Wednesday 1/03/2007 11:46:00 PM

Cotton pillow case covers sighed softly under the weight of her elbow as she propped her head up to look him in the face. There was what some might call music behind them. In a little attache case of yesterday's choices. She liked it because it was aggressive like she was sometimes. And still had some reticent undertone. The edge of the mattress flirting with the tuck of the sheets. In hushed arguments over the theology of sex. Flesh versus thought. She would forget to feel sometimes. When they would touch her. There would only be the dense storm cloud of orgasm gagging. About to vomit.

And when it was over. And she was crouching over the puddle it had made she would try to remember what she was thinking then. Or if she had been thinking at all. Hungry children in front of restaurant windows all she could conjure. Their eyes melting the glass between their stomaches and some old man's fillet mignon. Baked potatoes laughing out their heat against a chilly fist of sour cream. Their eyes devouring the image of satisfaction in hurried gulps. Like throwing up in reverse. Heaving it down in retarded chokes. Every moment gliding on the ice rink of bile that wore her throat.

There was a certain comfort she found in the nausea. A warm kettle of tears to bathe in when the cotton was cold.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.