All rights whatsoever in this play are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to MacFarlane Chard Associates, 7 Adelaide Street, Dun Laoghaire, Co Dublin. T: 00 353 1 663 8646 F: 00 353 1 663 8649 www.macfarlane-chard.ie. No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the author’s prior written consent.
Written and Performed by Neil Watkins
Directed by Phillip McMahon
Designed by Ciarán O’Melia
Produced by thisispopbaby
Producers Jenny Jennings and Lara Hickey
Performances:
Queer Notions Festival 2010, 10–11 November 2011, Project Upstairs
Cork Midsummer Festival 2011, 23–25 June 2011, Half Moon Theatre
Outburst Belfast 2011, 20 November 2011, Lyric Theatre, Naughton Studio
Dublin Fringe Festival 2011, 9–17 September 2011, Project Upstairs
Melbourne Midsumma Festival, 17–29 January 2012, Theatre Works
Fringe World Festival Perth, 31 January–11 February, Metcalf Theatre
Sydney Mardi Gras Festival, 14–18 February, Sydney Theatre
Adelaide Fringe Festival, 22 February–18 March, AC Arts
Great Spirit and Great Mystery hear my prayer.
Bless all the beings gathered in this room.
I bid your tastebuds welcome to my womb.
This is my truth. I bare my fruit. Let’s share.
Tonight, Great Spirit. Shine. Infuse my heart
With courage so sublime that I may say
The details of my story and my way.
I am a wanker. Know this from the start.
I am Neil Martin Watkins and I am
A sex and love addicted innocent.
There’s patterns I’ve adopted that would taint the
Love of Saints. I wank, therefore I slam.
It’s normal to love sex; to love to love.
But it’s not healthy when you’re feeling shame;
When sex becomes a drug to kill the pain.
When pain is all your sex life’s smacking of.
I’m into every act the mind can dream.
But intimacy isn’t on the list.
For me to cum, I’m either stoned or pissed.
So I’m not really there to hear my screams.
This intimacy thing flies over my head.
I’m startled by the sight of same-sex bliss.
Why haven’t I been healed by true love’s kiss?
And so I wank because I haven’t wed.
Sure everybody wanks their willy. Right?
And everybody hurts and needs to heal.
But I find healing hurtful. Hurts to feel.
I deal with stuff by wanking day and night.
I’ve got this little ritual. I score
Weed from a dealer, poppers, then begin.
I dress in leather. Get out of my bin.
So, safe in my cocoon, I go to war.
My right hand pulls the trigger. Consummate.
No other hand could possibly compete.
My left hand is in permanent retreat.
Except to feed me weed. I get my hit.
Me laptop’s primary use is finding porn.
The weirder and the sicker does the trick.
You know, like sharp things shoved up through the dick.
Four Windows of Insanity are born.
The icing on the cake for perfect wanks
Is Poppers for that Crystal paradise.
I yield to feel oblivion’s high price.
It’s kind of you to hear me out. My thanks.
I cum and sure it’s brilliant. Love being high.
I love forgetting that my life is shite.
Forget about the money owed, take flight.
And stuff those comedown feelings. I won’t cry.
I’m 33. The age when Jesus died,
Rose from the Dead, ascended out of Hell.
If she can resurrect, I can as well.
Me bell end’s battered and my hands are tied.
There’s nothing like ten years of migraine pain
To needle you and tease a leap of faith.
A White Witch Doctor set with me a date
In Ireland’s garden Wicklow. I’ll explain.
Sweet Medicine Horse Nation is her name.
This woman changed my life forever. Fact.
She held a workshop, this was not an act.
And like the moth I am, I fed her flame.
Inside an earthen teepee twenty prayed
And listened to her ancient wisdom sing.
She’d flown from Oregon, on metal wing
To Ireland for my spiritual upgrade.
My pessimistic pout for the occult
Or anything religious was my shield
To any of the bullshit she might deal.
But I’d an inkling she would bring results.
She looks at me with genuine goodwill.
‘I so desire to say, “look who’s here,”’
Sweet Medicine addresses me. I fear
That she will say a queer gives her a chill.
Instead she glows. ‘I thought that you’d be shy.
My people hold your kind in high regard.
We call you Winkta, Twin Spirited. Scarred
Though you are, you’re angelic. You’re God’s child.’
Moth to the flame I fly now. My sad heart
Begins to heal as I unfeel the mean
And nasty lessons of the Pope’s regime.
Sweet Medicine continues in her art.
‘You are evolved. It is your last time here.
You are a woman’s spirit, and a man’s.
You are Winkta, God’s servant, and you can
Be who you are, be kinky or be queer.’
Now obviously she doesn’t speak in rhyme.
