint on her face. black raised lump, cancer.  burn. who would do this for you? who would give you the sky and the grass and the sun?

and he’s touching her face: her no face. giant fingers creeping across the skin where her nose should be. where her lips should be. and then it becomes wrong. shifted. like there’s two mirrors instead of one. but Daddy loves her. Daddy brings the world inside.


when the sun stops spinning and spitting, Daddy’s workshop is waiting.

he’s sprawled on the sheets, naked. likes the feel of cotton on bare skin.

there are gears in boxes – spur gears, helical gears, skew gears, bevel gears; spiral, double, in, out, sideways, up-ways, down-ways, all-ways. hammers and prongs and wrenches and screws. twisters, bangers, tappers, the lot. enough for a man. a mechanical man.

i’ll wind you up. one two three. oil the hinges. oil the dick. yours is nothing like Daddy’s dick. you’re pretty, pink, small and friendly. sit and fuck. wrap your mechanical arms around my ass and let me see my face one more time.

when she looks in the window, she feels her hips. her cunt isn’t bald anymore. she can feel tufts of hair and they feel so fragile. so strong. she jumps and her tits jiggle, they laugh, they tremble. she doesn’t have a face, but she’s a woman.

Daddy walks in. sees the man. sees the hairs. fragile. strong. penny pink tits. she takes up space. she’s too big. can’t fit under the sheet anymore.


she catches sun spit on her thighs.
her mechanical man catches fire. and daddy’s got the matches. daddy’s got the matches. and she wishes that she was standing in front of the mirror. she wishes daddy would twist her hair and say, look, there’s nothing there. who would do this for you? who would give you the sky and the grass and the sun?

daddy’s burnt the sky. and each blade of grass. daddy’s burnt the sun. and the mechanical man. daddy burnt himself. daddy burns himself. and though there are no walls, she stays, and watches.

©Yuki Iwama, 2016

The Last Meal of the Literary Diners by Yuki Iwama

With rolling guts and erect nipples, Wilde stands naked. ‘Four thousand dollars!” he says. “Four thousand fucking dollars and I’m naked!’

‘Who says money can’t buy you freedom?’ Woolf says. She is tapping her laudanum (the bottle nail-polished the colour of sick dried blood; the blood of a cancerman) – and she looks grey, pulled thin, almost torn like a stressed plastic bag.

Wilde shakes and laughs – a popping, leathery sound from deep within his hard, round belly – and sits back down, grabbing a glass of wine which spills over his fingers.

‘It’s insanity. Four thousand just to rent out this place.’ Mishima is swimming, drowning, struggling to remain composed. He isn’t like Wilde (who has no floodgate) so the buzzing is unbearable. His laudanum is sitting beside his bourbon (a big neat ‘M’ – so decisive, though bordering on desperate) and his eyes bounce back to the tiny bottle every few minutes, as if it is a friendly buoy, bobbing in the sea of vibrations which pulls him away, far away, into a depth which he can only understand as hell.

Plath is in the restroom, rubbing herself on the dented lid of the toilet seat, the smell of piss sluicing down her nose as she makes slight, frantic noises. She feels the smooth hard shell of the laudanum, pressing into her, and she disappears into the back of her mind. Later, when she is pulling on her stockings, she feels the men and the heat of their sex in the other room (Woolf is there, but faint and blue like a stirring wish) and she almost lists to one side.

Back at the table: ‘Four thousand is worth it, Em. The food here is fantastically shit, the wine aplenty, and they have the most delicious carpet.’ Wilde demonstrates (though unseen by his fellow diners) under the table, pushing his toes into the plush black material.

‘Yes, but that’s exactly my point,’ Mishima says, lowering his head. ‘Why spend all that money on sub-par food?’

‘For the sentiment, darling,’ Wilde says. He slurps long and loud on his wine and lets out a gunfire laugh. ‘I mean, how long have we been coming here?’

