Business As Usual
Rats chewed lentils and marshmallows in the kitchen, which featured a dirty white and piss yellow color scheme. A fly flew around the dining room, teased by the stagnant scent of yesterday's pork roast and fried zucchini. Donnie was getting his dick sucked in the shower by some chick with papaya scented hair and a tribal art tramp stamp. Fred was passed out in a puddle of vomit, probably his, in the dark den while a popular Poison song leaked from the speakers. Dammit, the dachshund, fretted up and down the hallway whimpering for attention he would not receive for another couple of hours. The pineapple clock in Honey's room ticked ticked ticked. Honey was dead in her closet from allergy pills and vodka. She didn't leave a note, just a shopping list. Sad blue scrawl on expensive beige paper.
douche
diet soda (not Pepsi or Sunkist!)
razors
celery (the kind that's cut up)
extra crunchy peanut butter
sea monkeys
Neck
It is 3:57 p.m. in Texas.
I slept on my neck wrong.
I think I did it on purpose.
I think I wanted to punish myself.
I think I'm trying to tell myself something.
The carpet is filthy, the forks are all plastic,
the bed is haunted, the sweat is toxic,
the mind is wasted and the ruling spirit is Pluto.
Let me show you my scorpions and snakes.
Visitors so rarely stay for tea.
I'm the only creature special enough to tolerate this
thick terrible air.
I had a friend once.
He coached me through the creamed corn swim,
the odd desert ramble,
the stab the grab the jab at some kind of cheap replica
of bad girl heaven here on eyesore earth.
He left as Saturn, as dismayed task master,
as disapproving father jagged with ice.
I could go to Bible camp, there's always room
for one more on that good idiot bus.
Renounce, deny, cry to Jesus and Tammy Wynette,
put on the greatest hits of Paul the Apostle
and suck the sorry from my thumb.
I know that route, the swelling river,
the tidy death, the grave marked with
Barbie dolls, Care Bears and busted television sets.
I think my neck knows I am a witch.
Witches are harder to spot these days
but my neck knows its history.
No one will burn me or give me the water test.
I checked the oven but no one was brave enough
to shove me in.
My neck is itching for a blade's precise descent.
Make it fast and clean.
Don't be Ted Bundy about it.
There are words for women like me.
I've eaten every last one.
Rats chewed lentils and marshmallows in the kitchen, which featured a dirty white and piss yellow color scheme. A fly flew around the dining room, teased by the stagnant scent of yesterday's pork roast and fried zucchini. Donnie was getting his dick sucked in the shower by some chick with papaya scented hair and a tribal art tramp stamp. Fred was passed out in a puddle of vomit, probably his, in the dark den while a popular Poison song leaked from the speakers. Dammit, the dachshund, fretted up and down the hallway whimpering for attention he would not receive for another couple of hours. The pineapple clock in Honey's room ticked ticked ticked. Honey was dead in her closet from allergy pills and vodka. She didn't leave a note, just a shopping list. Sad blue scrawl on expensive beige paper.
douche
diet soda (not Pepsi or Sunkist!)
razors
celery (the kind that's cut up)
extra crunchy peanut butter
sea monkeys
Neck
It is 3:57 p.m. in Texas.
I slept on my neck wrong.
I think I did it on purpose.
I think I wanted to punish myself.
I think I'm trying to tell myself something.
The carpet is filthy, the forks are all plastic,
the bed is haunted, the sweat is toxic,
the mind is wasted and the ruling spirit is Pluto.
Let me show you my scorpions and snakes.
Visitors so rarely stay for tea.
I'm the only creature special enough to tolerate this
thick terrible air.
I had a friend once.
He coached me through the creamed corn swim,
the odd desert ramble,
the stab the grab the jab at some kind of cheap replica
of bad girl heaven here on eyesore earth.
He left as Saturn, as dismayed task master,
as disapproving father jagged with ice.
I could go to Bible camp, there's always room
for one more on that good idiot bus.
Renounce, deny, cry to Jesus and Tammy Wynette,
put on the greatest hits of Paul the Apostle
and suck the sorry from my thumb.
