Hard, now, to imagine my stupidity,
or was I just naïve? Once I found out,
the only thing that changed was that we now
had something new to fight about, and I
was not the only fuck-up anymore.
I used to lie there in the dark, and act
like I was sleeping - hear the front door crack-
ing open; your exaggerated tip-
toe steps resounding in the hall. The stench
preceded you – you stunk of death and rot,
that sick, metallic reek seeped from your pores.
You’d pass our room, and then the muffled
T.V. noise came on. I’d solved that puzzle
too – just what was the allure of Leslie
Howard as The Scarlet Pimpernel? For
every morning it was in the V.C.R.
Of course – it had become a fuzzy tape
of Midnight Blue, and you, completely stoned,
were trying to get hard, to get it up
before you came to bed. At last, your steps
returned; a crack of light shone through the door
I cracked my own eyes open, squeezed them shut
and waited, tense, enraged, afraid to move,
afraid to give my wakefulness away.
It struck me as absurd – your tiptoeing
to wake me up for sex. And then the hand
upon my breast, the clumsy whisper. “Hey.
Are you asleep? You maybe want to – ? Hey.
Come on. I know you’re not asleep. Are you
asleep? Come on, wake up. It won’t take long.
Just do it, honey. Please. I know you’re up.”
“Fuck off. I’m sleeping, and you stink. Get lost,
you crackhead piece of shit.” “Aw, come on, please?
Don’t be like that – you know I love you. Right?”
And I would scowl into the dark. “Yeah. Fine.
But make it quick.” And on a good night you
would finish fast; on bad nights, I was blamed
when nothing happened after all; then coaxed
to get you hard again, so I could do
my duty as receptacle. At last
you’d pass out cold, and I would lie awake
and smell the stink, and hear the way your heart
was jumping in your chest; I’d be afraid
that you would die, and what would I do then?
My mind rehearsed it – waking up beside
your corpse. The phone calls. Sirens. Sympathy
from friends. Would I be blamed? End up in jail?
Around, around, my thoughts would run upon
the gerbil-wheel; they’d wear a tired groove
into my tired mind. At last I’d slip
my robe on in the dark and make my way
into the kitchen – there was still a half
carafe of wine. I didn’t bother with
a glass, just poured it down; I tried to fill
the void, and yet, I knew that I’d stay empty.
or was I just naïve? Once I found out,
the only thing that changed was that we now
had something new to fight about, and I
was not the only fuck-up anymore.
I used to lie there in the dark, and act
like I was sleeping - hear the front door crack-
ing open; your exaggerated tip-
toe steps resounding in the hall. The stench
preceded you – you stunk of death and rot,
that sick, metallic reek seeped from your pores.
You’d pass our room, and then the muffled
T.V. noise came on. I’d solved that puzzle
too – just what was the allure of Leslie
Howard as The Scarlet Pimpernel? For
every morning it was in the V.C.R.
Of course – it had become a fuzzy tape
of Midnight Blue, and you, completely stoned,
were trying to get hard, to get it up
before you came to bed. At last, your steps
returned; a crack of light shone through the door
I cracked my own eyes open, squeezed them shut
and waited, tense, enraged, afraid to move,
afraid to give my wakefulness away.
It struck me as absurd – your tiptoeing
to wake me up for sex. And then the hand
upon my breast, the clumsy whisper. “Hey.
Are you asleep? You maybe want to – ? Hey.
Come on. I know you’re not asleep. Are you
asleep? Come on, wake up. It won’t take long.
Just do it, honey. Please. I know you’re up.”
“Fuck off. I’m sleeping, and you stink. Get lost,
you crackhead piece of shit.” “Aw, come on, please?
Don’t be like that – you know I love you. Right?”
And I would scowl into the dark. “Yeah. Fine.
But make it quick.” And on a good night you
would finish fast; on bad nights, I was blamed
when nothing happened after all; then coaxed
to get you hard again, so I could do
my duty as receptacle. At last
you’d pass out cold, and I would lie awake
and smell the stink, and hear the way your heart
was jumping in your chest; I’d be afraid
that you would die, and what would I do then?
My mind rehearsed it – waking up beside
your corpse. The phone calls. Sirens. Sympathy
from friends. Would I be blamed? End up in jail?
Around, around, my thoughts would run upon
the gerbil-wheel; they’d wear a tired groove
into my tired mind. At last I’d slip
my robe on in the dark and make my way
into the kitchen – there was still a half
carafe of wine. I didn’t bother with
a glass, just poured it down; I tried to fill
the void, and yet, I knew that I’d stay empty.