‘One year-’

‘One year exactly! Yes! Is this not a palatable meal, Woolfy?’

Woolf jerks her shoulder and taps her little red bottle. ‘I wish you didn’t choose this meal to let yourself go – I was hoping to get it over and done with but then you had to go and pay for the restaurant and lavish us with sickening rich food. I feel like a whorish king before his wedding day.’

‘You know,’ Mishima says, ‘I think we should still do that thing we talked about-’

‘NO!’ Wilde leaps to his feet and sweeps his arms out to the side, knocking over the glass of wine. ‘Are you fucking crazy?’ There’s a bubbling pause.  ‘Look, no offence, darling, but I would much rather stay Wilde.’

‘I’m afraid I agree with him, Mishima’ Woolf says.

‘Four fucking thousand,’ Wilde says again, slapping his hands against the skin of his belly. ‘Not like we need the cash where we’re going, eh Em?’ He’s going nowhere now, but already he’s flying. He’s bouncing off the balls of his feet and his knees are rolling from one side to the other, fluid and strained like oars.

Mishima adjusts his glasses and rubs his hands. He is a mouse or a mole and he feels dim as he squints up at those he has come to think of as friends. If they share his sentiment, it is a silent one, passing between their bodies with shifting glances and wry smiles. Tonight however, there is only thickness and incessant tapping (Woolf’s fingers are a seizing spider by now) and Mishima (who picked that name for him again?) is finding it hard to grasp his own thoughts.

There is a new smell and Plath walks in like water; her dress dripping down her legs and trailing behind her, bringing in a current of air. Woolf recognises the smell and she looks at Plath, small and blonde, settling in beside her. She can see the white arm hairs and her mouth becomes full and wet.

‘Is everything alright?’ Mishima says.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Plath says. There is a ripple in her skin and a red flush chases it away.

‘You were in there for quite a while.’

Wilde lights a cigarette and chews on a chicken bone between puffs. ‘She was probably taking a shit. Were you taking a shit, darling?’

If I am a mole, Mishima thinks, then he is a boar.

‘Oh, no,’ Plath says to her lap. The red flush is gone and all that’s left is a shock of blue veins and sick white skin. The words fall from her lips like spittle as Woolf places a damp hand on the inside of her thigh. A minute more, and Plath feels a finger curling inside her.

The kitchen door sings and in comes the silent waiter who had disappeared an hour ago with the empty wine bottles. Wilde gave him five hundred to forget tonight and to make sure the chef stayed in the kitchen. Later, when the police and the CSU tape up the place, he will do what he does best and bury himself in the belly of the city. The diners watch this intruder, who moves like a vampire with his eyes drawn down and his lips pressed white, and there is a sense of unity between them, arranged against this person from the outside. The waiter doesn’t understand – no, he will never understand – and the diners feel the squeezing fist of pre-eminence.

This feels good, Plath thinks. And it’s not just because Woolf is inside me. This, for the young woman, is a drunken ride on a mad, broken horse. Her parents are back at home, tangled in the sheets, dreaming of the sex and the wants they once had a lifetime ago, and here she is, on the brink of something dark and good. Woolf is also something dark and good, but Plath can’t fully embrace the woman’s hand. It is like drowning and dancing at the same time and she has to work for air.

Wilde leans against the chafing back of his chair and his eyes follow the waiter as he picks up the empty bottles and sets down unopened ones. He sees himself push the waiter against the table and force his fine white face into the chicken grease, barking profanities and trembling like a ruddy sergeant with a strain in his battle dress. But the smell of foetid incense flips him around and he is back to the old wound, an ugly knotted scar leering up at him, and Plath’s stifled breath to his left. It is God’s scent, they say, the smell of the blessed – as if consuming it will purify them. His mother brought him into that place – with the high halls and wailing bells – and he was torn from the thing that made him real by the mad (with froth bubbling from their nostrils and white veins in spasm) and all the while the smell of God was consumed and did consume. The scar is all that is left and when the chance arises, he reveals it to the world.