But what’s a little poetry ’tween friends.
Sure Sweetie wouldn’t mind these odds and ends.
She’d say no finer way to paint that time.
Take stock, give thanks and dream your precious dreams.
For who’s to say your dream life isn’t real.
And that this is the dream. It’s time to deal
And to let go of past complaints. So scream.
I smoke some dream tobacco. And I dream
My mother sits beside me watching porn.
We’re smoking joints. Somehow I’ve got a horn.
‘So this is what you’re into, son. Extreme.’
Me mammy’s right. This nightmare of her sees
Some fetish porn. It even bothers me.
It’s one giant slug all dressed up rubbery,
Alright enough, Wake up, ASAP.
A fetish slug, alright, you know…it’s fine.
And perched above the slug there sits my debt.
In garish digital my debt is set.
My mother’s off her box and I am dying.
A magpie taps the roof. Then I’m awake.
The countryside is silent. It is dawn.
I make my way into the kitchen’s warmth.
Sweet Medicine is there. She sees me shake.
Just us alone. The morning bares my soul.
I sense that she has seen the dream I’ve held.
I tell her every detail. I’m compelled.
Her tone is tender. And her words are gold.
I want to extricate my clustered thoughts.
There’s nobody around, It’s not yet 8.
‘Sweet Medicine I would like to be raped.
Does that mean that I’m bad? ’Coz I’m distraught.’
She doesn’t flinch. I’ve taken quite the chance.
‘Raped as a child you were, my husband too,
He prayed for violation, just like me.
Explore that, you are free to be, so dance.’
Permission from the light to be so dark.
God’s servant, Sweetie lets me make the choice
To live inside the consequence. Rejoice.
I’m free to be a dirty little… ‘Hark,
‘Not dirty,’ suggests Sweet Medicine, ‘explore.’
I don’t recall that I was raped I say.
‘You were,’ she gently tells me. ‘There’s no way
That I was raped. Molested. Yes.’ No more
Is said about this and I have to wait.
Until some memory invades my day.
I thought he just molested me but hey.
Why would you want to know when you were eight?
It is a council flat where I reside.
Since I confessed to having HIV
My family all agree it should be me
Who holds the fort for Grandad who’s just died.
Somehow the Council buy he’s still alive.
No legal right have I to warm his bed.
But I sure need a place to rest my head.
I couldn’t just inherit it. I lie.
The rent’s still paid by ‘Grandad’…hardly costs.
This flat; two bedrooms, on two floors. It’s bang
Right in the heart of Dublin town. I hang
Out on the balcony and smoke. I’m lost.
I cannot go on living in this town.
Why did they have to give the flat to me?
It’s very rough. No place for me to be.
This posh puff is so easily put down.
Grandparents dead. Me in their bed…a queer.
My granny died when I was diagnosed.
So I could cry and nobody would know
That my tears were for her and my new fear.
It’s magic ’coz the flat is right beside
The centre for those who have HIV.
I go there for my meals. I get them free.
You could say that I’m lucky. God provides.
The Council after two years have copped this
And wish for me to leave. It’s time to go.
I’m shocked. This is so sudden. I don’t know
Where I’ll end up. I fear the street’s abyss.
I have until February to leave.
And with this news my disposition lifts.
I get a job as Santa giving gifts.
December and I’m broke.
I’m Santy in the Wax Museum. It’s true.
My friend Patricia says she has a gig.
This isn’t anything too strange. A wig.
Another frock. This is the job I do.
We strike a pose with Bono and The Edge.
Madonna would collapse. The state of her.
It’s nothing strange. Another frock and wig.
Just like that drag act that I used to do.
We come to life and put the fear of God
Into the old and young. It matters none
’Coz it’s escape and this is giddy fun.
It’s like we’re cumming up, the laughs. I plod
Along till Christmas comes then I succumb.
I’m trying not to notice but it’s cold.
Another year without someone to hold.
You’d think by now the drugs would leave me numb.
I make a stab at rescuing my health.
My HIV’s under control with pills
But it’s my attitude to it that’s ill.
I’m tired of studying its stain in stealth.
Do yoga for an hour every day.
One week I live like this. I feel divine.
I wonder will I keep up this routine?
The weekend comes. The addict has her way.
A party in a fancy part of town.
A penthouse, it is homo wall to wall.
And yeah the yoga gives me pick of all.
I choose the one who’s dark. When I sit down,
He smoothly takes position straight ahead.
I rise to meet him. Want to give my all.
He offers me cocaine but I’m appalled.
That turns me to a cunt. I’ll drink instead.
But go ahead. I say. Just not my drug.
I’ll have some of that joint that he’s got there.
Within a very short time I’m aware
I’ve one thing on my mind. And it’s bear hugs.
