Taking Names

Taking Names

I'm taking names-
taking them down
and laying them out
smooth on white paper-
words black:
names.

They are demons-
on the page
as well as off
course in nature-
pen scribed:
people.

It is done-
they're all damned
and I look
to the black page-
names white:
none.

Matthew Koutzun

Playing on the Black Keys

(Okay... so in commencement of having my one hundredth post on this website I've written a new short story that has taken me awhile to write. I could have wrote more, but I now like it just the way it is. It's racy, extremely racy for those who are a bit more traditional, and borders on the erotic. So with that said, open your minds, and definately your hearts, this is post one hundred!)


Playing on the Black Keys

I perform tonight. I am extremely nervous. It is my first time- to stoop and caress the keys of ivory infront of a mass. But I'm ready I think. I'll have friends and family in the crowd, beside my profile: the one that they will have of me. Onstage. Playing. What have I done?

What have I done creating this? I put myself here- out in the open. On a stage. We torture ourselves I think. I wrote this for people, but never fully believed that I would have to give. That they would have to recieve. I can't play to them. Not all of them. I can't give them all of me.

Mary told me today to play to her. I didn't know if I could do that either. I never told her that. I think it would have crushed her. I may try to play to her. Maybe. If I must. I feel like I must be forced into doing something rather than actually motivating myself to do it. That's how I composed this. How I composed this composition of notes. I'm confusing you more. Too many beats I'm including. Remember? Pianist. I never fully informed you of that. I apologise. But the sheets. They made me write them. Furious and hot I wrote them, in the languity of months. But the show.

It's now. No turning back. Maybe I'll play for Mary. I played it for her earlier. I played it for her in the sheets. Quick sticatos, and lush credendos, as I plucked and inserted my fingers into her cunt. I don't think she realized I played her like ivory. I hope she didn't. I hope she doesn't know I wasn't there with her, but with my keys. Forcing each new chord, and note, tangling in her hair at times, breaking the beat, but never the function. Her eyes didn't show it. Didn't show my deception. I don't think she knows. I hope not.

Tuck those tails, beneath myself, between my self and the stool like a rubber sheet to pick up the spill. I had that on the floor. That sheet we use in bed so we don't have to wash the linen. And I made her melody slippery with inaudiblity, so that I could hear my own music. So that I wouldn't have to hear her moans. I hope no one can see I'm showing. I smile at Mary. She knows I'm showing, just as I can tell from the countless times of seeing her wash the deeds in the shower that she too is showing. We'll be married in a month. It won't matter. Premature. But truly on time. I think to the woman behind her. The one with the similar view can see me showing. She licks her lips and then moves her hand to her husbands thigh slowly. He looks over slyly, regaining her rupt attention believing to be her hand's cause. That's my hand. And Mary looks back. Not at the couple. Thank God, not at the couple. But into the stands as if to querry who has entered. I look back at the keys in nonresponce.

Please don't announce me.

I can't stand up with this. It's too much, with the rubber beneath me and the tucked material bunching around the anus. Why'd you have to touch me there Mary? It wasn't like this before. Before you touched there I was ignorant of myself there. And now I know. Why did you discover me? Fish me out? I hate that you found it before me, and now I'm left to deal with this: the bunching material, playing on the black keys.

I stick my hand in my pocket to pull out a cloth to wipe down the keys. Truly shuffling and shifting with my hand the errection to a better position so it can't be seen. Mary's disappointed now. She likes to see me embarrassed. The red hot flushing to my face as it does on the rubber, that is still creeping beneath me- shifting itself. And Annouced.

I'm annouced. I stand. I bow to the audience and look to the doors again. Mary looks again, and back to my face: that I've turned, so I don't have to look at her, yet again. I face down sticcaos, and full octanvaed stretches that only induce the average man's pinky to curve and disjoint, but mine, my pinky stays rigid straight. My teacher broke it that way. The key resounds sharp on me. But I think it falls flat on the audience. They know nothing of this.
My other fingers curl to chop the keys, and fall straight again to renounce another bell.

