The Manchester Review
Neil Rollinson
The Field
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       I crouch in front of the penis. I keep flicking the ants off it. We’re coming to take you away ha-ha, ho-ho. Oh no you don’t little ants. Today I am the Queen of the severed end, the pale appendage, the torn-off, spat-out wang - keeper of this poor, sad, sliver of whale fat. Oh sad, lily-livered flesh. Once great monster, tumescent and full of yourself, hard as a barstool's leg. Where have you been, what have you witnessed? Oh the great billowing ecstasy. I can see the ribbons of pearly semen shooting into the heavens, spawn of the stars, the milky-way of the night sky.
       No more.
       Look at it. Nasty little ants. I lie in the damp grass with the sun coming out and the whole field steaming, I put my head in my hands and blow, and oh I want to put my lips against it, feel the flesh on my mouth, kiss this poor, flaccid Lilliput, this wormy morsel. Oh the stories, how they buzz. My brain is full. Was it the man from the travelling library? Did Mrs. Fitzwilliam dismember him among the classics? Or maybe it’s Billy's cock, bitten off by Lucy, in a rage, oh, her big, horsey teeth chomping at the gristle, There's Mr. and Mrs. Schofield, their years of blissful marriage, the dark nights of their bedroom nightmares, the curtains, the endless boredom of it, the fear, the nylon night dress, the windows always shut. Or Mr Simpson the preacher man, with his face in the bright pink knickers of Judy Simpson, his heavy breathing filling the church like a storm-wind. Angie the pie-girl, the cocoa girl, the oooh twirl me round in the car-park girl, maybe she’s sliced off the cock of sweet Johnny Joy as he slept, maybe she got sick of all his indiscretions, all the love bites, all the long delicious kisses printed in red lipstick over his sweet smelling body. Or headmaster Barker, the pervert, barking his mad head off over the playground, wasted, his whole life, cutting his own dick off with a fruit knife.
       You’re mine, I whisper. This is my gift this Tuesday morning, this choose-day morning. I will not fail you, I will honour you, my dim, duffel-coated beauty, maggot of slub-silk. I will raise a shrine to you, my little snub-nosed beauty, my limp and harmless day dreamer.
       No one is watching. I slide my fingers under its slim waist and scoop it out of the dry grass. Oh my little totem-pole, minuscule, shrunk fertility God. Some poor guy's cock in my hand, light as a feather. I blow the muck and dust off you, squeeze you tenderly . And still the cotton seeds keep blowing, they shine in the sun like snow, but they move so slowly it's like the world is in free-fall. A silver jet flies high above me. I watch it for a moment unzipping the sky. We are never more than a mile or so from sadness, I think, wherever we are.