He offers coke again, so I say yes.
Then ketamine, more grass. Wired. I confide
To him, my handsome black-haired bear and ride
‘I knew you in a past life.’ I’m a mess.
He says he’d really love to play with me.
But since his boyfriend’s here. It can’t be done.
This always happens. They ruin all the fun.
Fuck boyfriends. Ah but magic number three.
Your boyfriend is my type as well. Ah tits.
My bear is now unconscious on the couch.
And I am on my chair. I’m in a slouched
Presentiment. Then home alone in bits.
On alcohol, on ketamine, on coke.
On poppers, on my own, on with the porn.
On headshop herbal smoke, I am reborn.
On x-tube I’m abused and used by ghosts.
Projectile vomit onto my laptop.
I puke some more into a plastic bag.
The porn still plays. I mop up with a rag.
I take more poppers. Really I can’t stop.
I drain my Santy’s sack in Satan’s gaze.
I guess this is taboo for Christian boys.
Who wouldn’t love intense transgressive toys?
I clench my jaw, and roar. My lamp’s ablaze.
Look I’m no muscle Mary. God I wish.
But I love big and scary. You’re a lash.
I’d love to lick your boots, sir, nice moustache.
You look like Freddy Krueger. He’s a dish.
I’ve got some coke. Let’s play like blokes. You’re hot.
You’ve HIV? Yea, me as well. It’s cool.
You know they only changed that awful rule.
The Visa ban is lifted.
Yer man, Obama, restored hope in me.
Now I can see the States despite my blood.
I can live in America. It’s good.
The world got bigger this January.
You’re hotter than a double whopper meal.
It’s nice to meet you, Rick. You kiss so well.
I’m Neil. Ich bin lihr houndin. Ring my bell.
I love the way your leather looks and feels.
Destiny has joined us don’t you think?
I live in Dublin. But I’m moving here.
New York is so much better if you’re queer.
To moving here. Cheers, Rick. You’re slick. Cheers. Clink.
I’m here on tour. I’m in a show. Ten days.
We tour the world. Well, let’s just say, my dream
Came true this week. It really makes me beam.
Do you believe in magic, Rick? Yea, same.
I’m grateful everyday for stuff I’ve got.
Just like the flat that keeps me safe ’n warm.
I give thanks for ten things. Yeah ten’s the norm.
I then give thanks for ten things I have not.
A decent home, a boyfriend, holidays.
These last few days I prayed that my mentor
Would come. And lead me through the magic door.
I prayed that he would be a genius gay.
John Cam’ren Mitchell came to see the show.
You know him. Good. He’s great. You know his stuff?
I feel like he’s instilled in me self-worth.
He took me out to dinner. I’m like Whoa.
His Hedwig, and, well Shortbus I just love.
I said, I love your work. And he said, you’re
Performance was like poetry…yes sir.
John Cam’ren Mitchell came from up above.
It’s not like this stuff happens all the time.
We go to the Cornelia St Cafe.
It’s where he first performed back in the day.
We sit right down the back. The food and wine
Is lovely. So is he. I don’t feel he is
Playing or objectifying me.
Well, says he.
The movie is called Rabbit Hole. So see,
This was a play on Broadway with your one,
Cynthia Nixon. Rick, sir, I am mix-
Ing with the leader of my A-Gay List.
I ask who’s in the flick? Nicole Kidman.
My heart just does a high jump to my throat.
And Aaron Eckhart’s in it. Diane Wiest.
First John. Now you. I’m floored, to say the least.
Sex and the City. Rick, you got a note?
I will do anything you want, so here.
Put on your monster mask. Come home to bed.
You’re Freddy. Rape my soul. And fuck my head.
I’ve always wanted to get fucked by fear.
I love you, Freddy Krueger. Thank you, Fred.
Oh thank you, Freddy Teddy. Make me die.
Your fingernails are kissing me goodbye.
Oh thank you, Freddy. Fuck me till I’m dead.
I’m such a lucky fucking little bitch.
Oh Freddy, I’m your faggot. Fist my soul.
I’m worthless and I’m nothing. Make me whole.
I’m cumming, Freddy Daddy, scratch my itch.
Oh Daddy Freddy, Baby loves to pop.
My little dicky wicky sicky oh.
I’m sorry. I’m a faggot. Fuck me… No.
Oh God. Sweet Jesus. Rick. This has to stop.
HEIDI: Oh Neil, you’re such a wanker.
NEIL: Shut up Konnt.
HEIDI: Just call me Heidi. Neil you never call.
NEIL: Because you’re not my friend.
HEIDI: Ah Neil. Zat all?
Zat all the thanks you give me?
NEIL: I’ll be blunt.
