The Last Temptation of Bond

Kimmy Beach

• Publisher: The University of Alberta Press
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9780888647108
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Canadian Poetry
• Index: Literature

you can't stop it. everyone's expendable, James. everyone's replaceable. even you. especially you. In a penetrating, violent, sexy, and often hilarious apocalypse, a world-famous superspy meets his demise at the hands of an audacious, painstaking poet. Kimmy Beach fuses popular culture and narrative poetry to astonishing effect in this, her fifth book. Feasting on the tropes, traps, and types of the James Bond mythos and doubling back on the incendiary narrative of Nikos Kazantzakis' The Last Temptation of Christ, Beach and her cast of loved-and-left Bond Girls dismantle the man and his mysteries. Fans of Beach's tenacious poetry and readers seeking redemption in explosive narrative and fearless wit will love The Last Temptation of Bond.

II. His Moment of Doubt and Pain

From Russia with Love

two in the morning

the spy thinks he hears something behind him

he races through the maze

past the statue of a discus thrower

he is dressed in a deep midnight suit

white shirt and immaculate bow tie

what was that?!

close by, Red Grant steps on a twig

Bond retraces his own steps

uses a replica of Rodin’s The Walking Man for cover

he fires! the bullet zings away, no harm done

Red Grant pulls a garrote from his wristwatch

Bond is trapped, the wire around his neck

he falls — choked, dead — to the grass

the palace lights up! the owner arrives

flanked on all sides by guards and henchmen

he holds a stopwatch up to Red Grant’s face

Exactly one minute fifty-two seconds. That’s excellent.

he peels James Bond’s face off to reveal

the dead man. he’s nobody — a decoy

a redhead with a moustache

ONE sits in her living room tucked into the corner of her couch watching the title credits, sipping wine. the names of actors, producers projected onto gyrating bellies and thighs of dancers. exotic shaking of muscle and flesh, buttocks and jewellery. an instrumental of Matt Munro’s “From Russia with Love”

morphs into the James Bond theme

more wine, Rosa Klebb

fighting fish

Blofeld and a white cat

ONE dozes, her half-dream taking her to the lawn of the mansion on SPECTRE Island. she wears a business suit, strips down to a bikini. she is to give Red Grant a massage, kneels over his oiled body, the loins wrapped in a towel. he turns over, pulls her on top of him, his cock rising against her. her fingers clench the crotch of the bikini between her legs, pulls it aside, hovers over the erection. the doorbell rings. her wine splashes her breasts.

“God damn it, Bond! Your timing sucks!”

she lets him in.

“Oh, good, it’s just starting,” he says, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Can you rewind it? I love the credits in this one.” He pours himself a glass of wine, puts his arm around ONE’s shoulders, and settles in.

“Your Heart is as Black as Night”

ONE and James Bond sit in the darkened Parisian nightclub. the lights dim. cigarette smoke blues up into the ceiling fans, whirlwinds around the tight space. polite applause and tinkling champagne goblets.

stinking red velvet curtains struggle open to reveal a four-piece combo.

drums, a stand-up bass, a lead guitar

a svelte, forty-something blonde in a low-cut

mauve Jenny Packham gown. tilting on heels and three

too many Martinis.

Bond snaps his fingers for a waiter. More champagne. Please.

and two Rusty Nails. the singer — fake blonde hair sticking in her teeth —

screws the microphone with her lips, her manicured crimson nails

raking its tip and stroking out the pain.

slithery lips in wet shades of quivery orange ricochet

lights above her. wrists obscured by a dozen clinky bracelets

of gold and borrowed love. a cigarette threatens to burn

the tender space between the first and second fingers of her right hand.

her eyes closed, her false lashes brush her drunken cheeks, hips

in a quiet dance in time with the lead guitar’s licks. ash drops,

smoulders at her right shoe.

Your Heart is as Black as Night. ain’t that the truth, ONE thinks.

she watches Bond through the crystal pattern

in her goblet, the multi-faceted diamonds,

his sweet mouth lapping his alcohol

dizzies her through bubbles and brushes on a snare drum.

on stage, the singer goes into the expected routine. simulated orgasm, exaggerated “oh”-ing and lip-licking.

at the end of the number, it would be a lie to say that the crowd goes wild.

the crowd — such as it is — gives its drunken approval as well as it can.

the heavy, soiled velvet squeaks shut, catching the singer’s left wrist reaching through the opening. a kiss spiralling its way

through the haze to James Bond.

ONE grabs him by his tie and hauls him to his unsteady feet.

she drags him to the exit, a goon of a man opening

the sticky metal door for them.

his heart is as black as night. this night. stumble him into the cab at the curb.

at the stage door, ash drops from a red velvet nail to the greasy pavement below.

Suck the Love from You

YOU WOULD HOLD MY MOUTH WITH YOURS. glued together until the villain pries us apart. my mouth tears. small pieces of me come loose on your lips.

wear me on your next mission. taste me on the skin of other women you’ll love in moments of triumph or danger. kiss your gun, your lovers with your thirst for me.

I make your lips cracked and dry. suck the love from you. inhale your mouth. drink the sweat from either side of your lips. I send you out of your mind for drink, I make you ache for Martinis. for Bollinger Grande Année. I make you take the three fingers of M’s offered bourbon in two large gulps. rub the tumbler’s sweat over your parched mouth.

set the glass down on the desk, quenched for the moment, straighten your silk tie.

we will slip into the suite’s bathroom at the Grand Hotel Continental. the cocktail party carries on in the other room. lavender-scented women in floor-length designer gowns flirt with stoic diplomats in stifling ties and suspenders. we will hear Felix and M laughing at something droll Felix has said. M will laugh exactly four times, notes descending, the champagne dancing in the crystal flute, reflecting the light from behind the bar. from the stereo, Matt Munro sings “From Russia with Love.” lift me to sit on the edge of the black ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• I. Real Men are No Competition
• II. His Moment of Doubt and Pain
• III. The Last Temptation of Bond
• Acknowledgements
• About the Author