Untimely #1 - The Unclean Beasts

Unclean beasts wander dusty streets under flaccid sun. City asleep, they scroll and scavenge trash in empty fields, abandoned buildings with unfinished roofs, the overgrowth along the beach before the sea. A fisherman used to leave fish heads in a heap at the end of the jetty til others berated him, threatened to leave him behind or worse. Now any who stubbornly return are kicked, beaten, peppered with stones and bits of brick. From the cliffs they gaze upon the cemented stone walls weathered pale and smooth in the sun and spray, but they venture there no further.

Darkness comes early by the sea, bringing small respite from the heat. In the dinner hour pups cower in corners under mothers’ teats sucked taut against the bone. Ribs stick out like shipwrecks and between them fester wounds that cannot heal. Their eyes narrow and ears drop back flat against their slender skulls. They wait.

Farther down they gather on the beach around the remains of an offering. Charred meats cake teeth. Incisors. Premolars. Chops are licked absentmindedly and curled tails waggle in a steamy night breeze, content. Lapping waves lull them to sleep and there they will rest until men with sticks in the early grey bright of dawn come to clear the beaches for the tourists.

Untimely #1 - Sniffer Dog Blues

Vice. It’s what this city was built on. Time was when the broken-tailed and the bow-legged could scavenge where they pleased; nowadays there’re shaven-buttocked bitches roaming courtyards, turning tricks in exchange for a mouthful of chow. All the while high rollers in handbags dangle bejewelled paws over titanium clasps, keeping a beady eye on their investments. It’s all about class, breeding, domination.

But hell, trouble’s what keeps a mutt like me in business. I find the runaways, meaning I’m out here seven nights a week, sniffing every crotch and scenting every lamppost just to scrounge a lick of information about old Mr Winkleman cos he owes some anxious pup one lousy bone, but hey, business is business. And I’ll tell you this friend: it aint hardly never that the Winkleman’s of this world have got smart enough to say adios and skip town. No. Because when you owe, and one way and another we all owe, then they’ve got you. And believe me, it’s a short leash.

So sure, I find whoever’s missing. And if that means they'll wind up stone cold and stinking out a skip, then so be it. At the rate we’re burning ourselves up, pretty soon, there aint gonna be nothing left. It’s been so long coming that I won’t even be sad. I’ll just sit me down by the old poplar tree and howl at the moon, and go right on howling till it howls back goodnight.

Untimely #1 - Wolf whistle

Wolf whistles.

Sunshine. A sheer slab.

Me. Up since four-thirty. Cuppa number nine. Backache. Hunger. On the scaffold. Another break.

how-ow-ow-oww

hubba-hubba schwing-schwing

A lass gets off the thirty and slinks below us.

kintight kinicetitsooowet

Askin for it.

Skin. Hot pants. Cold shoulder.

They enjoy her fear. Smell the stink of it sluicing off her.

Me. Guvnor. Them. Like sons to me, almost. Good lads. Most.

She sways on. Hot pants and pink vest. Bronze and gold. Brazen. Becky’s age. Bit older. Sally never like that. Different age.

out cmon love

The thirty shunts off. Audience gone. Witnessless.

Cold shoulder still. A handbag. Leather straps and shining buckles. Wriggles. Alive.

Lads waning. Lost cause. Laugh it off. Good laugh.

Me. Last word.

suck us off sweetheart

The shallow silence of the street.

Lads laughing. With me. At me.

She walks on. Brazen. Her handbag wriggles, alive. A runtish pink head pops out. Chihuahua. Yellow eyes roll at us. Teeth bared. It fixes me.

Last word.

Yip!

Untimely Stimulus #1

"Pleasures and anxieties over beginnings and endings abound in contemporary dog worlds. This should not be surprising when we are awash with millennial discourses. Why shouldn't dogs get in an apocalyptic bark or two?"

Donna Haraway 'Cyborgs to Companion Species: Reconfiguring Kinship in Technoscience'

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