‘Isn’t it dreadful?’ he says to the waiter, standing and pointing. The pale man stares, blinks, and continue working around the table.

Wilde is already with the ants on the crumbs and the shit in the ground. The past hour has been like drawing on poisoned water with nothing in view and now he is almost finished, shaking the flask for the last lethal drops.

When the waiter slips from the table one last time, he has already forgotten.

‘It is time for the notes.’ The last word rips the curtain from the window – there is a violent change, an exhaustive, electric rape. Wilde sits down, still and dewy.

Woolf pulls away from Plath and Mishima pulls off his glasses. This is the penultimate; the time of the hare. The bad greasy food sits heavy and the table throbs – whether by the diners or the sudden shift in energy, nobody knows – but that’s no matter now.  The notes – the notes – it is the last thing before they leave – the most important thing; the thing that gives each of them a meaning.

For Wilde, who is making odd whooping noises under his breath (no floodgate), the letter is showmanship – a part of the set. It is the bottle to the drunk; the needle to the junkie; the sour smell to the nympho. How funny! To cast himself into a gaudy painting, to splay himself before the nation as a mutant, castrated queen! To expose himself and shit on his mother’s crusade! If there is a god, he thinks, he’d better send me to hell. He is beyond the clouds now, shooting past the sun and into the unknown.

It is simple for Mishima. Not a note but a cheque with a neat number (with each perfect circle he was descending further into his contract) made out to his daughter. She is above and below him now, like a dying flare or a ripple of sound escaping the friction of his touch. He tells himself that it is the only thing he will focus on, but the laudanum with the ‘M’ brings him back again and again. Numbers are honest, he thinks. At least she’s safe from me.

He could have left her a better legacy, gone like his namesake, but he didn’t have anything to offer other than money. It will probably come out, he thinks. She will probably find out anyway. Because it was his daughter he had fucked in the afternoon light (not dissimilar to those cast in the restaurant) – though the body was another with the same curling black hair and the dimples in the chin. There is no name left for the body, but she used that afternoon as a weapon, leaving his wallet thin and self-worth less so. An impertinent child who took his sickness and his seed, cured him, condemned him, and pulled the rope tight. Now, she has a stomach full of soil and rancid roots and Mishima finds himself eager to see her once more.

The letter left empty but for what’s left of his savings sits with two others. Mishima turns to look at the slumber-eyed Woolf.

‘I didn’t write a note,’ Woolf says, and the others don’t know how to respond. ‘Fuck the note. It’s a tired ritual anyway.’ The tapping returns.

She doesn’t see the other diners as people. What do they look like? Plath has blonde hair, Mishima wears glasses, and Wilde has a belly, but is that what they look like? Woolf tries now, but there’s a tapping noise increasing in speed and when she realises it’s her making the sound, she comes back to the clock on the wall. The next hour is small and hard like a cold rock on the shores of a lost lake – it’s not real but it exists somewhere. Her bones stretch down to the ground, hooked by the nails of the dead (or is it just gravity warping?) and each time she blinks, it becomes harder to open them.

It was an onyx reel that brought her here, to these people and the orange lights. It was him as well, with the sweet cherry chin and the slippery eyes.

Woolf brings a blotched apple to her lips.

She could have killed his mother – the old bitch with the neurosis and grating words that drew a serrated knife through her throat. But he was still latched to those swinging milk bags like a whimpering pup, and it drained the fat from the air and left behind a skeletal cadaver. Though he sometimes had those golden looks when he watched that old bitch potter around his kitchen, lecturing him on this or that (asymptomatic of her mental problems, he told Woolf, but she knew he wasn’t convinced) and it affected her in a way that she had to excuse herself and rub it out in the bathroom, stifling that brazen cum-laugh. And it made her mad that it came to this – like some kind of oedipal claw-war between the wife and the mother.

