Cheng & I
Salvation at the edge of the city. In ratty-tat bars, where Cheng tries to pick up men whose eyes remind him of sad lemurs, souls of suicidal leaf monkeys at typewriters. By break of tri-color stream of sky, no one can afford meat. No one can afford to lose. Beyond perimeters of broken fences, in an alley reflecting fragments of sky & passing face, Cheng is raped by a man with scissors for lips. I chase the man down East Houston until he is nothing but night without plasma, laugh & spark in pre-war doorways. Cheng says that it is alright. He knows the man, the Agony of Tawain in his eyes, the smile that reminds Cheng of sinusoidal waves of happiness & ennui. He leaves trails at laundromats, dropping quarters, stealing someone's warm colored socks & greasy tails. For Mr. Tawain, sex is car chase & flick your death. I clean Cheng up but his glasses are cracked beyond repair. I lead him by the hand into the protoplasm of night. We bleed from mercury spill of memory. In late night bars, we rip off rueful jokes from plastic strangers with fruity breath. Cheng's favorite: Life is like finding out your mother was a whore with nice teeth and false knockers. You spend the rest of your life, shaken, outside the hoops, in the dither. Ha Ha.
Salvation at the edge of the city. In ratty-tat bars, where Cheng tries to pick up men whose eyes remind him of sad lemurs, souls of suicidal leaf monkeys at typewriters. By break of tri-color stream of sky, no one can afford meat. No one can afford to lose. Beyond perimeters of broken fences, in an alley reflecting fragments of sky & passing face, Cheng is raped by a man with scissors for lips. I chase the man down East Houston until he is nothing but night without plasma, laugh & spark in pre-war doorways. Cheng says that it is alright. He knows the man, the Agony of Tawain in his eyes, the smile that reminds Cheng of sinusoidal waves of happiness & ennui. He leaves trails at laundromats, dropping quarters, stealing someone's warm colored socks & greasy tails. For Mr. Tawain, sex is car chase & flick your death. I clean Cheng up but his glasses are cracked beyond repair. I lead him by the hand into the protoplasm of night. We bleed from mercury spill of memory. In late night bars, we rip off rueful jokes from plastic strangers with fruity breath. Cheng's favorite: Life is like finding out your mother was a whore with nice teeth and false knockers. You spend the rest of your life, shaken, outside the hoops, in the dither. Ha Ha.
Some Random Thoughts of Joan d’Arc Before Being Burned as a Witch
I will name my soft-burning side, my unborn child in thought
only—-Paris
Last night, I dreamt of having anal sex with the wind. I awoke penniless.
If Lord Vergy cornered me in my secret tower, lifted me with his thick lust, I would blind him with my seeping virginity. I would sound like a wounded nun, those high-piercing cries of love/hate.
I flaunted my fleurs-de-lis for the army at Blois. I expelled the prostitutes who kept the soldiers warm in the rain. Made the women confess to me their memories of being raped, the sodomy forced by motherless Counts. Each woman described herself as a leper craving fire. With their words, I turned into a trumpet of God. St. Catherine of Alexandria hovered over me & smiled. A mute peasant shook his head, offered me his ruined hands.
My army plows along over grainy landscapes. In the night, the sky is lit by distant torches. The moon is causing the ocean to lick low leftover clouds. Our hunger, our bloody feet, is our reward. In the morning, we will claim Burgundy, the bodies of unforgiven women, no longer susceptible to wine, no longer able to resist.
Last night, I dreamt of having anal sex with the wind. I awoke penniless.
If Lord Vergy cornered me in my secret tower, lifted me with his thick lust, I would blind him with my seeping virginity. I would sound like a wounded nun, those high-piercing cries of love/hate.
I flaunted my fleurs-de-lis for the army at Blois. I expelled the prostitutes who kept the soldiers warm in the rain. Made the women confess to me their memories of being raped, the sodomy forced by motherless Counts. Each woman described herself as a leper craving fire. With their words, I turned into a trumpet of God. St. Catherine of Alexandria hovered over me & smiled. A mute peasant shook his head, offered me his ruined hands.
My army plows along over grainy landscapes. In the night, the sky is lit by distant torches. The moon is causing the ocean to lick low leftover clouds. Our hunger, our bloody feet, is our reward. In the morning, we will claim Burgundy, the bodies of unforgiven women, no longer susceptible to wine, no longer able to resist.
Kyle Hemmings was born in New Jersey. He writes all kinds
of weird shit that no one reads. His latest chapbook is Anime Junkie up
at Scars Publications. His latest ebook is You Never Die in Wholes from
Good Story Press. Kyle's philosophical slant on life is Fuck 'Em.
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