Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Nice Cup of Tea, Dear?



The dulcet sounds of the adagio sostenuto from Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata wafted through the air. She opened the box from the bakery and pulled out a lemon cake with a blueberry swirl inside, frosted with a light sugar glaze, and placed in on the cake stand. Cutting a thin slice she deftly put it on a delicate, china plate and placed it ever so gently in front of him, as the kettle began to whistle. She returned to the kitchen, removing the pot from the stove top. Steam rose as she poured the water inside, the tea infuser sinking deep into the boiling liquid. She brought the pot to the table, waiting several minutes until the brew was nice and dark. She looked over at him sitting opposite her. She smiled shyly at him.

"Tea, dear?"

He mumbled something, his head lolling forward. Drops of blood dripped onto his naked chest. She saw his hands stretch against the ropes that bound him to the chair. She frowned slightly.

"I'm sorry dear, I didn't quite hear you. Would you like a nice cuppa?"

Incoherent words tumbled out of his mouth as more blood began to spittle across his cut and broken lips. He tried to raise his head, tried to open his bruised and puffy eyes to focus on her. He managed to hold his head up for ten seconds as one word escaped.

"Why?"

She huffed quietly and poured herself a cup, dropping two lumps of sugar in. Tears began to well in her eyes, and she took a sip to steady her nerves. It was still too hot and burned the tip of her tongue. She dropped the cup onto its saucer; tea spilled on her fine, white damask table cloth.

"God damn it, Alex! Look what you've made me do!"

She tried to blot out the stain with her napkin, but the strong, dark liquid began to penetrate the fragile weave. Her tears increased as her frustration grew, until finally she was sobbing, rubbing the soiled fabric until it ripped. An agonizing wail left her body; she pulled the cloth off the table, china breaking as it hit the floor, cake smashing into crumbs, and began to drag it towards the sink. Cold water filled the basin as she began to drown her grief. Water began to overflow onto the floor as she turned back towards the dining room, a cleaver in her hand.

"God damn you, Alex, look what you've made me do!"

Monday, August 29, 2011

Committed.




I feel your breath

On the back of my neck.

Shivers skate down

My spine.

This is so wrong

I think to myself.

Even as the touch of

Your lips

Down my

Chakras

Make me sigh

With delight.

Sins

Are meant

To be

Forgiven.

But can't be

Absolved

Until

They've been

Committed.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Hope



"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul". Emily Dickinson

Until it escapes and flies away, where the always hungry tiger of nihilism rips it to shreads, leaving nothing but a pile of feathers on the floor.

BBBUUURRRRPPPP!!!!!!!

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

End of Days



She didn't know his name.

She didn't care.

She didn't know where he came from.

She didn't care.

It was the end of days.

He had a pulse.

He was willing.

She was drowning

In nihilism.

She wanted

To care.

She needed

To feel.

Something.

Anything.

Anyone.

Even if only

For fifteen minutes

(He was young, so maybe twenty).

Before the end.

Before the rain.

Something.

Anything.

Anyone.

Someone.

Monday, August 22, 2011

No Place Like Home




When you have a loved one who is mentally ill, you don't look at homeless people in quite the same way. The old man wearing a tin foil crown who refers to himself as the King of Egypt used to be some one's little boy. The old lady who screams at pedestrians who get too close to her as they cross the street used to be her daddy's princess. And that heroin addict who's shaking violently as he's curled up in a ball inside an abandoned doorway used to be best friends with his brother.

No one chooses to be homeless, just like no one chooses to be an addict. "But what about personal responsibility" those who've never been down this road ask? People who are mentally ill suffer from a decreased ability to make socially acceptable personal decisions. You can't force someone to accept treatment, you can't force someone to take their medication. You beg, you plead, you bargain, you threaten. You try tough love. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it buys you time.

It's difficult to get through to someone who hasn't slept in over 60 hours. It's exhausting, it's frustrating, it's infuriating. You can grab them by the shoulders and scream into their face "YOU'RE KILLING YOURSELF! LISTEN TO ME! I CAN'T HELP YOU UNLESS YOU LET ME!" Sometimes, you get through. Sometimes, you don't. Sometimes, you watch them tear up and shake their head no. You watch them pull further away, sometimes disappear, until they become nothing more than a nagging fear. A fear every time it rains or snows that the don't have shelter, a fear the only way they can get food is by letting someone hurt or abuse them. A fear, every time the phone rings or the door bell buzzes, that on the other end is an official sounding voice saying, "We're sorry to inform you".

As sad as that information makes you, there is always that little voice inside your heart that whispers, "Thank God". You hate yourself for feeling that way. Even though, now, you can finally relax, because your loved one is finally at peace. They finally have a home. A grave. A place where they can't be hurt anymore. A place where they're finally safe. A home you can finally visit.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Under Toad


I

Feel

The

Depths

Of

Despair

Swallowing

Me

Whole.