Miss Konnt, you’re my addiction. You’re insane.
HEIDI: The friction Neil, my God, what brought this on?
NEIL: Get off the stage.
HEIDI: You need my rage. Come on.
NEIL: I’d like to try to have sex without pain.
Alternative Miss Ireland was a scream.
This pageant raised some funds for HIV.
I won as Heidi Konnt. So I could be somebody when I
went out on the scene.
HEIDI: I see.
NEIL: Now, Heidi, look we’ve had our fun.
HEIDI: I gave you the best handjobs, Neil. Fuck you.
You faggot little wanker. ‘I’m so true.’
You tell the people all the things you’ve done?
NEIL: I have.
HEIDI: Oh no you haven’t.
NEIL: Yes I have.
HEIDI: Oh no you haven’t.
NEIL: Yes I have.
HEIDI: You have?
NEIL: Oh yes I have.
HEIDI: Oh no you’ve not.
NEIL: I have.
NEIL: I haven’t.
HEIDI: Well I have.
NEIL: Where did you get that?
HEIDI: Fuck sake, Neil, let go.
You know you love your joints. He does.
NEIL: I did.
I’ve knocked that on the head.
HEIDI: Please, Neil, don’t kid
A kidder. Kiddy Fiddler Heidi knows.
NEIL: I’m not a kiddy fiddler, Heidi Konnt.
HEIDI: Alas, when you’ve been fiddled, you will too.
NEIL: I’ve worked this with my therapist. Not true.
Fuck you, there’ll be no smoking.
HEIDI: But I want to.
NEIL: I won’t let you do another show.
HEIDI: It’s ’coz I am a woman. You’re ashamed
Of femininity. How could you blame
Me for my need for love, my need to grow.
I only want to give you sex, Neil.
NEIL: Stress.
HEIDI: Remember how it feels tied up by thugs.
Or Daddy types, or half-retarded mugs?
You loved that cop from Kerry.
NEIL: Heidi?
HEIDI: Yes?
NEIL: I’ll tell the story.
HEIDI: Tell it gay face then.
NEIL: The cop was a distraction from my shit.
HEIDI: The cop was fucking cute. Mad out of it.
He rode you up the gick.
The only reason that I gave a shit
About that guy was –
HEIDI: you thought he was straight? –
NEIL: No mate. I fancied we might have a date.
He was a guard. That got me hard. Now split!
HEIDI: Okay relax. It’s just a fucking play.
NEIL: You aren’t in this play.
HEIDI: I make more cash
Than all your faggy acting gigs.
NEIL: I’ll bash
Your fucking head in Konnt. Now take
A Heidi hike. I made you.
HEIDI: So you’d think?
I’m what you think of girls. Your mother here
Tonight to see your wank? You mincing queer.
NEIL: She’s not invited.
HEIDI: Not without a drink.
Is this not what it’s all about? Your shame
Is with your mother. Don’t you miss her love?
Before you got your kicks from rubber gloves.
NEIL: It’s your hand that I wank with. You’re to blame.
HEIDI: Neil fantasises that he is a child.
Who’s getting baby-sat by skinheads.
NEIL: Stop.
HEIDI: That time Neil spent the night with that cute cop,
Neil’s fantasy, even for me, too wild.
NEIL: Konnt leave me be.
HEIDI: Sweet Neil, I keep you safe.
Without me, Neil, your mother would be dead.
I save her from you when I’m in your head.
NEIL: That isn’t true, Konnt. You begin to chafe.
HEIDI: The night that Neil spent with the cop. The cop’s
Asleep. So Neil wanks on the sleeping guard.
Imagines he’s got down’s syndrome, he’s mad,
Our Neil, a pervert through and through, can’t stop.
Neil, tell me how you’re feeling.
Ah, Neil, please don’t ignore me.
NEIL: Miss Konnt, if you don’t go, I’ll kill us both.
HEIDI: Sweet Medicine says suicide is wrong.
It’s fine. I’m off. Go have your wank-a-thon.
You’ll never get your intimacy, Neil.
A head like yours can’t deal with stuff that’s real.
But, by all means, I dare you, prove me wrong.
Shit. Sorry I’m late. Twenty past twelve.
I smoked some blow this morning but I’m grand.
Had coffee. Sue, I do not understand
Why I’m still here. This has been, fucking hell,
Three, four, five, years confessing all my fears,
My shame, my secrets. And what must you think?
I watched The Hours twice this week. I’m sink-
Ing slowly into my worst rut in years.
Mark doesn’t want to go out anymore.
Not that we really dated. Just two nights.
His core belief is no gay person’s right.
He wouldn’t let me sleep with him. I roared
And shouted while I walked home drunk. The flat.
