double straws
melted ice
miller lite
icy breaths
musk
and cigarettes
(marlboros,
minus the filters)
squeaky leather seats
audis
ringless fingers
vaselined hands
pastel oxfords
a wool sweater
the joke about fucking sheep
a packed suitcase
the thong I left at his place
the empty pinot grigio
and the warm spot
still left
on my favorite
pillow
2.08.2012
grammar girl
I'll
and
ill
are spelled the same.
they are
the same,
if you don't
fucking
care
about
punctuation.
if
you cry
at fucking
spilled milks
or killed
children
or
imperfect
whatevers.
or at 10am
and pm.
everyday.
if you stand
in front of yourself
naked
all pink
like
ground beef.
fleshy
and
pocketed
with
sick cells
and wish
for a knife.
if you stare at shit
too long.
walls.
floors.
ceilings.
fingernails.
and wonder
what the fuck.
if everything
is pointless
then i guess
punctuation is
too
and
ill
are spelled the same.
they are
the same,
if you don't
fucking
care
about
punctuation.
if
you cry
at fucking
spilled milks
or killed
children
or
imperfect
whatevers.
or at 10am
and pm.
everyday.
if you stand
in front of yourself
naked
all pink
like
ground beef.
fleshy
and
pocketed
with
sick cells
and wish
for a knife.
if you stare at shit
too long.
walls.
floors.
ceilings.
fingernails.
and wonder
what the fuck.
if everything
is pointless
then i guess
punctuation is
too
9 pm
I.
i
take a knife
and run my finger along the
sharp side
and listen to
the
swoosh
of polished
steel.
watch the
glint
of light
as the
flat silver
swivels.
and consider
the fine
invisible
line
between life
and death.
II.
i
sever a nipple
first.
tear the
skin
and
crush it
into the tiled
floor
beneath a
patent
leather
stiletto.
i grab
at
fat
and
muscle
and
bluegray veins
that i unwind
from my wrists
to my tits.
skin
that peels like
peaches
in reluctant
layers
that i sever
in
slow
rips.
and the rest
of
my shit
that I
stab at it.
and eviscerate.
i swallow blood
i swim in my massacre.
i die.
and my shoes are featured on the news.
i
take a knife
and run my finger along the
sharp side
and listen to
the
swoosh
of polished
steel.
watch the
glint
of light
as the
flat silver
swivels.
and consider
the fine
invisible
line
between life
and death.
II.
i
sever a nipple
first.
tear the
skin
and
crush it
into the tiled
floor
beneath a
patent
leather
stiletto.
i grab
at
fat
and
muscle
and
bluegray veins
that i unwind
from my wrists
to my tits.
skin
that peels like
peaches
in reluctant
layers
that i sever
in
slow
rips.
and the rest
of
my shit
that I
stab at it.
and eviscerate.
i swallow blood
i swim in my massacre.
i die.
and my shoes are featured on the news.
1.17.2012
piss
The wind pisses through the window screen and spits on my face.
I awake.
Another day.
My pillow is jaundiced and flaccid with yellow halos. It’s shitting feathers.
My blanket, a faded garden, a gift from some chick, is frayed.
I have no sheets, and there are ashes and gritshit in the quilted corners of my mattress.
When did I become this?
I used to wake to cock tents. To a Hendricks hangover, cigarette breath, and a blond in a polyester thong beside me. I had a tan and abs like a fucking egg carton. My dick was majestic; I called it Moby because it wailed on chicks.
I laugh at this.
My morning piss is no longer stiff. It smells like asparagus and geriatrics. I miss the toilet half the time, and what’s the point of flushing; it never vanishes.
I let the faucet spray and weigh the idea of shaving. The water shushes an aggressive stream. My straight blade razor is caked with cream and pussy gray prickles from weeks ago.
My five o’ shadow forgot to grow; my body hair is a no show. I have spotted, thin skin, purple botches, and bitch-smooth legs with bulging veins like a braille roadmap.
I swish off the water and sit on the toilet, open, with no seat.
I am alone, hollow, on the cold porcelain with the piss I invented.
There were chances.
There was a chance. Maryanne.
Maryanne with rosesmooth wrists. Pepper lips. And the s hips. Marianne with the Chamomile breath.
I survey my swollen, stiff palms as if to witness the shit I twisted.
