Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.
(413):
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
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