They’ve still not let it out. Nobody there.
At least I didn’t have to pay cab fare.
That’s where I crashed ’coz I was mashed. That’s that.
I smashed a cup. I just want to have sex.
I just want to wake up in someone’s arms.
I always pick the thicks. Mark meant no harm.
He sort of has a boyfriend. I’m perplexed.
They always have a boyfriend. Or they’re weird.
Or unavailable emotion’lly.
Am I emotionally present, free?
I guess I’m not. That’s why I grow my beard.
To hide. Where I have moved isn’t as rough.
But still not great. Got called a faggot when
I left the house today. No, they weren’t men.
They were just kids, at play. Hi, Faggot, Puff.
I daren’t interfere. They’ve got tough clans.
I cannot even go out my front door.
That is fucking disgraceful. Sue. I swore,
Fuck them and fuck this world. I wash my hands.
Mark’s lovely but I guess he’s not my style.
The fantasy of someone who’s got class.
But can’t imagine him raping my ass.
Essentially, my taste in sex is vile.
Sure I’ve been on a wank binge since last week.
Like, Mark was not that frightening. But stoned
I fantasised he was a thug. I moaned
And shot my load. My headache eased. Eurek…
Perhaps there’s something in this. Like, perhaps
My higher self loves S & M. Combine
Some whipping with vanilla love. Divine.
Perhaps I won’t need drugs to wear my chaps.
I keep recalling when I was abused.
His name was also Mark. Do I attract
And recreate him? Because their names match.
Okay that part is normal. So I choose
To recreate the sense of shame. That’s great.
I’m fine. No, something has come up. I see
Him jump out from behind a door. Marky
Has heard me telling all my friends. He’ll bait
Me if I say another word. I got
A fright. How could a person be so mean?
It’s like being chased by Freddy in a dream.
How can a person interfere like that?
What? What? What you just said. Say it again.
That Freddy Krueger cannot penetrate
Your dreams. That’s lovely. Look, it’s getting late.
Just need to get my self in shape. And then
I will be off. He cannot penetrate
My dreams. It’s so poetic. So this means
That my abuser cannot have my dreams.
I want to thank you for these words. They’re great.
But I can’t go just yet. What’s with this flood?
It’s been locked up inside of me so long.
It isn’t right to interfere. It’s wrong.
I don’t know why I’m crying. For my blood.
You’re not supposed to touch a kid down there.
I trusted him and I looked up to him.
I liked him touching me. Now that’s the sin.
I liked it. And I wanted more. So there.
Come ’ere you. You’re my best and oldest friend.
You know I love you, don’t you. But I can’t
Go on your stag night. See this sycophant’s
An elephant. It’s time to make amends.
There’s too much going on inside my head.
I’m trying not to drink or smoke the blow.
So if it’s cool with you. I cannot go.
And to be honest I’d rather be dead
Than be stuck on a stag night with the lads.
Such male machismo bullshit. Titty bars.
And shots and driving round in racing cars.
It’s not my thing. Big toys for boys. It’s sad.
I can’t afford it anyway. No way
I’m just about surviving in this kip.
How can I justify a little trip?
I won’t regret it on my deathbed. Hey.
You’re not losing your friends. It’s just too much.
So have your stag in Ireland. Just one night.
Then everyone could make it. Now, I’m right.
This fashion for big stags is out of touch
With the recession. One would think that you
And other grooms and brides would play it down.
You’ve got a text. No, check it. I won’t frown.
Who is it? Oh Bom Bum. He’s overdue.
He’s not been round in ages, then he swans
Into your life just for your stag. That’s bull.
Now he can’t go because his workload’s full.
I do not want his ticket. Please come on.
So even if it’s free. I hate stag nights.
They’re shite. You’ve been through therapy. These days
Are tough and I’ve enough of holding face.
Old memories are surfacing. Alright.
Je hear that young McGinley broke his back?
Your Ma was telling my Ma there at mass.
Remember how we bet McGinley’s ass?
Sure we were only messing, having craic.
But, sorry, we were cunts to deaf John Dunne.
Je’member I sprayed fart gas on his coat?
Knocked in for him, ‘Is Bom Bum coming out?’
Sure everybody bullied poor Bom Bum.
Don’t make me go. I’ll be there the big day.
I’ll dance and sing, I’ll mind the ring. Please don’t.
Bom Bum can get a refund if he wants.
I’d have to pay him back. Stop trying to sway
Me. Please don’t make me go. Okay, then. Fine.
But know I’m only doing this for you.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. So who
Exactly will be going? There’ll be Brian…
Do any of them smoke the whacky? Well,
Here, find out how we’ll get some or I’m fucked.
I need to have the option so just look
Into it, will you, and I’ll go. With bells.
