aqueous.she had never come within ninety-three million miles of anything like love, but she said if she ever did, she would name it "september" and keep it in a dirty glass bowl like a mindless goldfish. she'd watch it swim back and forth, waiting for its belly to meet the surface so she could cry for something worthwhile.
she considered the consequences of scribbling down every thought that crossed her mind, pushing it into a bottle, and sending it across the sea. she wondered how long it would take to crack and sink to the ocean floor, and if whatever dwelled below would understand her better than those here above.
she dreamed that life was an all-consuming tsunami, and she figured drowning in it felt something like a soul blistering from a body and slowly drifting away. she couldn't imagine what it would be like if she knew the secret to breathing underwater.
Routine7:45 AM. A woman wakes up, dresses her best (her coat, a stranger's gift), and walks outside. Empties her wallet to charity. It is nothing.
1:20 PM. The addict stumbles down the busy street, hungry, shoots his dealer, bystander, and takes his prize. Walks away and no one follows. Indulges. Clutches his chest, falls over, is dead. It is nothing.
8:00 PM. The woman walks home, sees body, smiles. Is he sleeping? Takes off coat, covers man. Slips money in pocket--he'll find it there. Goes inside. It is nothing.
3:15 AM. Adulterer, fearful, kicks the ground, angry with world. Sees vagrant, robs. Is he cold? The coat is familiar. Ignores. Buys gun. Shoots spouse, temptation, damnation.
It is nothing.
Real MenThere ain't no real men anymore. I remember when men looked like men. They had the hair on their chest and they weren't afraid of it. These days men wax like pansies and all the girlies go chasing after the hairless fairies. Ha! My girl, she likes me the way I am, she likes the way I never use any of that sissy deodorant and come home smelling manly.
I think Dwight might be leaving me for a man. He keeps going off on these rants about real men, and I've caught him looking at my vintage Playgirls a few times. And he keeps mentioning this bodybuilder guy Barry, who apparently is the epitome of a "real man." I don't think I'm masculine enough. I think I read somewhere that scrawny men like Dwane like masculine women.
I kept thinking this old geezer was gonna make a pass at me, the way he was staring. Then he tells me his wife started lifting weights. But chicks ain't supposed to do that! And then she stopped shaving her legs. I tell ya, the days of real women are long gone. Now th
Nightmares of BeautyThe nightmares consist of mercury faced monsters complete with glass teeth and gargoyle eyes. I have not the power to deny them
(Look deeper. Creatures creeping beneath pupil.)
It keeps asking me to digest the butterflies with the sharpness sewn to my jaw, and I say
"No these are your teeth,"
Don't you want to taste beauty?
(yes, but I don't want to destroy it.)
She kept claiming to be me, and her smile of soil
Softcore Porn and Moldy FruitYou'd expect the bite of lemon juice to be enough,
o' but no, the incisions always indulged in moldy peaches.
Raunchy, biodegradable fruits
full of foul odors and seeds that say "Fuck You"
if you ask them to grow.
You'd think someone would begin to loath
the invasive glint of steel soaked in citrus rot,
but no, her stitches kept tasting for the ache
of scalpel beneath skin.
That familiar ooze;
peaches and crème slipping down forearm.
She grew accustomed to the daily rituals of apricot patches
molding to skin.
She understood the necessity of routine,
the demands of a schedule.
Scabs peeled and picked
to a fleshy, citrus dessert.
I find her infatuated with tangerine ice-cream
sliding from the seam of arteries,
and I'm wincing as she
relishes liquid candy.
And it's demented, but her eyes shriek "Delicious. Delicious."
And this is revolting and wretched, but her eye's say "You Love
Bethan.You had never read the same book twice in your life.
I remember watching you rip the pages, one by one, from their yellowed binding. Devouring every word with such a hunger you could swear you were famished. Leaving lipstick fingerprints on every page. I remember when he asked you what you did with them. The pages. The next day he opened the mailbox to sheets of lipstick laden classics. With etched out words he could swear were love poems.
But you never believed in love anyway.
I remember the way you used to smirk at the fools who whistled when you passed by. I laughed because of your expression. You laughed because I didn't have a clue.
He was different.
He couldn't make you laugh, but he made you think. He didn't send roses, he planted you a whole damn garden. And maybe you were happy. But you'd never really know.
You weren't a cynic, just apathetic to a fault.
Cheery, but never close to anyone. And that wasn't the result of your disrespect towards literature.
He never lied, or asked