‘Empty Diaries 2001-2008’ by Robert Sheppard

Empty Diaries 2001-2008


2001: Zoë the Dial-up Camwhore


Zoë puts me up for it to accept that consensual sex once

means that any future sex act is with the man’s consent

I misread the signs (as ever) Plunderhead’s boys

are hooked up to drips under spotlights if only I’d known

that on my first occasion feeling critical pulses against

my tongue watching the pegging vid now I know

what to do with them chained drugged sperm donors


so what does that make the rest of us for a good wipe

as I watch Chloë’s lips slurping round Fuckeye

perhaps they’ll tell me the truth just what they feel

about our black ops our attempts to hack reality

in the enslaved language of restless digital natives

with their flesh heaving love for puppet pricks I’m

the top of a head bobbing in the background (again)



2002: The Icel Sock Puppet Texts Herself to Virginity


Fuckeye stuffs his shitty fingers into Chloë’s mouth


Zoë laughs into my body wrist-fucking my hand divests

the rest and reveals my no-frills gristle and cheap cut

real women face blank screens in this common year

their frozen computers feed mouse clickety-clicks

like high heels on a scrotum but the carpet spills

their fluency of flesh that cannot be contained as

I involve them in palindrome attacks on Chechnya’s

Moscow-backed government sites Brontë’s tongue wish-washes

her specialist taste I generate subtitles with every blog post

which roll along beneath me like a red carpet of breaking news

the cold call in my pocket gets a frosty response

making even Stonehead gasp as he fingers his pebbles and I

turn and twist to spin on the pin of his direction



2003: Chloë in the Sapiosexual Chatroom


the pump pulls me inside out and everything falls out

like laughter but I don’t split my sides my foeticidal side

looks away as whatever happens happens I’ll be a

big regina in your retinue wrenching my guts and pushing

creation out towards your eye with false accusations flawed

medical evidence failures of the legal system and

killings of women and girls that share similar features

which debase everything before sisterly lust for Papa’s big prick

a salving tongue cat-licks the evidence it destroys the case

pretending that the clinical turns carnival by design

skinny women are evil so I make damn sure I spill out

of my dreamtime basque into reality as Chloë says

she will never be well again until her relationship to the

city brings an eye-catching lining that gapes as you gawp



2004: Fuckeye Watches Zoë’s Dark Tourism Podcast


women traditionally wait on the beaches to unload

the fish from the boats the mirror on the ceiling

catches my wide mouth few women can swim tongue

out licking the air flapping stud amazed the area

of avionics integration lacks the gape

drilled by Fuckeye’s engineering


that’s a snowball in Hell and in the hallways of

the graduate schools I’ve captured Zoë’s reality visuals

prior to selection she wins five awards all mouth

and hips the ‘little cunt’ of my navel catches her eye

lends a clarity to this account of women and compass

she watches fascinated as it twitches now I’m

pulling her to the bar to veil reality in my musky hug

I push her head between my breasts to make her cough up



2005: Smart Phone Sexting to Strap-on Brontë


Fuckeye’s wounded oscule knits

a smile cheeky enough to sell

a lack of sex disaggregated data in the shopping

imaginary of my dreamworld in the steamy train

sex video it’s not one of your employees the 53-second

mobile phone clip shows a uniformed woman putting

passengers’ inescular bananas in Plunderhead’s ashen foodtray

Fuckeye shuts it (as instructed) he takes (as punishment) what

I receive (as right) I give him pleasure with my other body

plasticated and shiny legs bulging

as though cramped and surging online where

the guerrilla girls of Venice howl for pity’s sake

a sticky laptop bricks to earth a snowball in hell


he was raw but I was cooked by the end



2006: Lost in Thumb Culture Stonehead Cyberstalks Zoë


I’m raw this time as well rough and rouge dry

on the outside before I’m properly cooked in the middle

moulded up to my breasts for the purpose of execution

the stones used should not be large enough to kill the woman

with one or two strikes when iced bare planes present

her gravel hands she pours onto me like a dump truck

blustering bleeding louder than a pupa prick that can snowball

in high heels re-surfacing my flesh with her studded procedures


from below I watch the soles of his feet sucking the glass ceiling

his beady eyes sunrise out of his crotch and it’s not even a

bad glove’s wave of sexiness that sandwiches me down here

when I am unfinished he will walk over me and say

‘the risk of poverty is greater for women those

full sized midgets with crazy stuff to swallow for real



2007: The Übersexual’s Attention Minutes Expire


I can’t have babies here I’ve had an epiphany I’m not safe

for anything but sex I receive sensation after sensation Bionic

Woman shows off her new belly button striding to meet Poison Woman

in her new Costa short top and short skirt they celebrate the six

uglinesses one of which I am on a web-based directory of local

innovative female rôle models a cantrip a trap a smirking set

of obstacles that Fuckeye kicks Zoë over

so he can see her knickers flash (red)

what is blood-chillingly plain is the end itself upon which

successful local women can act as mentors and bad hair


I notice spittle around her ball gag Chloë adjusts the organs

Plunderhead harvests but most women would benefit from intervention

targeting the effects of the media now Stonehead builds

a billboard in the middle of nowhere to display nothing to no-one



2008: Re-Tweeting Plunderhead to Interracial Creampie Sites


twin moons hung in his oily sky

teasing him with synchronised orbital ripples


I remained in his sights for centuries

taking shape in his heartland

until aroused by an eclipse or a comet

your girl singer varies in sexual hard currency

lusting blind for crowds and daddy’s old fig trick

in the gussets foaming at mealtimes

he stretches to his full intergalactic length

and grabs me pulling like gravity

I soft-land on his lethal injection

cadets in tight pants and strap-on mics

rainbow-feather between the surge of termagants

singing bare-breasted on the streets of Vienna



from ‘Wiped Weblogs: Empty Diaries 2001-2014’



Robert Sheppard’s selected poems History or Sleep are published by Shearsman, who also publish his ‘fictional poems’ supposed to be the work of a Belgian poet, A Translated Man. His autobiographical Words out of Time is published by Knives Forks and Spoons and his critical work The Meaning of Form in Contemporary Innovative Poetry is published by Palgrave (US). ‘Empty Diaries’ is a continuation of the sequence now found in Complete Twentieth Century Blues (Salt). He lives in Liverpool, and is Professor of Poetry and Poetics at Edge Hill University.  



Image credit: Christine und David Schmitt

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