Is the accommodation paid in Spain?
What airline? Ryanair. Oh nice. Fuck no.
The colour scheme is Fisher Price. I’ll go.
I’ll just get drunk before I board the plane.
Now listen to me, pal, this breaks my heart.
It seems that I’ve a problem with…well…cock.
The truth is…I’m sure it comes as no shock…
My therapist has said that I should start
To work the steps, that I’ve become, well…hooked
To porn and dirty weekends and to reef.
I’m stony broke. I’m wallowing in grief.
Addicted to my dick. You see I’m fucked.
I have a lot of stuff to process. So.
I’m striving to acknowledge my gay shame.
I’ll be there on your stag. Right. But don’t blame
Me if I take an early night. I’ll go.
HEIDI: My dear beloved gathered here today.
What can I say? Neil Watkins loved a wank.
The church is black. So I’ll crack off. I thank
You all for coming. All; straight, bi and gay.
Your Holiness, Pope Ratzinger, the Cunt.
You’re very welcome. Watkins loved your work.
From Sesame Street, Bigbird, Ernie, Bert.
And all the Muppets sitting in the front.
Please put your hands together. Elton John,
Tom Selleck, Mickey Mouse and Bernie Dunne.
She isn’t famous. Listen. She’s just from
Neil’s estate. State. I can’t get through so long
A list of Nobel-winning scientists.
And politicians, porn stars, paedophiles.
If Neil were here, I know he’d wear a smile.
I knew him well. It’s hard to swallow this.
The death of Watkins is a blow to all.
Nelson Mandela says he can’t go on.
The Dalai Lama’s gone and bought a gun.
And Nickie Kidman won’t return my calls.
Oh what a lovely wanker. Blond and Kind.
He grappled with his gearstick. But, alas.
Neil Watkins wanked with a degree of class.
He gave himself to wanking. Wanked his mind.
His very name revealed an anagram.
‘Silent I wank’. The letters jumbled round
Disclosed Neil’s special role. So he did pound
His pound of flesh, his little leg of lamb.
That lanky laddy wanked his wand and waved
Like Voldemort himself casting a spell.
With Michael Jackson, Neil resides in hell.
He was found on a cross, he died a slave.
The wanking couldn’t get Neil’s fire lit.
In his last days he searched for something more.
So on the internet he found amore.
A man who promised crucifixion’s hit.
He looked just like a paedophile might look.
Old, bald and fat, with glasses and red nose.
He stood and watched while Neil removed his clothes.
His dog barked out the back. Neil Watkins took
Out from his pocket pre-rolled joints. And smoked.
The crucifier once had been a priest.
And nailing Jesus to the cross released
For him a sense of love. Neil tried to cope
As finger nails clawed deep into his chest.
His arms tied to the cross, he was the Lord.
And Satan was the paedophile who gnawed
Into the face of rape, and hate. Impressed?
Neil didn’t fight the pain that swarmed his thoughts.
He felt just like a virgin. Felt so pure.
Like he had been enlightened. He’d been cured.
He’d finally found the love oft he had sought.
He died there on the cross, and flew to rest
And finally knew that he was Christ indeed.
I took him down. And watched Sweet Jesus bleed.
At thirty-three, molested, freed and blessed.
Some call it S & M. I call it love.
Neil Watkins didn’t fight our Father’s call.
And he embraced the light. And rose to fall.
He’ll come again of course. As God above.
I don’t know many people who were not
Abused. That’s just being Irish. Forty shades
Of shame. We all submit when men invade.
Rape is the culture that we know. So blot
Out all that pain with all your might and drown
In drink. Our water’s blessed with alcohol.
Don’t think. Just stay asleep. Do not recall
The way you felt when you were small. Play down.
Sure is it any wonder it’s called locked?
The Irish have so many words for drunk.
So many words for cum and jip and spunk.
The drugs make porn seem real. No websites blocked.
I spunk another chunk. I beat the meat.
Ten times repeat. The sheet has not been changed
In bleeding weeks. Me Ma would freak. Deranged,
I piss into a bottle. I’m not neat.
It’s just a thing I do from time to time.
It’s my idiosyncrasy. Sure who
Does not enjoy a little crutch. Eschew
This practice? This keeps me alive.
I used to be good looking. But who cares.
I’ll die soon with some luck. Won’t have to face
Up to the years I’ve put on weight. My waist
Is fine. It keeps the predators in their
Apartments. Out of mine. Can’t give them AIDS.
I call it AIDS sometimes. I know I’m fine.
I shouldn’t have told anyone. To thine
Own self be false and to them all. Display
A milky mask of cow manure and moo.
