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March 29, 2006

your angry dick

I was at least a little angry after leaving my cat and my plants for the confines of this room, after being kicked out by him or it, after a good long screw and a longer argument and the potted plant I clumsily hurled at his head (barely missing his left foot). The cat, I guess, actually left me running out the front door I had left open and, somehow, down into the street, past the normally closed door to our building. It was imaginable. I could have seen it and then I did. There wasn't a schedule for it all, but it worked like clockwork nonetheless. I felt the one box of stuff I had gathered tightly against my stomach as I walked down the marble stairway and out onto the cement sidewalk. Fuck him, I thought, soon after fucking him. What the fuck was that? We both knew I was leaving or he was sending me on my way, one way or another, but for some reason, we both wanted a good lay before laying out reality before us in a neat spread of circumstances. This everlasting hotel was crying in wait. My room, number 17, greeted me in the afternoon. Very cheap and very cheap. I felt it wanting to keep me. I could hear it wailing for me from the sirens on the boulevards, could pick out it's very own incantations from the din of the streets. And I thought, what the hell am I thinking, or what the hell was I thinking. A time passed, then came again and stacked up against my door, the one that led to a sort of stretching patio, stretching across all the doors in their light green frames, graced, each one, with white metal chairs, one of which I sat in smoking one after another even though I hadn't done anything like that before. Eventually I was sick, but I walked across the street for vodka. I always went for clear liquor when things were less than so. What the shit was I doing there. These two guys checked in next door and their very faces seemed to ask me that exact question as they sauntered, carrying nothing. I'll be joining them later, in my tossings and turnings if not bodily. I mean, what else was there to do here?

Eyes of fire, I'm afraid good intentions now would do you no good dear, bound to die. Irene never had the blues and St. Thomas Cathedral said we're all gone in it's architecture. Hey Mr. Better keep your hands off my girl, follow the river somewhere else. Behind the big brown door never is forever go on to heaven. Born poor, might as well get ready for more living on white lines in the consumption march. Dead and blue, just like a loser stuck at a self-help convention in an Amarillo assembly hall. When will you will find time to cry? I need your help. Open them crossed legs, I've never been you're lover and your face makes me hot, and I think it's a sin. It must be morning by now, let's walk onstage at some strip tease show and have a good nervous breakdown, onstage. A sort of failed instrumental—one, two and three. So, you are a girl or a guy or what successful, instrumental hungry stranger—one, two and three—really really really really really really drunk I got a woman, she won't be true. Please, please me with the meat and a hard days' night for sale. Help! This rubber soul revolver is lost on me.

One little filter to seep out of another hanging from the ass, the drifting tongues laying gently on lunchtime's bench—this was a conversation that wouldn't end in the afternoon, and then it was over. The two left for other benches, to sit in the sunlight and dream. To dream of each other's skin, to dream of each other's hands, noses, fingers, legs, thighs. It was tight, one simple trick to forget. Yesterday was all over now. It was now some times built of glass and an others tin cans. That was a fine drunk, simple and slight in the beams of sun streaming and reflecting off glints of metal, the paint worn down to a sheen from all the touchings, all the handling that had come then gone. There were two things always in front and beneath always a flow of water or piss. He had a beer in his hand at four in the afternoon without much of a leap. That one sunshine left the beer in his hand, but mostly clouds—and beer. Its a bottle at least, glass at the least, something to trap the light with, something to throw. Something she took from his hands when she walked up to him in the square to admonish him as she looked while drinking from the selfsame bottle at his lap. Drinking in the afternoon—Aren't you cheeky?—no response elicited from behind her dark glasses.

Another goddamn slinky, riffing back and forth there on another couch, another crust of mud. Shoes on the floor. Here is a moment of pollution a time told forever by another. Home again after a yo-yo ride. It was cold. It wasn't snowing. It was brown. There were people bundled in black and hugging themselves tightly on the sidewalks. What was this crumbling concrete under their heels? She would come back even if all 'my friends' had scared her. She would return like a dime on a railway track. She would come. It's certainly going to be another great triumph, like swine running over a cliff into the sea. The unending doom would swallow as many as it was given. Like another metro station in another city, it's gates opening as a giant dragon's head—ready for another bite of life. But fuck, these questions continue to bubble up. Where the hell were you? And why were you so late? And what were you doing pandering to another human being, lavishing your time on them, when you could be ravished? This isn't serious, of course, but you're still expected to expend your ever waking moments in cognizance of the fact that there will never be another thing to lunge at, to plunge your body into wholly or otherwise. Where have you come from to surprise me? Will you surprise me? Do I have to wait here?

Well suck your own dick. I don't have time to wrap my lips around it. While you're at it, jerk off a hundred times a day, some in the shower, some in bed and some writhing on the floor in pain.


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