I'm gonna start making this a weekly project. It just fascinates the hell out of me. Turning these sordid texts into beautiful, sad, compelling narratives.
Doing this one early. Pulling an all-nighter for Facing Page Productions' last night of their Company Marathon 2014 - an 86 hour reading of all of Shakespeare's plays.
Here you go:
(603):
What guy invites over a booty call, gets all naked and then when the real fun begins and a condom is needed, claims to not have one? And wears socks THE entire time?
It was 4am. You called.
Ricochet grunts and pheromones.
I was up. Thinking about the notes I’d write,
Who’d receive the hand made chess set.
The cost of cremation, if I had enough on my credit card.
A hotel night’s stay.
Somewhere cheap.
Not here.
That wouldn’t be polite.
The room, it was already bare.
A bed. A weathered single-use desk.
Multi-vitamins, pills.
I snapped to focus,
Held myself, and for a second,
Thought having you close might -
-
you just might smell the smoke.
But instead, we were angry,
unsatisfied
Wires. Twisting and shredding each
other,
Like lovesick falcons in flight.
You were coming down
And could not discern my sad,
striped socks,
My foolish fumblings for a condom
I knew I didn’t have.
Patience had ended. Standing up,
You slapped me with a
hand full of rings. Hard. Next came
Hand-crafted
invective. Rushing
To clothe yourself again, you reminded me
I could never guide you to tremors through touch,
Or taste. I was an ugly, worthless lover. Your only hope
Was to jump on, shut your eyes, and speed along.
All through this, I said nothing. You were clear,
You knew my human frailties. You saw me.
You dressed, left through the bedroom window,
And I began to write.
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