Why can’t I just get on with life? There’s queers
Are riddled years and they seem grand. It’s fear
That keeps me locked inside my rut. I know.
I watch the real boys pick each other up.
I am the last of the great gay ashamed.
I do not understand the dating game.
I’ve only ever known the sick pick-up.
Was phone lines first, my first fuck an old man.
I hated him. But thought I better, well,
Who knew when I would get another yell?
On toilet doors were numbers scribbled and
I followed the instructions. Then the parks.
All my seductions, shadows in the shade.
And degradation paid for my free trade.
And then just boozy, druggy, sleazy lark.
I always had a good time. In my head.
I liked to feel afraid. Adventure play.
I did eventually date this guy.
He never kissed. I stayed three years. Then fled
Because I fancied someone straight. They say
That’s symptomatic of self-hate. Do they?
I’m not a sex-and love-addicted freak.
I’ll have a healthy love life by next week.
She doesn’t say I love you more than God.
Her word is ‘Fuck’. I’m seventeen. I cry.
My father has a breakdown. I decide,
‘Return to Narnia.’ May my façade
Remain a closet where I weep and sleep.
I am too much for Mam and Dad to take.
The atmosphere at home is of a wake.
I’ve really let them down. Their hurt is deep.
They seek a local doctor’s sound advice.
I see a psychotherapist for help.
And we agree the ice had best not melt.
I date a few more girls for Jesus Christ.
My coming out had not been a success.
‘My God is telling me that you’re not gay.
I know it in my heart that you’re okay.’
My mother’s tears have power to suppress.
Who can I sue or blame for this abuse?
Just like the time when I thought I should broach
The subject of being fondled by the coach.
She ran out of the house. So I produced
A fabrication. My ’magination
Let run loose. I make her estimation
Not so devastating. She comes back home.
She grabs the phone. She calls his Mom. Psycho.
Some poor old woman and my poor young Mam
Are losing all the love they’d won in prayer.
This isn’t news of any gay affair.
You’re son’s a paedophile. An evil man.
Mam’s threatening to kill both her and him.
‘I’ll tear your son asunder limb from limb.’
It isn’t any wonder she’s dismayed.
Nevertheless, I feel like I’ve betrayed.
The same thing when I said I’d HIV.
I’m not as angry with my Dad. ’Coz he
Stays calm these days when I’m in need. Oh sure.
I’m hypersensitive. I’m insecure.
Embrace whatever lonely fat old man
Will take control of me. I understand.
I’m acting out my nightmare. This is how
I cope. Don’t feel. ’Coz feeling’s not allowed.
Sometimes my parents cross my mind in sex.
What can I do? Each morning with my ex
Was like I woke up with my Dad. Could be
That’s normal, possibly, conceivably?
So silent I wank floor-bound in Paris.
Some French leather Daddy is slaughtering me.
I capitalise on the pain I feel.
A nameless exchange with a stranger. Big deal.
Sweet Medicine said accept my desire.
I crawled on the floor, then he killed his fire
Four times on my arm. Which scars. But no harm.
There’s cigarette burns on my forearm. Yes, charmed?
Monsieur is asleep with his husband all warm.
Silent I wank on the floor. It’s like porn.
Sun’s coming up, so I get dressed and split.
The addict’s been fed. Her fire is lit.
A weekend in Paris binge-fucking is slick.
Where nobody knows me, or knows that I’m sick.
Not that you would ever catch me taking a chance.
But we all take a risk when we dance in our pants.
Last tango in Paris for me and for me…
I grab a cab in search of chi.
I, like,…meditate in Père Lachaise.
I listen to Jim Morrison, he says,
‘Heal, Heal, Heal, Neil, if Christ could be
A Jew born to a Virgin, and be me.
He sure as hell can be a riddled gay.
They only washed your brain so they could stay
‘In power. They’re devouring themselves.
The ones who criticise are stuck in hell.’
I’m suddenly officially the Christ.
I sense a bit of pressure. But it’s nice.
Here yous, I’ve got the need for weed.
My head is pounding off of me.
Roll up, roll up, roll up the green.
The universe is loving me.
It’s August. I’m in Finland. Drunk.
Got thrashed with twigs by naked men.
And jumped into a lake. I froze.
But it feels good to live again.
It’s 3 a.m. No orgy in my room.
The hotel carpark down below…shows
Three skateboarders smoke. They’re chilled.
From three flights up I smell the blow.
Forget about my fear. I want
To get out of my head. Hi there.
You guys from Finland? Have some sweets.
Would you be so kind as to share?
The marijuana kills my pain.
These headaches are a fucking curse.
These lads seem nice. There’ll be no fight.
I say I’m gay. They’re all adverse.
But they’re too stoned to raise a hand.
