Andrew Jordan

Inside Mary Millington

We had walked between sites of sexual oppression
believing that where aesthetic consciousness is ruined,
illegitimate art or non-art located
in the body will liberate creation from
aesthetic and thus class based concerns.

We had debated whether the first of these conditions
had been achieved. I didn’t think so but I liked
walking with a picture of her pulling open
her cunt below the low bulk of Fort Southwick.

In photographs, her honesty
and vulnerability are
appealing to all, leaving her wide open.

She was popular.

She embodied freedom without politics
and that was why she had to die.*

* Mary Quilter, known as Mary
Millington, was born on the
30th November 1945. She was
Britain’s first shameless hardcore
porn star. In being a revolutionary
without conceit she was unique.

               The police have framed me yet again. They frighten me so much. I can't face the thought of prison

She freely expressed what had to be allowed.

Now she was hidden and we knew we needed her.

The essence of Mary or the image of Mary;
Mary sublimated. Mary taken from her body.
Mary retrieved as a property of the State
and then enclosed. Her portals in a closed loop
to generate neuroses in the feminine aspect;
that was how we saw it at the time.

We could not find a way into Mary Millington.

I woke from a dream I cannot remember, saying her name.
In my fantasy her openings surfaced at
locations across the Defence estate. Her image,
imprinted over England, had formed into
a giant landscape cunt hung with flaps. There was
at least one portal on Portsdown Hill.

I knew it was there and I could not keep away.

I saw my own tiny form walking into
a great chasm. A bright light shone
along the length of the tunnel. A voice spoke
from the light, it said “Come to me now.”

Stare at a picture of her for any length of time
and you can see how she still accommodates,
though not willingly. It was as if
she were trying to speak to us through her cunt.

The view alone will encourage awe.

It was a Saturday afternoon. We were close to
the oil fuel reservoirs in dense undergrowth.

So much creation has put a wall around her.

I had to visualize Mary and walk across the slope.
“Maintain images of Mary in my head,” I said, “a close-up
of her face bathed me in rays.” Her body is gone
into graphic litho but its vitality is replicated
in a shabby or desperate honesty
like the face of the Queen on the coin of the realm.
Images of her body are a currency. Power flows through her.

You could set out in any direction
and you’d end up at the fifth portal.
This was ostensibly an access shaft to the oil fuel reservoir
but it had been added long after
the OFR was built, “probably in early 1940”
we were told but
this was clearly not the case.

The fifth portal was a decoy.

Gape cunt replica. It was put on display
to make something invisible. Not like Mary.

Neurosis booby trap. Step into it
and your fears are formalised.
You will have the implant, but you won’t know.
If you find it and complain
they will say you are delusional.

They will admit you into hospital.

They will break you in. Piss on your face.

Make you say please and thank you.

Provide group home accommodation

with carers to steal your money.

You’ll get hit, fucked and over medicated.

They will have you as their Mary.

In the stalemate scenario it is
customary to write a poem so
I sat on the slope amongst the scrub,
with the city and the harbour
spread before me, and I wrote this:

Go deep into the earth to see
where the North Star
comes down to shed
silver light beneath
the ground, in folded air
symbolic of the centre.

Who holds this star aloft,
who points it inside
every grain of chalk,
every urchin?

The fifth portal takes you
inside the North Star
from where you can look down
onto the landscape — a
map of shadows, a

drawing, an illustration — a silvered
depth within the image in which
we peek at the land of the dead,
in which things are flat and moving.

From the site of the fifth portal looking south
across the Fort Southwick escape tunnel approach road
you can see along the length of the oil fuel pipeline
to the pumping station behind the North Star pub.

In the foreground I could see two trees that were aligned
with this. I drew a line in the ground. Two similar trees
on the far centre left marked the top of the spoil heap,
so I walked to it and drew a line from there to my house
and saw a disturbance in the ground. The outcrop
of her pretty cunt — a hooded mound — with the long building
of the Vosper shipyard visible way off below.

Using these markers I found my way past
a redbrick buttress inscribed with brutal forms — an image
repeated again and again. I followed the path
through a tunnel entrance, below concrete, into
foggy greyscale. The authenticity of flesh.
You could taste her bloody ore on your tongue.

There is an echo of the depth of it, her
well fashioned love.

Inside Mary Millington there are vast caverns.

The architecture of her colossal cunt
leading into a network of tunnels. Murky
doorways opened into offices, switchboards
and rooms with dials. Workshops
and machine rooms. Everywhere
cables and pipes. Looted transformers.

A curious little white building.
Rectangular, with windows.

White chalk and grey concrete with
my self drained of light. The odd flare
of vivid rust splashed down the walls.

Engines to generate an orgasm. Sections
of tunnel with arched beams looping
away into infinity. The great wings
of a fan revealed inside
a protective cage. In the sphere of light
you seemed to cast, a possibility.

As if you could walk out of the gloom.

Life without punishment.

The impossible dream.

On the casing of her clitoris, a sign:
Here, every column is numbered
and nothing moves.

Broken glass underfoot.

The cold air. Your breath in crystals
on your face.

The plume of your torch.

You can never be prepared
for what is to come.

At the centre was a cavern as big as a cathedral,
with no supports, just a great big dome. The pumps
all gleaming green and red, with highly polished
brass and steel. Leading off from the centre
were huge tunnels, they seemed to go on for miles.

The attention of corrupt police
officers blighted her later life.
She was found dead in bed on the
morning of 19th August 1979.
She had taken an overdose of
paracetamol and alcohol. Her
cult has developed since.

The text in large type is quoted
from her suicide note: Framed.
It means made picturesque. The
term is an aesthetic one. Mary
Millington was framed in more
ways than one.

The illusion of spatial reality
made the self a territory someone
else could enclose. Scientific
perspective is an ideology as
natural and absurd as any other.

She had been filled in. Spoil
heaps placed over her. Her body
like the lost tomb of a pharaoh.
The State must control or destroy
key nodes
. Her cunt was
neutralised and then buried.

The author worked in a Housing
Association ‘group home’ for seven
years. He was forced to leave after
breaking the only taboo. He
complained about acts of theft
and violence committed by his
colleagues. Pointing out that your
boss is often drunk at work and
that he steals money is seen as
mutiny in this part of the care
home sector. When a member
of staff had partially undressed
a resident in the pub and played
with his penis, and had again
fondled him after pulling down
his swimming trunks in the pool
of a holiday camp, a manager said
“You didn’t see what you thought
you saw, she’s just a very touchy
feely person.” It is that warm and
cosy in the care home sector.

Arse Vent Portal
There are various locked gates
inside Mary Millington. From
her rectum, behind the Fuel Oil
Reservoir, she vents into a field.
Her anus is tightly guarded by
steel doors that are, in their design,
characteristic of the ‘cold war’
period of the twentieth century.

Features have not been added.

Features present in the Mary
Millington complex as it now is
were always present.