Orbit 5 - [Anthology] Read online

  * * * *

  The time machine caresses with soft winds—it deafens the mind with brave light—slow blind worms stretch their bodies through time—straight files of fingers tap on miles of desks—grey vines are shrined in fog and kick and scream like young horses—wings are torn from my back!

  Gas springs from eight star-formed arms

  Which revolve like pink wheels

  “Ghost” gas is leaked off into the spandrels

  Pressuring a container which explodes

  Pulling a chain which pulls a claw

  Which plucks the tine of a tuning fork Sounding a clear A

  Which reorganizes the constituents of the gas

  Stars wheels and spandrels

  Form a double hexagon of mystical significance

  And the gas throbs with the deep blue glow

  Of an unnatural agency

  The shapes of the spandrels—

  Cherubs’ faces with foliage—

  Reform the organization of the gas

  Which rings and metamorphoses

  Into lead

  The time machine taps his body with a thousand fingers which play over his skin like a row of pianists. The fingers have little needles in the tips, which are feeding a special electrically conductive ink. This ink is tattooed into his body in a complcx pattern, and soon the whirls and curlicues will flow with an electrical force. Time drips from a faucet like dark green treacle.

  * * * *

  Later they were going to lie together naked in this shed, but this time the coldness and the likelihood of detection made them agree beforehand to keep on as many clothes as possible. Their bodies twisted together, her hands running over him, he kissing her ear, her neck, her throat. They whimper together with the delight of this long-delayed contact. He slides, his leg between hers, pressing it high, and feels the muscles of her thighs clenching in response. He unzips her dress behind, and lowers his face to the flesh of her shoulders and back, this feeling of her flesh against his coming as an actual physical relief, as if, for the rest of his life, when not with her, he would always miss the feel of her body. He slid the dress down, exposing the soft dark skin of her chest and arms, and the little brassiere. His mouth found the sweetness of her shoulders, and his lips lingered there. Her hands were on his thighs, and then his shirt was unbuttoned, and her lips were against his stomach. He helped her hands with his belt and trousers, sliding his clothes from his legs completely, and shuddering under the ecstatic pressure of her hands. He felt that their lovemaking could never become banal; each time they came together it was a mutual exploration of pleasure. Each possible contact of their bodies could be repeated a million times. Her dress was now round her neck, and his hands ran over the smooth warm flesh. This time of lovemaking was all times of lovemaking, the little soft mounds of her breasts, her arching stomach, always receiving the caresses of his hands and mouth, never any other. The afternoon was the afternoon of her body; there was nothing else in time or space, nothing but her limbs and her flesh, nothing but the pressure of her hands on his skin. They kissed as if their mouths were drawn together magnetically, until their faces were covered with saliva, and there was nothing but a wide wet world of voluptuous love. Their arms around each other, their bodies surged together at the hips. He slid her pants down over her legs, caressing the smooth skin of her limbs, until the scrap of silk disappeared into the blankets. And now their bodies pressed together with nothing between them, the feel of their naked flesh making their kisses even more urgent. His hand circled, running over her skin, her belly, her thighs, running through a nest of hair between her legs, circling smaller until it found puckered flesh, moving up and down slowly, pressing deeper, until his finger finally entered a soft dark electrical place, and she gasped, and arched her body still more. He was vaguely expecting to find a string in the way, but he could feel none, and then forgot about it. This was Caroline; now she could understand, and so could he. Time passed, and none was comprehended. Nothing mattered but the feel of her body. He slid two fingers inside her, and she caught her breath. His tongue ran over her stomach, and he rotated his wrist, his fingers moving in a soft wet place, curves of muscle pressing them. Her hands were on him, driving everything from his mind but the consciousness of her and of this exquisite pressure. He felt a different quality in the wetness of her vagina, and a long time later realized that there was a profuse flow of blood. When he finally withdrew his hand, he slowly moved it up, arching his wrist so that his fingers did not touch the bedclothes and brought his hand to the light. His first two fingers were covered from top to bottom in thick, bright red blood. She was watching his hand too; it had suddenly assumed a position of paramount importance, like an object framed by perspective lines in a photograph. What had been an unobtrusive movement had become a dramatic gesture. He felt as though he had just been probing a terrible wound in her body, and he had a brief moment of horror. “Have you got a piece of rag?” She indicated a packet of sanitary pads that he hadn’t noticed before, and he took one, and quickly wiped the blood from his fingers. She felt his erection beginning to subside, and asked, “Are you sure you want to make love?” He nodded, not thinking of asking her the same question, thinking of nothing but loving her. His hands ran over her again, and soon his body found itself moving over her, now above her, now sliding into the dampness of her.

  Now there was a pause.

  Now they were together.

