“PURCELL” by LOUIS JONES


Purcell’s fingers tarantula twitch
draining mauve in the pocket of his close fitting tracksuit bottoms;
poor circulation;
mithering at a piggish erection with dictionary definition disdain.
Purcell’s sallow lips purse and thin;
on a cracked black plastic whistle;
to modulate increasingly shrill blasts of spittle sodden disinterest,
brought to issue with a slight slurp;

that drool pools,
on his weak bottom lip
depending on the qualities of the boy shivering in line for the shower

The pipe servicing the urinal trough that runs the length of the wall has leaked ever so slightly all season;
and so Purcell has, really quite entrepreneurially,
had the run off stewing;
in a crusty blue bucket;
for the duration of that mornings training session, and for however fucking far back the team has failed, docile, to perceive total trauma;
Today’s piss;
sat curdling, as froth on the already collected;
slop bucket cushioned by cut wet grass;
slicked to the once white tiling;
steaming;
a small font of sorts;
for a baptism of belittlement in the offing

Purcell will have Andrews;
who pulled on the no. 6 shirt today;
lap sloppily from it.

…Adidas leather boots…
stepping on the back of the boy’s head with a stroppy and saintly fervour;
a bark of laughter clattering back off the tile;
cold muddy studs, prodding,
ludicrously painfully
…stirring purposefully at the boy’s arsehole all the while;
taken in;
up to the blushing knuckle;
warm with the fetid glow of a giddy devotion;

 

 

 

 

Worst interests at heart.
…Purcell did look forward to checking for the stud marks afterward;
as a petulant child rudely unwraps a present on his birthday;
already groping for the next one;
it was the little blue welts that Purcell lived for;
lived off of on winter mornings;
sickening vicarious;
he could, and would, centre part Andrews’ dour bowled mousy hair,
seriously and ultra tender;
as one might check for ticks on a dog.
The dim and clammy egg shell changing rooms clang,
with a manic false chatter;
for instinct dictates that the rest of the development squad spare Andrews’
the additional torment of letting on;
that they have heard all his feckless splashing;
the harrowing hum;
pained groan plumbed from invaded bowel;
risen to throat;…burbling acrid yellow toilet wine…frost bitten hideous feeling and entirely inappropriate joy,
emanating rank from the coach,
taking a hold of the academy premises;
an asbestos of 2nd hand abuses clinging, like paint filings,
to the teammates insides.

All in all, Purcell rarely fucked the squad;
the Kit man Alan had pressed the coach, somewhat snidely,
for an updated injury list late last year;
the seats of a number of the boys clicked polyester shorts had to be put back through the washing machine;
caked as they were in a muddied maroon…

…and besides, Purcell aspired to an ever exacting
and super parred back asceticism now;
lust trepanned;
refined to a septic bubble;
distillation of only the richest abuses;
filed away in thought process synaptic shutter;
not ever just petit pestilential transaction,

 

 

 

 

or communion invert;
never just fluids…

Not that he would have been able to explain any of it, in any clearer terms;
If he could be bothered,
he metered out banalities and coaching manual diatribes only.

No sentiment, for that is not taught and never really learnt;
It is not needed.

Not when you can freeze out a boy,
for an entire season,
after 2 to 3 minutes of pigging rut,
not when you can dish out sneering cock imposition with impunity.

“It” ceased to represent any of all that;
dross;
a dilute of which, makes up a weak foul passion to fuck you;
thick enough;
potent enough;
to destitute a professional,
but little else
self preservation had lost its lustre, a good while a go now, if he was being honest…
To his mind, he coached with more purity than ever;
he goaded;
goaded on the boys’ trauma
and judged impartially that which was other to sex in them;

their skill set,
their movements on and off the ball,
and the desire to win it back,
which could be, and was,judged;
alongside the way their calves and thighs twitched
when they gagged dumbly
in front of the hotly contested changing room mirror.