My penis throbs on each chop, lifting the material a snatch. Causing the woman and my wife to place their hands in their laps. A smile on each face. Kneaded Bread. Foldling their linens. Opening their doors.

The door opens. I shouldn't stop. I've been taught not to as such. I've been taught not to let the latecomers distract me.

But I do. I stop. Allow him to take the spot next to my wife. We are married next month you know. Mary and the woman's hands have stopped kneading in his presence. That was my kneading. That bastard stole it. I wonder if they can hear me. I wonder at times if people can hear me. I wonder at times if people can read my thoughts- if they were transmitted like sound, like music, across the airwaves and that when people give you a glance, a short one, that they've heard you. They've heard your private and dirty thoughts. The good and the bad ones about themselves that you repeat to yourself in you head. He glances at me and my chopping and then to the pulse in my pants. He squeezes Mary's hand and then smiles still staring at my pangs and the chords.

I look away again. Mary's eyes on me- my erection. Why'd you do this to me Mary? Why'd you touch me there? The skin so delicate and full of nerves. It eradicated thought- I thought I'd had enough, but after I said no I truly wanted more. Why'd you stop Mary? Why did I tell you to never do it again? Why did you not do it again the next night when I asked you? Was it because I asked you to stop the first time? Mary, forgive me. i just wanted more.

I pang louder and louder, my crecendos lost and my mind just furitavily increasing the speed and volume. Mary's legs are crossed, my God woman, it's just the first overture, but I can't blame you; I'm getting there too.

I want to stand up, for the rubbing of my testicles and anus to stop, for the folds of my suit to stop slickening my cocks head, and my fingers do this to me on the board. I press the ivory tusks and they slicken too. They slicken and smooth and then turn fleshy in my prints. They moisten and open into 52 tiny cunts and black cocks. And I dip my finger into each one, everyone of them breaking apart and lubricating my fingers, each one forming and falling, touching and calling, tightening and releasing, and I press on for more, Mary's cunt on each key, my finger in each one, I don't know if I'm even pressing the right cunt anymore, they all look the same, the melody just continues, I could be pressing any cunt and never know, but the music keeps coming, and I can do nothing to stop it and the climax is coming, the final transition to the chords and it happens:




I stand up bruntly and make my way off stage. Everyone gasping at my actions. I wonder if they can see it all. If they can see it all running about underneath my clothes. I look down. Nothing. But I can feel it sloshing about my underwear. It smearing and lubricating everything much more drastically than I'd expected, and I double over as I reach the curtain. It feels so good. The stagehand holds out a cautious arm wondering my next move. I stand up, feeling pangs of tingles set in my crotch again and mak my way to my room. The room they gave to me for this night and the next three nights to come.

I shut the door. The hallways empty. Except for the miscrients that have no where to go but the darkened backstage wings, I walked here alone.

Tissue. I grab for tissue. Everything is slowing down now and the notes are suddenly very far away as I reach into my bag and grab an extra pair of pants and a new pair of underwear. I peel off my wet offerings and wipe down myself with the tissue. My head still sensitive. Oh one more song. One more chord. One more pang on the ivorys: cunts, assholes, and all.

The knock. Knew it was coming.

Throw the damp clothes into the bag and quickly redo myself to make the deed unknown. Open the door now. It's her.

"Mary."

"That was wonderful! You played right to me," she looks down, "I could tell," meeting my eyes with promise.

His head pops out from behind the door.

"Peter came! Isn't that wonderful?"

"Yes, wonderful. How are you Peter?"

"I'm well. You played wonderfully tonight. Mary can't stop telling me about how much you practice. She says you play her your music everynight."

The bitch knows. The bitch knows I play her cunt. I want to die. But she smiles. Maybe this is worth it. Maybe this is nice that this is out. That I don't have to hide her pressure hips and silky keys.

His hand has crept onto her shoulder.

"She's worth it."