  He looked down at her face, and kissed her slowly on the lips, running his hands in little repetitive caresses over her bare shoulders. Slow movements began, like the movements of glaciers, years of time translated into flashes of fire. Then faster, now a rhythm. A single strand of bright steel, a long rod that flashed brightly, twirling in the bright electrical air, wider and wider, filling the world with silver. And then he paused, looking down at her face, raising his eyebrows slightly. She smiled. “We haven’t seen each other often enough, have we?” He began to move again, feeling the focus of their bodies damply sliding together, the warmth of her flesh next to his. The world revolved about him. He lifted his head, feeling the movement like a ritual of intense importance. And thin strands of wire string out, joining together, forming thicker strands, ropes of wire, less and less, until there is only one rod, gleaming brightly, shining and glittering, twisting and coruscating, growing wider and wider...He stopped his movements again, and then started, slowly. Moving in her he could feel his skin all over his body, his limbs warm, and a nostalgic, dropping emptiness in his stomach. He concentrated on these feelings, trying to blot out the other feeling from his mind—the feeling of sharpness, a diffused sweet whiteness that was even now making itself more manifest, becoming more and more powerful, almost overwhelming. He stopped again, suddenly. He kissed her gently on the lips and spoke. “It’s obviously going to be like this all the time. Will you mind us pausing like this?” “No, no, that’s all right.” They kissed again, their tongues trembling together, damp surfaces all over their bodies in contact. And he felt his body moving again.

  * * * *

  The city is the city of broken festivals—city of changing carpets and the August moon—spires dance in the squares—in the city the night is velvet—instead of drains, set along the gutters are bowls of wild flowers—cats sing among headstones—drunken women in bright flared skirts dance among piles of petals—the city is full of soft waters that fall slowly from the moon—in the center of the city is a tall steel rod that grows wider and wider, opening out at the top into an enormous white umbrella —colored banners are set from building to building, covering the city in bursts of flame—skeletons dance in the city’s lights—the festival is a jubilee of eternity—vendors of violet shadows move in a concourse through the streets —crowds of people move like slow pink phantoms—long white worms coil about the lamp standards—the city revolves in the fire of night—stainless steel fingers spread to receive the dawn—festivities ring out among the spider struts—all the people are spread with daffodils
. . .

  * * * *

  Their bodies lay together. They were now one being, neither male nor female, but just a complete body of a strange, lethargic creature that twitched, regularly contracting itself under some blankets. He moved in her, feeling her soft moisture, feeling the folds of voluptuous muscle holding him. When they stopped again, they lay over to one side. Now he could caress her, and his hand moved over her back, along her thighs, feeling acres of flesh, fields that he could explore at leisure, feeling too the damp blows at his hips, the feeling of the underside of her body against his abdomen, his testicles rolling back and forth and bumping her. His hand probed beneath her, feeling the wetness that had run from her and the pucker of her anus, trying to ingest the whole of her body, his stomach sinking and his body melting into hers, pausing, moving again. Once he had to stop suddenly, and all his muscles became rigid with the effort of shutting off, his arms shaking, feeling a spurt of semen, and then the feelings receding, and now moving vigorously, knowing that they would not return for a long time, looking down at her face, her swollen lips, her mouth half-open, her breath exhaled in little sighs, each movement of his body echoed by hers, a shuddering over the whole of her.

  * * * *

  The city shimmers like glass—waltzes fade in dark alcoves—the sun shatters and falls to the sea like tumbling drops of blood—wire springs nod in the morning air —grass dies in profuse movements—fountains are spurting, their water viscous in death—skulls rattle on pavements—the city is brown, and the stones crack—flowers are growing from genitals—the pavements are littered with dying blooms—the air is sweet with the death of flowers—dye drips from the banners, bleaching them to pure white . . .

  * * * *

  A sound of water, dim light, and leaves and stones on the ground. It was as if he was seeing everything with a preternatural clarity, watching the stones to keep his mind away from the mass of physical sensations in which he was floating. Their bodies writhed together on the ground, and he felt that this movement, this strange dance, had been going on for eternity, that there had never been any other life, that he had been born in this woman and would die in her embrace. His body was floating, he was conscious of vast chemical reactions going on in the universe. Her breath was coming in loud gasps now, and he knew that it wouldn’t be long. But he might have to stop, and it might escape again. A white wedge inserted itself, growing more and more prominent, and his body began to erupt in a silver anguish. He stopped. He was breathless and covered with sweat. Lying still in her he looked at her face. She was breathing heavily, and as he watched her face changed, moving from side to side, all the marks of normal human life dropping away, her head going back, her mouth open. Her cries began, slow regular cries, and he began to move again, letting the feelings blossom, opening the floodgates, dropping, dropping, a silver line blooming inside him, higher, higher, but not quite high enough, and then breaking, their movements frenzied, resignation, dimly hearing his own voice, feeling his head dropping, and then only a world of whiteness.

