TFLN poem - Conversations with sex toys

Hey.

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.

(413):

nobody was home so I boiled the dildo

nobody was home so i boiled the dildo

wrenched out a bent, dusty stockpot under the sink

fiddled with the gas, saw it sputter due to lack

of use, lit the pilot with my cigarette, scattered as

the canvas of flame grew hungry, then calmed itself.

nobody was home so i watched the dildo boil.

i don’t cook anymore.  no roommate for months.

no work. tried not eating as much

to save money.  the dildo, like a shy drinking bird,

sipped its head into the shivering water,

and wouldn’t rise to greet me.  found myself blushing.

nobody was home so i talked to the dildo.

will you rise, i coaxed him. will you float

and not burn. this, this was no longer pleasure;

this was a grim calculus of habit. he was

a silicone soldier, and i was a semi-slept

woman in yesterday’s last-ditch underwear

with ridiculous cotton frills. clothes, i , needed washing.

nobody was home so i began to sing

piece of an old episcopalian church hymn

about the lamb of god and eating watermelon

in a short pleated skirt and mary janes

and the first looming bubble rose to the lip

of the stockpot and at last the phallus, like

a shipwreck, rose.  water ejaculated with greedy

intent and i quickly dropped the mess in the sink

now now he was clean

Every Three Weeks She Sees An Architect - New Song

Hey.

Why do I do this? Write songs. Scratch and scratch.
I'm not a musician. I'm a best a singer/songwriter.
I guess I use songs as anthems, as a way to solve problems, answer questions.
One question I've never been able to answer these past three is years is this: how to have a healthy, loving relationship in New York City.

And this song is a portrait of a friend of a friend. And me coming to terms with the cruelty and the beauty of this city and how maybe, just maybe, love might be waiting for me as well.

Here we go.


lyrics


first verse
this towns an abattoir vacation
people fall behind
like friar bartholomew called them
trees in winter
weekday morning a destination
to a client bound
running errands a helping hand
working for an acronym untangled
that doesnt quite respect

chorus
and every three weeks she sees an architect
every three weeks she sees an architect
every three weeks she sees an architect
and every three weeks she sees an architect
every three weeks she sees an architect
every three weeks she sees an architect

second verse
this towns a diet of expectation
wither by the year
said teju cole in jest its a palimpsest
she was an actress of dedication
in between the grind
but distractions often find
their own rapacious way to slay a dream
unto neglect

chorus

bridge
oh arent you so damn proud
youve written another song
only face youve seen todays
a delivery man
meanwhile in a sterile office complex
the architect hes pointing out his building
and she hides a yawn his favor she is gilding
she hides the fact she mispronounced his name
those first three months a liar
oh me and you were making do with second hand
desire

third verse
this town its public isolation
love however you can
quote myself for a spell
were only guests in this hotel
she bears no halting hestitation
heart is open and wide
and her friends and her lovers climb in
step inside
she burns with vigor
how i genuflect

chorus

TFLN POEM - Cockblocking Children, Grief

Hey.

Here's the www.textsfromlastnight.com poem of the week.

Here's more info on why I started this project. Starting today, I'll tag the poems in this series as well.

I'm writing these poems because it's a challenge to write weekly poetry for me. And, they really surprise me, how the narrator of the piece spins and justifies themselves. If they shock me, I suppose that's a good sign.

So, here's the text, and the poem:

(936):

You are the only person I know who has a fierce hatred for a five year old. Not even five year olds in general, yours is very specific

It’s midnight. The duplex is

Sober with memory, reflecting.

I lock the child’s door. I put a wooden chair

Tight against the lock.

I’ve been dating Tim for a year.

I know the rituals.

And, with the hellion secured,

I scurry, my clothes shriek from my skin before I pounce upon the bedroom.

Tim snorts himself awake.

He knows. He knows what I covet in this flitter of desire.

Oh, It’s Good, he murmurs, as we press, but I cup his mouth.

Like he’s a hostage. We have to be quiet. There’s no time.

And I’m right. I’m always cursed with being precise.

Knock at the door.

Simon can smell erections,

I swear to fucking christ.

He’s hungry or he wants a story or he’s scared

Or he wants to talk about Mothra.

Tim, still wearing pajamas, tends him, strokes his auburn hair,

He’s so tender. It makes me furious.

He tucks Simon into bed, cradles me,

And, though exhausted, licks me until the anger fades

And he passes out.

