Mercury Boy/Faggot Girl

masturbation

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.

bao

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.

fuck

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.

god

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.

dysphoria

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.

tattoo

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.

hard

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.

fathers

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.

love

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?

sick

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.

erase

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.

boy

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

 

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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

 

Experimental absurdist play: A Chair Called Amadeus

One brother is in love with a chair called Amadeus that can communicate with him. Is it god? Is it Stalin? Who knows.
The other brother is a war criminal who doesn’t know he’s a war criminal.
They live in an oppressive regime surrounded by giants who are visiting their country as tourists. Who has the most power? Have a Hershey bar. 

Read it here:

A Chair Called Amadeus by Yuki Iwama

About Me/My Work

Please come visit my new site! 

https://yukiiwama92.wixsite.com/yukiiwama

16121788_10154188737801630_856351125_o

Yuki Iwama

Melbourne, Australia

Email:
yukiiwama92@gmail.com
Twitter:
@YukiIwama92

 



CV

 

FORTHCOMING

Debut independent play ‘Mercury Boy/F*ggot Girl’ – Writer & Director (2017)


 

2017

-Playwright-in-resident, Lonely Company (2017)
Lonely Company


2016

SnatchesMelbourne Fringe Festival – Creative Director (2016)

-Short story ‘this is to be human/thrive, burn, thrive’ – Published in Needle in the Hay anthology Burn, Thrive, Burn (2016)
iBooks
Smashwords

-Panelist on  ‘(Re)writing Gender’& ‘Censorship & Political Correctness’ at the National Young Writers’ Festival (2016)

-Short story ‘I don’t know what it is but it keeps screaming’ – Featured in The NoSleep Podcast, season 7 episode 17 (2016)
The NoSleep Podcast Episode link

-Short story ‘The Oriental Slut with the Sideways Slit’ – Published in the Others anthology, RMIT (2016)
OTHERS_An-Anthology-of-Creative-Writing_RMIT University

-Short story ‘six oh oh: junkyard race war’ – Published in Voiceworks magazine, Issue #103 BANG (2016)

-Performance/Installation piece ‘Junkyard Race War’ – Writer & Director – as part of Lost For Words – La Mama Theatre, Melbourne (2016)
junkyard race war (video)



2015

-Short play ‘The Last Meal of the Literary Diners’ – Writer & Co-Director – Performed for RMIT’s Sideshow: On Trial, Melbourne (2015)
The Last Meal of the Literary Diners Video

-Performance piece ‘Kafka’s Daughter’ – Writer – Performed for RMIT’s Sideshow: On Trial, Melbourne (2015)

-Performance piece/play ‘Cunt’ – Writer & Director – Performed at Mudfest, Melbourne (2015) Cunt full play youtube

-Performance piece/play ‘Half-Dog, All Hate’ – Writer & Director – Performed at Mudfest, Melbourne (2015)

-Radio/performance piece ‘Mermaid’ – Writer & Performer – ‘Mermaid’ written and performed by Yuki Iwama – showcased at RMITs Snatches, Melbourne Fringe Festival, Melbourne (2015)

-Short story ‘2N5E’ – Shortlisted – Needle in the Hay (2015)
2N5E Short Story

-NATIONAL STUDIO 2015 PARTICIPANT – Australian Theatre for Young People (ATYP)
Participants 2015

-Short play ‘The Allegory of the Happy Women’ – RMIT’s Snatches, Melbourne Fringe Festival, Melbourne (2015)
The Allegory of Happy Women play

-Short play ‘A Chair Called Amadeus’ – RMIT’s Snatches, Melbourne Fringe Festival, Melbourne (2015)
A Chair Called Amadeus play

-Performance piece/monologue ‘God’s Gramophone’ – RMIT’s Snatches, Melbourne Fringe Festival, Melbourne (2015)
God’s Gramophone 8 minute monologue

-Short story ‘sun spit tastes like…’ – Published in Alien She Zine, Melbourne (Issue 1, 2015)
sun spit tastes like…



2014

-Short story ‘Guilty’ – Published in Literati magazine, Melbourne (Issue 2, 2014)

-Short play ‘Like Daddy, Like Sonny’ – Writer – Performed for RMIT’s Snatches, Melbourne (2014)

-Performance piece ‘Noise’ – Writer – Performed for RMIT’s Snatches, Melbourne (2014)

-Short play ‘Sunrise’ – Writer & Director – Performed for RMIT’s Snatches, Melbourne (2014)



Previous

-Short film ‘Stickfigures’ – Finalist in Cut!, New Zealand (2008)

-Poem ‘True Happiness’ – Published in Teen Ink magazine, USA (November 2011)

-Painting ‘My Mask’ – Acquired by Teen Ink magazine, USA (2011)