I could have killed them both, Woolf thinks. It makes her so mad the ground stops shaking and she feels the molten flesh in her throat melt into something like ice.

Back then, she was left with the cadaver and he was left with the fat still dripping down his sweet cherry chin.

The clock groans on the wall and the skinny hand passes the apex.

The hare is going round the bend and the tortoise is in full view.

Each of them, save Woolf, places a tired envelope on the table (sticky with wine and sweat and chicken fat) and, in the stupor of the devout, they grasp their laudanum with unfeeling fingers.

‘I said I’m sorry,’ Plath says. The hour is coming too soon, too fast, feels like the shock of a cold shower when the heat hasn’t adjusted. She doesn’t remember herself saying the words even when she says them. ‘It’s a requirement isn’t it? A convention of the note? Millions of notes with the same two words – I’m sorry. Am I right? Or wrong?’

But even as she asks, she’s already cast back into the sick, plastic colours of a childhood fair – there’s murky spittle and concrete gum and it’s the same cheap thrill, sitting in this broken seat, and talking though she can only feel her lips move. The table is gone and she keens because she’s in the soiled office in the twisted milieu of the fair. The clown is her father, a shadow on her shoulder, and she is nothing more than a child on the ground – the tacked wood gnawing into her right cheek. There’s a loping waxed body with a broken leg, hugging the wainscot flecked with red and at that moment, it’s her eating the filth and dragging herself over the ground. Perhaps the fair is capsized – silently mindless like the rest of the shit – since she is sharing the bottom (the very bottom where a human can exist) with a wounded roach and the clown. She is a hard soul without any flesh; she is around her head and against the ceiling; the bristle in her chest is that acid hole that only appears when she’s not there (or as there as she once would have been, say, perhaps, a decade ago) and it’s too warm and at times not warm enough.

‘Is it customary to apologise when you have nothing to apologise for?’ It’s her speaking again, she thinks, but she can’t be too sure. ‘Do I have something to apologise for?’

‘I’ve seen some in my day,’ Mishima says. ‘It’s the same in Japan as it is here I guess.’

‘You Japs are always keen to leave,’ Wilde says. There’s the mania hiding under the words. ‘There must be a gene.’

‘That’s not justifiable-’

‘To hell it is!’

‘Do you think we are free from guilt?’ Mishima asks the question in earnest but Wilde looks away, smiling.

‘What is guilt but self-flagellation?’ Woolf says.

‘I said I’m sorry,’ Plath says again, but she’s not convinced – not anymore.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Woolf says. The end of the hour pushes into her stomach, the cold stone burning a hole. Wait too long and it will tear through the soles of her feet.

‘Is it time?’ Plath says. Her words come too slow, out of sync with her lips. ‘It’s so fast. It’s too quick. Is this happening?’

‘Better it be quick than slow, Plath. Take a breath.’

‘Take a drink you mean,’ Wilde says.

Is it time? The hour is the finish line. The tortoise is upon them.

‘Any last words?’ Mishima says.
But there is only silence as they each uncap their laudanum (200mg – they aren’t fucking around, not this time) and the vibrations drop from the air – a violence and a relief – and the four bottles wink in the orange light of the restaurant.

©Yuki Iwama, 2015

MONOLOGUE: God’s Gramophone


I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know how this could have happened. You sit there, staring at me, too afraid to touch…like I was…so….long ago…

If I had a mouth, I would scream: “Get out! Get out now while you can!” But you’re too entranced. Too mesmerised. Like I was. So long ago.

You see kid, we had a beautiful brass gramophone that gathered dust in the attic. I used to go up there and sit with it, staring at it for hours. I was your age, twelve years old, when I first gathered up the courage to touch it. I reached out in the dim light, fingers hovering an inch above the horn, when it made a sound.