"Excuse me boys, but I have to go talk to Lydella, excuse me, "she pushes past Peter.

I go to shut my door, half expecting Peter to leave with Mary but he steps in.

"It was very wonderful you know?"

"Thank you. It takes hard work and will power."

"I would have never have guessed the latter from the show you put on tonight."

I don't have to take this. I turn away and walk to the corner I believe to be the furthest from Peter.

"Oh don't get so angry. We said this wouldn't become awkward."

"You said this wouldn't become awkward. I had no part in that contract."

"You agreed when you let me touch you."

A hand at my back.

"Please, don't touch me there."

"How about here?"

Unmentionable.

"Fuck, Peter! Why? Why the fuck, why?"

Silence.

"I didn't do this you know."

"I know."

"So don't frustrate me."

"Just leave Peter. Mary did this to me."

"Mary?"

What?

"Mary, did this to you?"

Yeah.

"Mary fucking made you come to me?"

Yes.

"Answer me!"

No. I won't. I don't like this game anymore. I don't want to play it. The pieces have become confused and the directions are all wrong. Playing on the black keys. Mary touched me there. I wanted more. What's the next beat? The tempos sped beyond control. Why is this cresendo not making it's leap into a silence? It should be silent now. But it keeps on ringing in my head. I have no answer. I have no responce to the noise that I created. Who speaks to music- to art, and expects an answer? He does. He doesn't get one. I won't.

"Yes, she did."

Why did I say it?

"She did? Mary made you come to me?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's nice. Nice that she could make such a wonderful union."

"Is it now?"

"Well, we can stop. This all ends here now."

Why?

"I think that's for the best Peter."

Why'd you touch me there Mary?

"I agree."

This can't be leaving me now.

"Goodnight Peter."

I can't be refused again.

"Goodbye."

And it's gone. The music has stopped. And I can relax.

The door is closed. And again the music has stoped. And I can relax. I'm relaxing. And the show begins again tomorrow. And the music has stopped. And the show begins again tomorrow. And the music has stopped. And the show begins again tomorrow. And the music has stopped. And the show begins again tomorrow. And the music has stopped. And the show begins again tomorrow. And the music has stopped. And Mary is at the door. And the show begins again tomorrow. And she is in tears. And the music has stopped. And it's never coming back.

What an empty cunts my piano has become.

Matthew Koutzun


Readers;

Hopefully you enjoyed my latest short story as much as I enjoyed writing it. No I didn't enjoy it that much- haha. But yeah, thank-you to all of you who have been so kind to leave wonderful comments and great critisims of my work without destroying my heart! Your guy's generosity of spirit makes this what it is, and really puts the fun into writing. Cause isn't that what it's all about? Being heard? Relating? Shits and Giggles?! Well thanyou all again, and I hope you'll all stick around for the next one hundred posts of poems and shorts!

Best Regards,
Matthew Koutzun

Three lessons in Mortality (A poem in Four Parts)

Three lessons in Mortality (A poem in Four Parts)

I was on the bus today,
when I realised that I had to get off.
I left that bus lost.
I knew where I was
but hardly where I was going.
I walked past a broken vacumm.
It's head was on the ground.
It's body on the step.
It's hose a disjointed heap by the corner stair.
And I knelt by it.
I prayed for it.
I prayed to the vacuum.
I prayed for it to find form.
To find function.
To find purpose again.
I wiped my eyes.
Then my dirtied pants.
Then walked on.

I walked into a small town.
Not a town.
But a small community
on the edge of urban jungle.
Stores and houses ran together
into a fountain.
I drank from it.
It didn't save me.
So I continued on
till the trail no longer continued,
then made my way back.
I'm coming home.
And each bench had an epitaph;
I wanted to know how to become endearing.
You have to sit a lot I found.
You have to appriciate the small things I found.
You have to give your time to others I found.
And you have to take a lot of shit I found,
because the bird shit still hasn't been cleaned by the rain.

