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.

un

I am the peach
pit.
But not slick.
Wasted.
Licked
And tossed.

I was ripe
For a bit
Bitten
Dripped
Slurped
And deserted.

I have no fruit

moving on

And how is that other bitch?
Is her twat
as tight as mine?
Does she wine
When you twist
Your cock clockwine
In her cunt?
Does she grunt
Does she scream
Does she make you
Feel big,
Wrinkle dick?

Are her tits huge
And does her ass
Have gravity?
Is her skin smooth
And do her thighs
Touch?

Is she everything
I’m not?
Is she hot?
Is she thin
Are her fingers
Dainty
Does she smell
Like lily
Are her
Arms less
Hairy?

Did she leave
A pink thong
For you to
Smell
Is her
Wet spot
In your
Mattress
Does her
Hair smell
Like your
Marlboros
And does she
Bum a smoke
And stroke
Your manhood
Manwood.

And when you
Look at her

Do you think of me?

Coffee Porn

She licks red lipstick off her coffee cup. Then looks up.
He thinks she was giving a blowjob to her cup of caffeine. Please. Who pleases caffeine? Coffee is its own semen. A dream. A wonder machine. A love liquid that quilts a lilting lust through her gut. A steamy libation penetration.
She is wrestling her pink tongue into the cup’s lid that has an unflinchingly small opening. Her taste buds scratch at the plastic like a desperate cat.
She is at it again.
Her unconscious caffeine routine gathered an audience: He, who rather liked the obscene.
He wore jeans. And a dark roast cashmere sweater. His skin was breve.
“I’m Joe”
Maybe she could blow coffee.

Matter

His breath is lit cigarettes. He doesn’t know the bitch beside him. His head spins sins and he has no sheets and no box spring on the mattress that just shits on the unfinished floorboards.
Holes in his Hanes. Frayed seams. Seems ‘fraid.
Pale legs swim with black kinks clog his drain sink. He melts in showers. His skin smoulders. Hunched shoulders. Failed shoulds. Failed woulds. Fuming wounds.
The air is empty. The air is cold.
His nails grow. Too long. Baked with dirt. Frayed. ‘fraid.

Swirl

He might as well have swirled me with his finger like chamomile tea because that’s how I always felt. And I always made sure his fingers were near mine.
“Can I have this?” I pose his skin to sin with mine. Nestle our fingers a love nest. And carve a cradle of his chest.
His face is happy with my arrangement.
It is another season of colored lights. Orange, I think. Our shoddy bar is dim and our drinks are downed.
And the air is a clean crisp that cuts our lungs before we breathe each other.
We will swirl together before he has to go home to his wife.

Some thoughts on a smooth breakup

Broken hearts!
And shit
And cupid
And red.
And the smell of sex rotting my bed.
And the pretty girls.
All of them
Like, everywhere.
With their fairytale hair. Why is there always a breeze to make them look beautiful?

I’ve eaten better bratwurst than your penis
And those screams were for want of better meat
And mustard.
Oh, and a poppy seeded bun.

I take back all the babes
I babbled your way.
And there might be sugar in your gas tank.
And you always said I was so sweet.

Just to be nice, I’ll name my next bratwurst after you.