Wednesday, December 22, 2010

By the Numbers

As with lots of seamy encounters,

this one began with a terrible movie

Charlie’s Angel’s 2: Full Throttle,

two hours of bottled gratuity,

famous tits in tight outfits,

dancing hordes of explosions

barely enough plot to keep

it plodding on the DVD player,

but I soldier though as it is

entertaining enough to sate her,

curled into my cradled arms

our hearts are spasmatic tools

we, puzzle pieces plucked from different boxes

still find a way to fit into the old grooves,

as Lucy Liu laughs at lackluster lackeys

we settle into old wriggling moves

as if we weren’t nearly two years removed

from our last rendezvous.

I think of the numbers as we tussle,

716 days since the last flash of lust

lolling out of her emerald eyes,

and an excited twist of her right arm,

a pale climbing stalk curled back,

her pointer finger like an exclamation mark,

twisting toward the ceiling

my hands greedily claw her bouncing ribs,

eight heaving bridges as I

upthrust into moist pink ridges

sealing our writhing sentence

turned regretful penitence when

I was ushered guiltily out of her room

to brood on the pain she dealt

herself and fiancé Chris who was

due in New York by the next full moon

and soon I’d be chopped liver,

14 days I spent as

a being of weak slivers slithering around

the apartment like a specter,

regretting and cursing Julia’s closed door

and the damning sounds of lovers beyond.

264 days since I missed the wedding,

fearing the searing strain that would build up

and bead in my furrowed eyebrows,

if I sat through their vows

watching her father give her away

instead choosing to sit in the hazy sway

of 6 blunts, bludgeoned by

smoke and sorrow sitting balled

in my gullet like a 10-pound gizzard stone

grown past the point of being swallowed.

265 days since she, a despairing damsel

was swept out of New York City by her

Prince Charming, the union of paramours

paired from paring down the teeming hordes

in massively multiplayer warfare,

but before they left,

she called me to see them off in Union Square,

the cupboard of my sanity now threadbare

I said I would come and never went there,

again the bluntsmoke would spiral midair,

the burning period on my none too subtle ‘fuck you’.

I didn’t want him to see me choked up

purpled with gurgling envy

in the aftermath of his matrimonial victory

on 14th Street, afraid I would be tempted

paint the front of Virgin Megastore with

the reddish-brown sleet of his blood and bone

or find myself dribbling my own on the train ride home,

or catching a nightstick to the dome from police

keeping peace for the throngs buying thongs from Forever 21

aghast at the fallout from hurled fists.

I return 360 degrees

to the abovementioned steamy scene,

two faces no longer distracted by the

screen, but by the moist sheen

in each other’s lips,

closed-eyed bliss

she reminds of how I firmly

gripped her hips,

just how much she and I missed all this

my slim arm seen sliding

up her strawberry red and black striped

shirt, teasing fingers dancing excited along

and then under her bra cup’s lacework,

rising guilt shirked in touching the erect

nipple I squeezed familiarly with

left thumb and forefinger,

she lets out a short hiss

but the guilt still lingered.

Digits working to take off my clothes,

breath reverberating in sharp, hot, rasps

I know my reach is exceeding the grasp,

but I ready myself to strike,

a starved cocoa asp

molting his shirt and swaying,

around my twitching cock her

wedding band branded hand was playing,

soon on her neck I would start preying,

at this point I was so frenzied,

so ready to pounce without fear

until suddenly between gasps

she whispered,

I don’t think this is a good idea…’

remorse now flooded through my hands,

this wasn’t supposed to be the plan

she reluctantly shoved me back

rising to leave while I still

lay down on my bed,

feeling like a rope that’s lost slack

squeezing ten fingers tightly

against my palms

resisting the urge to choke

her till’ her face was gasping and black

as she lightly joked her luck with

girls was equally just as bad.

“Will you walk me to the train?”

she suddenly asked, a pained look of pity

for me on her face,

I whispered ‘of course’

desperately trying to keep a sneer zipped

under a pained grin, l forced myself to take her

though deep down inside

I silently bade her stay with me

instead of feeling played thoroughly

by her final kiss between the hesitant doors

of the 4 train, rattling tight with a click

leaving me to trudge home wincing and drained

a soaked solitary grand marshal of a rained-on parade.

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