I flip my hands like pancakes and laugh at the fat, yellow nails and starchy flesh. My wrinkled doorknob knuckles. I laugh at how time has eaten me alive; divided me into enzymatic moments, swallowed me by the hour, and digested my life. The silent stealer; it takes in ticks of minutes.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
And there I was, pissing in the wind.
I awake.
Another day.
My pillow is jaundiced and flaccid with yellow halos. It’s shitting feathers.
My blanket, a faded garden, a gift from some chick, is frayed.
I have no sheets, and there are ashes and gritshit in the quilted corners of my mattress.
When did I become this?
I used to wake to cock tents. To a Hendricks hangover, cigarette breath, and a blond in a polyester thong beside me. I had a tan and abs like a fucking egg carton. My dick was majestic; I called it Moby because it wailed on chicks.
I laugh at this.
My morning piss is no longer stiff. It smells like asparagus and geriatrics. I miss the toilet half the time, and what’s the point of flushing; it never vanishes.
I let the faucet spray and weigh the idea of shaving. The water shushes an aggressive stream. My straight blade razor is caked with cream and pussy gray prickles from weeks ago.
My five o’ shadow forgot to grow; my body hair is a no show. I have spotted, thin skin, purple botches, and bitch-smooth legs with bulging veins like a braille roadmap.
I swish off the water and sit on the toilet, open, with no seat.
I am alone, hollow, on the cold porcelain with the piss I invented.
There were chances.
There was a chance. Maryanne.
Maryanne with rosesmooth wrists. Pepper lips. And the s hips. Marianne with the Chamomile breath.
I survey my swollen, stiff palms as if to witness the shit I twisted.
I flip my hands like pancakes and laugh at the fat, yellow nails and starchy flesh. My wrinkled doorknob knuckles. I laugh at how time has eaten me alive; divided me into enzymatic moments, swallowed me by the hour, and digested my life. The silent stealer; it takes in ticks of minutes.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
And there I was, pissing in the wind.
11.30.2011
mojo swinia
I saw the picture of your new
girlfriend.
the one in the pighat.
aw.
isn't she cute.
and you wrote
on it in polish.
my pig.
aw.
how is it
fucking a pig?
does she
oink
in enjoyment?
I bet
you take that
bacon from the back
boo.ya.
damn
she's hot,
big shot.
hittin' that
pig twat.
I bet you're
licking that
pig clit
as I write this.
legit.
pink is really your color.
girlfriend.
the one in the pighat.
aw.
isn't she cute.
and you wrote
on it in polish.
my pig.
aw.
how is it
fucking a pig?
does she
oink
in enjoyment?
I bet
you take that
bacon from the back
boo.ya.
damn
she's hot,
big shot.
hittin' that
pig twat.
I bet you're
licking that
pig clit
as I write this.
legit.
pink is really your color.
goodbye
so I guess I was your toilet paper.
there to clean up the shit
and tossed in the toilet
with your cigarette.
and you shit on the ashes
to ensure
they
flush.
so I guess that whole thing
was a lie.
you aren't the nice guy.
and you used me
for sex
and booze
and to sooth your
bruises.
so I guess we're done
here.
after three years
of chocolates on
mondays
your breath on my neck
kissing on the carpet
and falling off the bed.
I left myself
on your doormat.
there to clean up the shit
and tossed in the toilet
with your cigarette.
and you shit on the ashes
to ensure
they
flush.
so I guess that whole thing
was a lie.
you aren't the nice guy.
and you used me
for sex
and booze
and to sooth your
bruises.
so I guess we're done
here.
after three years
of chocolates on
mondays
your breath on my neck
kissing on the carpet
and falling off the bed.
I left myself
on your doormat.
10.26.2011
frigid
I check his fridge for other bitches.
Ketchup
Busch. The cheap shit, naturally.
Strawberry jelly.
An egg.
And vodka.
He is a tequila man, and this bottle of razz is half empty.
I allow the silver door to clash into his eggshell wall and gash a chasm.
He is absorbing the news at a volume that I’ve labeled, “geriatric enjoyment.” We are still invading Iraq and shit. I wonder who he’s been invading.
“Why do you have vodka?” the liquid sloshes as I clench the red razz neck and wish it were his.
He buys a second. “Huh?” an ass-scratch of an answer. Asshole.