And I make my way home again,
and find a bench hidden in the trees
unseen.
Awww, it's for his wife:
"My life began on May 13, 2004"
But I swear the man had been born 1986.
I sit and stare out again.
And wipe my knees,
among other things,
hoping to get out
or to enlarge the stains.
I want people to ask about them.
For me to have to explain this night.
I get up and walk home.

I walk through the trees home again.
They swoop lower,
and I must bend to not be struck.
A pain.
In my side.
A knife to my back.
Like the rest it is literal.
The bum wedging it further into my ribs.
He comes before me
proding my pockets.
He asks me if I want to know why.
I repsond:
"Tonight was so obtuse-
I should have saw it coming."

Matthew Koutzun

(Ok, many of you may think this to be one of my strangest poems yet. But the strangest of things is that everything (except the bum) is entirely true. This was my Victoria Day, Monday night. I have no idea how it all came to be like this, or what I was thinking, but the experience I will remember forever. Pray to the vacuum gods for purpose. They'll bring it if you wait.)

That Monster

That Monster

I am the Intimacy Monster children,
you'll learn of me very soon.
I fiendishly touch you
when your parents aren't looking
and gawk and stare as I do.

You will learn me
and soon dispise me,
because of the things I've done.
But you'll spend your lifetime afterwards,
tracking me down trying to find that "one".

You'll want me,
but I'll vanish-
leaving nothing in my wake.
Your desperation will grow however,
you'll touch anything you can take.

And then you'll find yourself-
like me:
taking what you can find.
Not that you ever noticed
me touching you all this time.

Matthew Koutzun

Untitled

Untitled

A secret is a fear-
a delicious fear,
that boils in the chest
and wants to be let out;
treasure from a sunken ship
our chests-
holding inside
insidious,
cavernous
holds of fogged motives.

Please let it out
a key it has not-
but words.
Telling it:
chest opens.
A tidal wave of
from the cavity
both releasing
and than tying:
to both the posts.

Oh, the bonds,
why'd it open,
they're only tighter
now.
And struggle,
and force
and it's on top of you again.
And it's pleasurable to relish
and it's pleasurable to deny
But hold that- I have my own.

-Matthew Koutzun

I Guess They Can't Hear Me

I Guess They Can't Hear Me

Soon my children-
soon.

Soon it will begin to speak.
And shall we listen?
What say you?
Yes?

Children-
close thy ears.

What do you hear?
The ocean?
Or perhaps thy self.
Close them often.

When should you open them?
Now-
NOW-
now...

-Matthew Koutzun

Silver Edwards (Another Legend)

Silver Edwards (Another Legend)

Sliver the first
and Edwards the last:
name given.
Spread like an eagle,
dove into water:
fluid
and commanding
at his sides.

Came here everyday;
could stay under for
one minute
fourty seconds.
The longest,
duration under,
for his town.
Never enough
he wanted longer.

The crisp currents,
the blue hued landscape,
the languity of the waves
nudging and nudged
him back and fourth;
a frothy lullaby;
yet no sleep,
no air.

From the bottom
up,
motion quick-
darting,
burning in chest-
lungs,
sweet despised surface-
air.

More
his body commanded,
still air-
wished gills
so he could stay
under forever.
A dream unified
only by water tension.

He made it his mark,
he'd stay down forever.
And down he went
then up-
angered.
And down he went
again up-
angrier.

Food was lost
and strength was lost
and he was lost to sea.
"He died mommy,
Edwards died?"
"Yes, my dear,
but I'll just lie,
you know he got his dream."

-Matthew Koutzun

Beastiality

Beastiality

Once you start,
there is no stopping it:
turning humans into animals:
seeing them without their clothes on-
as organisms;
science.

Hair: Fur-
don't lie to yourself about it,
no way to get around it
once it's in your vision;
the sweat:
pharamone.

Nail: Claw-
on a back, drawn down,
no kidding th children this time,
to far gone to fib;
the skin:
flesh.

Tooth: Fang-
a circle of red dots,
around the hardened pink landscape
it'll be better if we don't rationalize;
the moment:
us.