  * * * *

  The city implodes, the towers, spires and struts of metal raining to the center like a waterfall—liquid pours in on the dead city—whirlpools of vegetation—dead people dance in the water—ail that is left is a floating mass of flowers and machines.

  * * * *

  They lay together quietly, and he kissed her, feeling his body warm and relaxed, with no tension in him anywhere. She opened her eyes, looking worried. “I wanted to give you something you could remember, like that time in the hotel . . .” “It’s all right; nothing went wrong. It was good for me.” She smiled at him. “That sometimes happens. It just starts when I am relaxed.” They lay together some more, and smoked a cigarette. He slowly withdrew from her, and she handed him the towel as he kneeled upright. He rubbed the towel over the front of his body, suddenly realizing that it was pitch dark. He could feel clots of blood on his flesh, and rubbed energetically. He lit a match to see how much blood there was on him. There were a few stains left, and he wiped at them. In the dim light of the match he could see the pallid skin of his body, and looking at his half-erect penis he suddenly felt a revulsion for his own flesh, and shook out the match. There was congealed blood all over his hairs, feeling uncomfortable, but he realized that it would have to stay there until he had time to wash. They began to search for their clothes by match-light. “We said we were going to keep on our clothes, but I managed to lose all mine except my dress, and that was round my neck!” They laughed together as they searched. While they were dressing they were quiet, and he wondered if she too felt this strange melancholy that had settled on him. He lit another match, and looked at his watch. “It’s half-past five; we were quite a long time. It gives us just long enough to sit in the car for a while and then get back to Leicester.” They gathered together their possessions, re-bundled the blankets, and emerged from the little shed, walking slowly past the line of buildings, holding hands, up toward the road.

  They moved carefully through the blackness, seeing nothing but the dark shapes of trees against the dim sky. A car briefly flooded the road above with light. As they got to the higher ground there was a large black shed, with a single light on the side. The ground was yellow in this light, which shone onto the surrounding trees, making them look like pale ghosts. They stood together watching this light, conscious of the smallness of their bodies and feeling a strong and inexplicable sadness. The light made everything cold and unreal, an analytical light that transformed familiar trees into symbols of unconsummated love and inevitable death. Her hand tightened round his, and they stood watching the light for a long time. He knew that one day he would find the events of this day quite amusing, but at the moment he felt only a sadness fed by the yellow light. They turned, and walked quickly to the green gate, climbing over hurriedly. The lake was dark as they walked past, and all was quiet but for the sound of water lapping at the shore. There was a car parked near hers, and as they passed they saw a couple kissing. “Let’s tell them that we know a much better place!” she said, and he laughed as he helped her squeeze the bundle into the boot.

  They could both keenly feel the cold, and he shivered as she got in the car and unlocked his door. Inside the car she switched on the light, and then got out the box of sandwiches. Now he felt hungry, and he ate quickly. There was congealed blood round his fingernails, but he didn’t want to clean it off, wanting to carry her substances as long as he could. They sat and talked lethargically, kissing each other gently. In each other’s eyes they could read the urgent question: “What are we to do?” Now there was very little of the day left. At quarter to six, one hour before they were due to part again, the car backed out and turned onto the road, leaving Groby Pond behind it.

  * * * *

  The car drew up outside the coach station. The London coach, a bright looming monster, was ready to leave, and would shortly be drawing out of the station on its way to the Ml. As the car pulled up outside The Shakespeare, they turned and fell into each other’s arms. Her lips were frantic on his, and they pressed tightly to each other, wanting to make love again, wanting to hold each other and never to let go. Soon, very soon, they would leave, and the distance between them would expand rapidly, at a combined rate of one hundred and twenty miles an hour. His right hand was under her coat, running over her shoulder and back, trying to impress the feel of her on his mind forever. She pulls the front of her sweater out of her skirt and thrusts his cold hand up against the warmth of her body. They meet for polite conversation in a pub. She sits over an armchair, her legs dangling over one arm, listening to Messiaen’s Trois Petites Liturgies. They talk together in the yard of Henekey’s in Portobello Road on a bright sunny day, thinking that time was more crucial to them then than ever before, their words measured now only in hundreds. Cogs turn, and the time machine performs a ritual osculation at the foot of a metal apparition. The city swirls in autumn tides, its drowned coiling like ropes, the bodies illuminated by the sunny greenness of th
e water, hair forming moving curves, skin shredding off in twisting rinds, fixed by the sun above in a moment of coiling, gentle—beauty. They meet again, hurriedly taking off their clothes and making love on a living room carpet. They die. They are born. The birds of night flap through years, their large black wings dripping yellow drops of poison. The universe rolls through the aether like a dead whale. They kiss, trying to merge into each other, tongues searching for this union which will bind them forever. The car door opens. He leaps out and walks quickly across to the coach. He sits by a window, and a girl sits beside him. As the coach moves off he watches her car, and sees her sitting inside in the darkness, watching the coach.