Pulling

Me

Under.

Pulling

Me

Towards

The

Under Toad.

His

Great

Slimy

Lips

Eager

For

A

Kiss.

Alas!

Toads

Don't

Turn

Into

Princes!

They

Only

Give

Warts

And

Fill

Your

Soul

With

Poison.

Making

Your

Heart

Black

As

Ice.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Cat and Mouse



A moment for

Just the two of us

On

A Saturday afternoon.

"Stay here in the living room

And watch cartoons.

Daddy and I have to talk.

Alone.

In our bedroom".

Sneaking away

Right in front of everyone.

"Lock the door" I whisper

As we quickly shed our clothes.

Stolen moments

So crucial to keeping

Love viable.

You still make me gasp

As we try to mute our

Carnal pleasure.

We catch our breaths.

Get redressed.

Open the door,

A soft, quick kiss

As you disappear.

I sit on the couch

Watching a cat chase a mouse,

When very calmly I hear,

"Mommy, I didn't hear any

Talking going on

Inside your room".


Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Don't Try




"His gravestone reads: "Don't Try", a phrase which Bukowski uses in one of his poems, advising aspiring writers and poets about inspiration and creativity. Bukowski explained the phrase in a 1963 letter to John William Corrington: "Somebody at one of these places [...] asked me: 'What do you do? How do you write, create?' You don't, I told them. You don't try. That's very important: 'not' to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it."[16]" From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Happy Birthday Hank.

BBBRRRIIINNNGGGG!!!!!




When the alarm goes off

And

The first thing you do

Is

Curl into

A

Fetal position.

That's a sign

That

Changes need to be

Made.

Monday, August 15, 2011

Translation




I love you

But

I'm not

IN LOVE

With

You.

TRANSLATION

I don't want to

Hurt your feelings

But

I don't want

To

Have Sex

With you

Anymore.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Heat



Sitting in the car

Outside my house.

After our third date.

Waiting for the rain

To stop.

No longer immune

To your many charms,

My desire for you

Radiates

From every pore in

My old body.

Making me blush.

Imagine!

Feeling waves of lust

At my age!

I take your hand,

And ask,

"Would you like to come in?"

When I really mean,

"Would you like to stay the night?"

You smile,

And whisper

"Yes"

As you gently kiss my cheek.

You open my door.

We walk towards the house,

As the rain

Drenches us.

Giving us two

Old

(not old, mature)

Lovers,

A convenient excuse

To remove wet clothing,

And snuggle

Under soft covers.

Generating enough heat

To burn down the house.



Thursday, August 4, 2011

Thank you!



Some shameless bragging: My short story, Some Pig, has been accepted for publication in The Examined Life-A Literary Journal of the University of Iowa Carver College of Medicine. This was a story I originally wrote for Three Word Wednesday, so I want to send a special thank you to Thom Gabrukiewicz for giving us all an opportunity to stretch our creative muscles each week. I'd also like to send an enormous hug to each and every one of you who follow this blog; you are some of the most talented writers I have had the great fortune to read and work with. Your comments about my work are always so spot on, and I consider it a privilege to be a part of your lives.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

PHHHHFFFF



It would appear

That a dose of reality

Won't always pierce

The cotton headed ninny muggins

Amongst us.

He doesn't love you

Really means

HE DOESN'T LOVE YOU.

Not

He's playing hard to get.

Or

He's unable to express

How he really feels.

Because

He's been hurt

Or

Betrayed

Or

Had a rotten childhood.

He doesn't love you

Means

It's time

To let go

Of

Him.

And begin to

Embrace

Yourself.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Repeat as Necessary




Angry and bitter doesn't get you laid. Of course, not getting laid will make you angry and bitter. It's a really vicious cycle.

Look at your reflection in the mirror. Streaks of gray flash through your hair; it's time to hit up the colorist again. The lines under your eyes seem deeper too. Open the medicine cabinet and pull out the Preparation H; squeeze a drop of anti inflammatory cream on the tip of your finger. Gently dab some along the tiny crevices, watch as they fade slightly. Not as much as they used to.

Put the medicine back and walk towards the bed. Open the night stand drawer, and pull out the straight razor. Crawl into bed, lean back against the pillows. Make yourself comfortable.

Try to relax.

Open the blade; watch the light glisten off the edge. Hold the razor in your right hand. Draw your knees up to your chest, heels close to your groin. Bring your hand quickly down, slashing the blade over the skin of your right inner thigh. A stinging sensation will course through your body. A bright crimson line will begin to appear on your flesh. Sometimes it's hard to find a clear piece of skin; the minor scaring builds up quicker than you think it will

Slice the skin five more times as endorphins release into your system. Touch yourself with your left hand, mixing the sensations of pain and pleasure.

Repeat as necessary.