Beer Girl by Mike Philbin / 2005 I've supped life from so many tainted cups, it makes my lips crack just thinking about the stench of life here in Oxford. Before I fell through the door of this pub, the Pig & Whistle, I followed Beer Girl and her rowdy friends around town wondering how far I could get my hairy forearm into her arse, her Polish black pudding.
Black lips within lips, inner edge taste of MamaLada. Deep inside the walls, beyond all intestinal inducement. Porridge tongue, knob-dung, flung. It cries its family name Ala Mantra from its vaginal bisected double-mouth make you think of candy goat horns from Exmore writhing worms, putrid sicking wind out of her spider like orifices - that was Beer Girl, embodied entrapment.
All's I can afford tonight is this one fucking crummy beer. It tastes like owlshit. Those giggling bitches in the corner crowding around Beer Girl stink like seagull vomit. Pig & Whistle, you knew that was gonna be a social shit-hole right, as soon as you heard the name. I mean look at the 'clientele'. Survey the lie of the land. So many gulleys in those dead greasy faces.
Jiggling girl, falling about - under the influence of sick winds she craves. Choking on dog sperm vol au vents. Beer Girl had never been in the Pig & Whistle before; broken sham of a life, glass forehead. She dreams of fucking scenty horses while catching candy floss shite worms. Plays old 48s on her arse cheeks, friend to nomads. Beer Girl's DadaSkoda told her off about that. He shouted, "Yer should never talk while me knob's in yer mouth!"
This horse-lover beside me at the bar is showing me her cotton panties like a jewel-box of lies, her sandaled foot up on the barstool, playing with the leather strap. I can see her white, dimpled thighs and the cigarette burns adorning the inner flap like a poem of searing. My cock, if I had one, would have reacted like an angry sparrow right then... but enough said about my cock.
"Walk tall, shoot low." Beer Girl would tell you - remembering her Jap sluts with their pleated frilly fannies blowing in the wind like two men hanging from gallows walked in with a woman, Royle Family shine all over them. Toss in his melt to a suburban beat, barking out his dictionary of filth to a virgin world.
I lean over and kiss this corpse in the mouth - it's like licking an ashtray. She giggles like flirting you know - makes your stomach go flip-flop - she's thinking of your cock, little boy blush, come blow your horn. What a shock she's in for, hey momma? Hey, momma!!!
When I was a lad, I used to stick Crunchies up chicken holes, then I bought my first corpse. Made me think of the North and that is what I told Beer Girl. I told her, "Made me think of Arse!" And she smiled, from so far away across the pub. I know she's watching my thoughts like greasy old film stock torn with scratches and cut by lightbeams of hatred.
"Time for another drink before I forearm your rear-end as a consolation prize," I inform this dumb bitch beside me at the bar, pulling out the holed cloth interior of my pockets.
Chocolat nougat crispy filth DadaSkoda'd oink out cracking his dirty knuckles against his ROD. Time for another beer, horn ball - whatz yer poisson nice girl? Fat girl? Skinny tart with buck teeth? Beer Girl was everything to me. Used to cock her arse in the air wearing rubber while many a fucko poured alphabet soup on her arsehole. Career girl with a brass Dido shoved up her Aeneas for intros' sake. Tunnel under her skin into her kidneys plumbing her urine torrent. Haunted by her Jap schoolgirls stabbing out cigs with their toes. Yes, but she had rhythm, a loose diarrhoea type of rhythm. Mrs Dairy Cream, if you get my jive of knives up the nose and she writhed on plastic sheeting covered in hot sick while Roman soldiers spivved through the night. Greasy black lips, dull black tattoos of geometric design all over her hips. She took direction from The Great Doll's quammed up lips.
She has these black tattoos on her thighs, too, this desperate hag who will taste nothing like Beer Girl. In fact, her blotchy skin is spattered with these crude black designs. I touch one and ask her what the fuck all that is about. She takes my hand and pushes it into her dry mouth as I look into her bloodshot eyes thinking if her eyeball has ever been bitten by a man. There's a change in the music then - and with it a change in the tempo of my anger. She slides off her barstool and grinds her rotting pubic bone against my thigh while Beer Girl watches me, blowing cigarette smoke out of the corner of her mouth. I think of scissors slicing through skin on the back of arms. She backs away, shuddering. There's a hot smell of rectal mucus and a realise I might have found her my surrogate Beer Girl.
Beer Girl screamed the unutterable from her gaping Jingle Jangle. FLIRT scented, she used it like a tampon, that phrase. Pure sleepy drown. Blood bunny, Lark Hall, mushroom soup death, pubic horror bones. Yeah, I tried everything to catch Beer Girl's eye, but she was cold black marble. Her incisors once lengthened over the pulse of my knob-vein. Black blood pulsated in her arteries, that much was clear, only a bite away. Black busters bristled, her six inch long black nipples drooped smelling of putrid rotted dogfish bearing the gnarling of many a teet job. MamaLada called her "sorry, job". Constricting Tardis pyramids of Siamese catshit, pearlescent finish.
I am looking at a corporate corpse some hours later, back in my shack - thinking of Beer Girl, trying to sober up. And after a few days playing with the corpse's greasy innards, I tuck into quite a meat feast.
THE END |