We don’t like gays. We think it’s wrong.
And monged I say. I understand.
There’s people I hate too. It’s grand.
I tell them that I do gay plays.
All their faces are dead. They look like this.
I look dead too. So we liaise.
One takes his cock out, has a piss.
They’re fifteen, sixteen, thereabouts.
No sexy feelings for these teens.
I like my men post-puberty.
When they’re older, they can treat me mean.
They’re just three stoners. I’m some fag.
I ask them what their passions are.
One loves his skateboard. One can’t speak.
And the other says that drugs by far
Are all he does day in day out.
That drugs are totally what life is.
His pal butts in and says he’s hooked.
The silent skater shows unease.
I’m totally stoned. Now I’m on fire.
We hang by trashcans, carpark’s dark.
A bit of light…the hotel sign.
This lad’s too young. I must remark.
‘You think that you love drugs. You don’t.
You’re on the run from painful shit.’
His pal chimes in. ‘He’s got a problem.’
‘Me as well,’ I say, ‘Let’s quit.’ He’s got a problem, man.
Don’t be like me. My life’s a mess.
Because I ran away from pain.
Don’t you see that I was sent to warn you?
This is huge. It’s massive. ‘Don’t you see, we’re the same?’
The one who can’t speak faints at my feet.
My words are blowing his mind. ‘I’m Christ.’
I say. ‘My words have just blown his mind. He’s just getting a healing. Let me deal with him. Back off. He’s like ice.’
I say that my power has even scared me.
One translates what I say. When the other’s, like, what?
Now he’s conscious again, Mr. Silent is like,
Get your hands off my chest. Whoops, I forgot.
I’m stoned. I’m Christ. Ascend to bed.
I long for porn to soothe my shame
The shame that I must come again.
Again. Again. Again. Again.
In bed I wank and act out hurt.
Need better props to get me there.
Next week, I’ll get some crystal meth.
Some problems are beyond repair.
Because I could not stop Miss Konnt
I had to stop us both.
I tied a rope around our throat
And eased the pain with dope.
My dearest darling Mother,
How I wished I had been good.
I cannot go on troubling you.
Your lot’s more than enough.
You’re from the time when little girls
Were not allowed to smile.
You’re not to blame, Mam, for my pain.
I’m sorry. I’ve been vile.
Now I’m released. So you’ll have peace.
It’s better where I am.
No need to honour monsters now.
Sweet Jesus understands.
My obsession with The Hours,
It’s that film that I love,
Has finally come to this, my death.
What was I thinking of?
I’ve watched it every week for years.
Since headaches first appeared.
Virginia Woolf knew pain like mine.
And voices ’tween her ears.
You’ve given tears straight from your heart.
God drove us round the bend
And built a wall between our hearts.
In heaven we’ll be friends.
Watch Rabbit Hole. It stars Nicole.
It will help with your grief.
It’s all about bereavement.
It will change your core beliefs.
This pain has driven me insane.
I tried to find a cure.
I couldn’t give up wanking, Mam.
It’s just how I’ve matured.
I couldn’t help my isolation.
And I hate that you could see
The way your little flower waned
To mediocrity.
I hope my suicide works out.
I’ll be scarlet if it doesn’t.
Just one more act of shame to share
With aunties and with cousins.
God says that I am not the Christ.
It’s just me being mad.
So now I take my punishment
In purgatory’s hands.
Last October my friend knew that I was depressed. So she invited me to join her on a trip out to Swords, Co. Dublin to a warehouse normally reserved for dog-shows. In order to get a hug from an Indian lady called Amma. The usual Friday night out, you know.
Turns out Amma is known as ‘The Hugging Saint’. It’s said that her hugs are healing. That night, thousands had shown up for a spiritual squeeze. And Jacinta and I waited in line until four in the morning along with all these people dressed in cloaks and sandals, with little dots on their forehead. We basically took the piss out of all of them.
When Amma hugged me, I felt this huge sense of…relief. I felt a very deep feeling of…unconditional love.
The following night at home, I was having a dream about Jacinta. I dreamt she was putting giant multi-colored curtain tassels around her neck. And I don’t know why but, I thought that this was the funniest thing ever. I laughed so much in my dream that I woke myself up.
I sat up in my bed, laughing to myself in the dark. My heart was heaving with happiness.
At the foot of my bed, I saw an orange glow. And in the glow I saw the face of Amma. This wasn’t a dream.
And Amma’s face turned into the face of Jesus and back again. And they said to me, ‘Neil, do you still want to die?…because you can come with us now…’ And I’m genuinely afraid that my time is up. And I push myself to speak. ‘No,’ I say, ‘I want to stay.’ And Jesus and Amma reply as one, ‘Then tell your story.’