-Matthew Koutzun

Want.Need.No.Never.

Want.Need.No.Never.

You say you didn't want it but you did anyway
You say that it's unfair but you took it the same
You took and took and took and you feel like it's all there
You take and talk and speak like you were not even there
Subjective
Misplaced
Not
in
any
place
Disjointed
and not in motion
You take and took and the walls you shook
You say your sorry
but what for
What is it you want
Nothing
is in your mind
You did it cause you wanted it
and you needed it
and why was it that you needed it
wanted it
Was it your life blood
your first born child
Your need
Your. Insessant. Need.
something you can
not
live without
Something that lives void of yourself
you leave it alone and with yourself You keep it to yourslf
But you didn't give it your all
You just gave it up
and that's fine
because it's what you wanted
what you needed
I believe that
truely
truely that you need
and want
and what of me
Don't I
want
need
No
never

-Matthew Koutzun

(There is actually a funny story behind this poem. I wrote it while drunk at a friends party about a few months ago- or it could be a year already. It's the only thing I've written while under the influence and I was pretty impressed about how it turned out. I'm poetic even while under the influence! But I'm too afraid to try it again, I don't need dependancy issues... and I can do it sober anyway!)

Discovery

Discovery

It's in your chest.
And it's truely ironic.
.because it never is really discovered
.because you expected it all along- in your chest
.because it would beat and beat- and pound and pound into existance
.because you needn't search- since that beating in your heart- and that essance coming from each pound will count
.because the end will never be at the end- in any heart that beats and pounds
.because the end of discovery- is nearer than you think
.because the end of discovery is at the
.begin

-Matthew Koutzun

(P.S. All the lines that continue should go to the next line... just pretend that they continue on straight; that was the original intention of this piece. Damn Blogger for the small margins I have to work with; but can't be confined to a box!)

Here: Last

Here: Last

I guess I am
Your Last Chance
After forty
Alone
Your Bliss
The Safe Gaurd
When no one is there
To put up with you
Being here is an
occupation
You'd never know
It's hard work
To keep track of hurt
of pain
of mild
and minor
hard
and soft
occurances that baffle
To keep them straight
and resemble
and piece
them into something
that may
be

-Matthew Koutzun

The Day You Found Out (A Poem in Three Parts)

The Day Your Found Out

"Papa, do you love me?"
"Yes, I love you."
"Papa, you said that awfully fast," you whined,
"You didn't even think about it."
To which he replied:
"You were a mistake."

The Other Day You Found Out

"Darling, whom I have loved
and given everything to,
sacrificing all my well being,
do you love me?"
"No."

The Last Day You Found Out

"God-"

-Matthew Koutzun

Prevention

Prevention

Tonight I got depressed:
I picked my nose-
no one told me to stop.

-Matthew Koutzun

An Exchange in the Night

An Exchange in the Night

Two dark forces-
an exchange in the night;
neither a blessing,
neither a plight.

A coming together-
a meeting of one;
either a daughter,
either a son.

A culmination-
of ripe fluid;
some driping,
most mixing.

And now-
it's witnessed;
all gauking,
all approving.

They've all-
been there before;
perhaps not now,
perhaps later.

-Matthew Kouztun

(This Post is also based on a painting I've done recently, so yeah. It's pretty blunt the painting if you read the poem- and kind of graphic if you think about it. So I'll leave it at that. The colour is kind of messed up because of the flash and the lack of light but it's really cool in person!)

The Reasons -or- Relations

The Reasons
-or-
Relations

They lied when they said
it's for sex.
They lied when they said
it's for the touch.
They lied when they said
it's the kiss.

Because it really is
knowing that when you're at a restaurant,
someone will watch your things
while you're in the restroom.

Because it really is
knowing that you can run
for that extra bag of buns
while your other groceries are watched on the till.

Because it really is:
oh you know-
or you will,
when you need someone to watch something.

-Matthew Koutzun