At first I thought it was a rat, trapped inside. But when I leaned in close, I heard it. The pitter-patter of tiny hands and feet. Scurrying up the curve of the horn. Before I could look inside, she slid out, bit by bit, like liquid.

First, her head collapsed into itself, then her neck turned soft, and then it was her spine, torso, arms, hips, legs, feet, all running out of the horn like slime. And there she was.

Standing tall. Trembling and broken. Oh, she was so beautiful. A cracked painting. Chipped teeth. Small white scars. Criss-crossing, flecked across her face. A mane of dreads and haughty eyes. Dark naked skin. Midnight blue. Liquid limbs. A dancer. A marionette. A junkyard beauty queen.

The first time I met god, she didn’t say a single word. She just reached down, took my hand, and placed it on her cunt.

The first time I met god, I learned to be an adult.

The second time I met god, was when I was sixteen. I was ready for it this time. The house was too hot for winter and I knew that dry air, that impossibly dry arid air, was a sign of her coming. When she slid out of the gramophone, we were both naked.

She said one word to me that day.


So we fucked. And we loved.

The second time I met god, I learned to be a human.

It was another six years before she came to me again. For the last time.
But you see, by then I was mad. I was spitting mad. She appeared to me every night in my sour fever dreams. I couldn’t ejaculate without her touching me, fucking me. I was shrunken, skin and bones, half-insane and mad with rage. Why wasn’t she coming? Why didn’t she love me? Was I not good enough for her?

So when the house grew hot and dry, when she finally slid out of the horn, I was waiting. I destroyed the gramophone as soon as she dissolved. I threw a wrench into the brass and the wood, again and again and again until I was shaking. She just stood in silence, watching, as I destroyed her only way out.
I thought she would be pleased. I thought that I was all she needed.

I was right. In a way.

She said two words to me that day.

“It’s finished.”

But it wasn’t. Not for me.

I pushed myself into her and lost my mind. For that brief moment, she was no longer god.

I was.

But as soon as I came, she pulled my lips open and climbed into my mouth. She slid down my throat and into my stomach.

That was the third time. The third and last time I met god.

And I realise now… I realise now that maybe that’s my punishment. Maybe this is how she is able to live for eternity. Consuming souls as she is consumed.
Because you see kid, the third and last time I met god, I learned to be a monster.
I swallowed my obsession in a fit of madness and now I wait. I wait for you to gather up the courage to touch me.

Because when you do, she will slide out of my mouth and that will be the beginning of my end.


Photography by Nick Carr Edited by Yuki Iwama

Photography by Nick Carr
Edited by Yuki Iwama

Bee is a misogynistic, homophobic, agoraphobic writer with a drinking problem. He lives with his sister Tee who is a liberal, open-minded artist who cares for him. Their mother is the dark shadow looming over their shoulders, haunting them. When Bee gets a life-changing phone call, chaos ensues.

See CUNT @ Mudfest in the Union Theatre/Melbourne University:
MONDAY 24th August: 5pm
MONDAY 24th August: 9pm
TUESDAY 25th: 2pm
TUESDAY 25th: 9pm

Read it here:


TRIGGER WARNING: rape, sexual abuse, animal cruelty, drugs, alcohol, incest, suicide

I Am Half Dog, All Hate

Photography by Nick Carr Edited by Yuki Iwama

Photography by Nick Carr
Edited by Yuki Iwama

War and occupation. Domestic violence. Generational racism and homophobia. We follow a family through history as they tell their stories of domestic, historical, and societal oppression. All three stories are based loosely on personal experiences and stories told by family and friends. 

See I AM HALF DOG, ALL HATE @ Mudfest in the Guild Theatre/Melbourne University:
FRIDAY 21st August: 5pm
SATURDAY 22nd August: 7pm
SUNDAY 23rd August : 2pm
MONDAY 24th August: 9pm

Read it here:

Half Dog, All Hate

TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual abuse, physical abuse, death, rape, war, racism, alcoholism.