I know that route, the swelling river,
the tidy death, the grave marked with
Barbie dolls, Care Bears and busted television sets.
I think my neck knows I am a witch.
Witches are harder to spot these days
but my neck knows its history.
No one will burn me or give me the water test.
I checked the oven but no one was brave enough
to shove me in.
My neck is itching for a blade's precise descent.
Make it fast and clean.
Don't be Ted Bundy about it.
There are words for women like me.
I've eaten every last one.
For The Broken Record
There is no glue, I know. What is this fucking process?
Reveal. Give to the point of depletion. Risk. Murder those darlings.
Murder self, those incessant murmurings.
I hardly ascend.
I get up bloody in pieces for the next go round.
I see you straight to your marrow.
I do not like what I see but I love you
and I know how to prove it.
I pretend like you do not exist.
I block you from entry.
You have already entered.
Your worms are crawling all over me.
I do not know you in smell or taste
but I respect your power
your way with words.
You have made me your bitch
but do not gloat.
The members of that club
are legion.
He had a cabin.
He had a wife.
He had a boat and I was not on it.
He loved me as a mermaid
but balked when I grew legs.
He was you on your worst day.
I climbed a few mountains
and killed a few bears.
The members of that club
mock me from a safe distance.
Their skin will not be lacerated
by my nails and teeth.
I'm such a tiger.
They are in the market for rabbits.
It was Sunday and I was sitting in
cowboy church and the eggs were all hidden
and I knew I could see
him in a pew with his wife
and they were closer
than Hansel and Gretel
and I would be informed
and it would be casual, nonchalant, bloodless.
I was a figment of a bad imagination.
I'm not the Bathsheba to die for.
The clues are scattered from Amarillo to Atlanta.
A few of my bones are mossy in Ben Lomond.
Don't bring up Santa Cruz.
I'll have to cut out your tongue
and you need that
for your next Delilah.
Bring on the dancing psychologists
and their paisley pads.
I invite the furious scribble.
All of this because Daddy
left us for Barbara
and a more humid climate.
All of this because I never got asked to
a single fucking prom.
All of this because I wear the hours
all over my back
and I have forgotten
how to crawl.
There is no glue, I know. What is this fucking process?
Reveal. Give to the point of depletion. Risk. Murder those darlings.
Murder self, those incessant murmurings.
I hardly ascend.
I get up bloody in pieces for the next go round.
I see you straight to your marrow.
I do not like what I see but I love you
and I know how to prove it.
I pretend like you do not exist.
I block you from entry.
You have already entered.
Your worms are crawling all over me.
I do not know you in smell or taste
but I respect your power
your way with words.
You have made me your bitch
but do not gloat.
The members of that club
are legion.
He had a cabin.
He had a wife.
He had a boat and I was not on it.
He loved me as a mermaid
but balked when I grew legs.
He was you on your worst day.
I climbed a few mountains
and killed a few bears.
The members of that club
mock me from a safe distance.
Their skin will not be lacerated
by my nails and teeth.
I'm such a tiger.
They are in the market for rabbits.
It was Sunday and I was sitting in
cowboy church and the eggs were all hidden
and I knew I could see
him in a pew with his wife
and they were closer
than Hansel and Gretel
and I would be informed
and it would be casual, nonchalant, bloodless.
I was a figment of a bad imagination.
I'm not the Bathsheba to die for.
The clues are scattered from Amarillo to Atlanta.
A few of my bones are mossy in Ben Lomond.
Don't bring up Santa Cruz.
I'll have to cut out your tongue
and you need that
for your next Delilah.
Bring on the dancing psychologists
and their paisley pads.
I invite the furious scribble.
All of this because Daddy
left us for Barbara
and a more humid climate.
All of this because I never got asked to
a single fucking prom.
All of this because I wear the hours
all over my back
and I have forgotten
how to crawl.
Loved these. They cut like a knife.
ReplyDeleteReminds me of JT LeRoy, and that's a big compliment.
ReplyDelete