“The vodka. You never drink vodka. Why do you have it?” Hands on hips. Typical chick stance; bitch bordered by triangled limbs.
His toes wriggle inside his polyester work socks with the gold tips. They remind me of Achilles. Except Mr. Vodka sells his weakness with his feet. I wish I were his weak heel. A tender tendon.
“Got it at the grocery store.”
In my mind I have committed vodka homicide; a razz attack that splits his limbs with glass shards and alleys of alcohol that erode an acid passage and boil every cell. He has a real big red razz stain on his shit shag rug in the shape of his fucking Bacardi buzz.
“That’s real fuckin’ funny.” I sidle my eyes icily into his.
“What?”
I’m thinking the jail time might be worth the swift demolition of his jaw. He makes me wish men couldn’t talk.
“You know what I mean. Why do you have a fucking bottle of raspberry vodka? You don’t drink this chick shit. And isn’t this over your Busch budget?”
I imagine his new bush budget. She probably has this 90’s trash tramp stamp of some fucking Chinese symbol that she thinks says, “river,” or “strength.” And Lucite shoes she wears to show off her French pedicure. I’ve given hotdogs better blow jobs than her nasty-ass gap tooth could handle.
“It’s really not that big a deal.”
I wonder if I should look for hairs of hers. Some long blond curls. They would probably glitter. And smell like TRESemmé. Shit, they probably sing country music.
He has assigned himself to the television dutifully. Truck crash in expressway construction. Egg recall. New studies show benefits of red wine.
The vodka bottle clinks against the black marble countertop as I set it aside; the sound of resignation.
My eyes trace his checkered kitchen tiles as I force the slow burn of hate. I meditate on the waste he’s made of me. The small taste he gave me, and the wait he made me.
I am in his fridge shelves of shit. I am his leftovers. I am his rottens. I am his forgottens.
I close his fridge and hope all that shit poisons him.
Ketchup
Busch. The cheap shit, naturally.
Strawberry jelly.
An egg.
And vodka.
He is a tequila man, and this bottle of razz is half empty.
I allow the silver door to clash into his eggshell wall and gash a chasm.
He is absorbing the news at a volume that I’ve labeled, “geriatric enjoyment.” We are still invading Iraq and shit. I wonder who he’s been invading.
“Why do you have vodka?” the liquid sloshes as I clench the red razz neck and wish it were his.
He buys a second. “Huh?” an ass-scratch of an answer. Asshole.
“The vodka. You never drink vodka. Why do you have it?” Hands on hips. Typical chick stance; bitch bordered by triangled limbs.
His toes wriggle inside his polyester work socks with the gold tips. They remind me of Achilles. Except Mr. Vodka sells his weakness with his feet. I wish I were his weak heel. A tender tendon.
“Got it at the grocery store.”
In my mind I have committed vodka homicide; a razz attack that splits his limbs with glass shards and alleys of alcohol that erode an acid passage and boil every cell. He has a real big red razz stain on his shit shag rug in the shape of his fucking Bacardi buzz.
“That’s real fuckin’ funny.” I sidle my eyes icily into his.
“What?”
I’m thinking the jail time might be worth the swift demolition of his jaw. He makes me wish men couldn’t talk.
“You know what I mean. Why do you have a fucking bottle of raspberry vodka? You don’t drink this chick shit. And isn’t this over your Busch budget?”
I imagine his new bush budget. She probably has this 90’s trash tramp stamp of some fucking Chinese symbol that she thinks says, “river,” or “strength.” And Lucite shoes she wears to show off her French pedicure. I’ve given hotdogs better blow jobs than her nasty-ass gap tooth could handle.
“It’s really not that big a deal.”
I wonder if I should look for hairs of hers. Some long blond curls. They would probably glitter. And smell like TRESemmé. Shit, they probably sing country music.
He has assigned himself to the television dutifully. Truck crash in expressway construction. Egg recall. New studies show benefits of red wine.
The vodka bottle clinks against the black marble countertop as I set it aside; the sound of resignation.
My eyes trace his checkered kitchen tiles as I force the slow burn of hate. I meditate on the waste he’s made of me. The small taste he gave me, and the wait he made me.
I am in his fridge shelves of shit. I am his leftovers. I am his rottens. I am his forgottens.
I close his fridge and hope all that shit poisons him.
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