And I’m a live wire. Glowing in the dark. Simon hasn't let Tim come in months.

Not since she died.

And I was a secret. I was patient and I knew the cancer

Couldn’t hold her

Couldn’t keep us apart.

TFLN POEM - Bondage, Brokenness

Hey.

Here's the www.textsfromlastnight.com poem of the week.

(407):

For what it's worth, I didn't think that hitting you with a crowbar as hard as I did would break your arm like that. You should drink more milk.

Steam. I just needed to let some off,

You know?  You’re a nice guy, Paul –

Maybe too nice.  Sometimes a girl

Doesn’t want a hug or a foot rub.

Sometimes they want rug burns.

Sometimes a girl wants to feel her teeth rattle

As she’s mashed into the wall, surrendering to

A balm, a respite of violence and sex.  My choice.

Does it – does the cast itch?

I bet it does. Sorry, Sorry.

Yeah, so I bound you up. Ties on the bedpost. Wanted

To show you what I craved.  That control, that consumption

Of a body.  And, wow – it,

It, threw me. This cusp of domination. You squirmed,

Your voice, halting and raw.  You began to cry. I wanted more.

That’s all, all I remember.

You screamed. I saw the wretch of blood.

Don’t know how – how it got into my hand.

I -I should go.

Already picked up my things from your place.

I don’t know what I am,

But what I am needs to be known.

TFLN POEM - Cum, Counterpoint

Hey.

Here's an early one.  Off to do a special performance of the Off-Broadway kid's musical I do.

(407):

It's gotten to a point that when guys say "I'm gonna cum" I've developed a habit of responding "dooo itttt" in a deep voice. #isthatweird

Look at me, Carole.

I’m basically beef jerky with tits.

No – No, I don’t need –

I don’t need you to trundle out

Your creaky old “inner beauty” speech.

Drink your scotch, frown if you want to,

But let me finish.

I’m scrappy. I’m pretty awesome. There’s a flint and a chisel

To my walk.  And dudes, sometimes  -

Sometimes, they don’t deal.

Want that cream-colored prize they’ve been promised

Time and again. 

But a woman. A woman isn’t a prize, you know?

You’re not supposed to hunt them, or strike them down

With absurdly powered weapons,

And just prop them up at family gatherings…

The point?

Yes, yes, Carole. I’m getting –

I’m fucking getting  -

The point.   Power. Don’t we deserve power?

There’s a moment, when you’re with some guy,

And all those layers of the carefully stitched persona are plucked,

And he’s afraid. He has every reason to be afraid.

He doesn’t know you yet. You don’t know him,

How he works, feels in his body. This, this is the test.

You are sending a message to each other,

As you breathe.

And that, that is when, when he’s tender, you can squeeze.

You can take some of that power back

And watch.

Then you know what he’s really like.

If he laughs, shakes until the two of you oscillate,

He’s a rare one. Keep him close.

If he freaks, take him out. Get him out of your pussy.

Use your power.

TFLN POEM - Admiration, Allowance

Hey.

Here's the www.textsfromlastnight.com poem of the week.

My goal in this is to make something touching and gentle, something earnest out of, what at first glance appear to be very glib texts of wantonness or debauchery.  And that's human nature, sure, to joke. But I'm trying to use these fictional poetic narratives to imagine what life might be like for the people behind these texts. What they're dealing with. How they love, or hurt.

Here we go!

(585):

Dude of course I want to. Your penis is beautiful.

Melody,

I protested. There’s an order

And an equivocation to the dark.

A more humble, earthy self seeks shade.

While my baritone bravado hummed inside my ribs,

I cradled, I celebrated her shadowed, silhouetted form.

The tug of her gentle, sun-spotted breasts, the thin scars

Whispering below them.  

Way her nostrils pinched when she breathed,

As if flirting with the welcoming breath.

We’d been dating – three months,

Was it four?  - And she tickled me

With a practiced ease, she dared me:

May I take a picture?

And I jerked, without reason,

Like a slice of butter in a skillet.

Shivered, and fought the sensate drive

To hide.

You know who I am, I said.

She expected this. She gripped

My shoulder, took out her phone.

Lights came on.   Stunned to purpose.

Before she left the bed, she whispered:

I do.  You’re the shape of my desire. Know that.

Shook, I shook. I softly curled every muscle.

Carved out tears. I did not deserve such witness.

She stroked the thin, brown hairs on my legs, and with picture

After picture, framed our companionship,

This composition of rusty beauty.