Who’s your Bitch, Baby

Blood splatter weeps down
The newly cracked pane of a lover’s portrait
Of half a man nestled to a woman
As in dour predict of his own self worth
That soon she would have halved
Taken when illusion’s holographic lies
Had yet to dim away
From unfamiliarity’s neon glow
To pool along an aged frame edge
Hands in togetherness
Are to be held
Or for the warmth of another in a caress
But tonight
As in many nights ago
Tips indent skin as exclamation points
For each word you seethe
Through gritted teeth surrounded by pursed lips:

“Why

Can’t

You

Be

A

Man?”

The blood tears will not flow long/as before to now to the next
There is never a single/but a doubled double fingered lash
In effort to hurt all the more
Lest to stand down at one
The lesson needing to be taught
Not etch along the finger nail drawn seam
Left then right, left then right

Just as with everything else
There is no waiting
Or chance to unplug the deafness
Or to ask why
To the punishment this time

Just a grab of purse and jacket
Followed by the shudder of walls
As the door threatens to implode
From the force of the exit

Exhale the breath held
Wash away the signs meant
As reminders of a bar brawl loss
Not the base coat on a white picket fence

In a day
Perhaps three
Just as the miniscule shards of pyrite
That are embedding into the flesh of the forehead
From the collision of stilled oneness past
And dynamic nowed only-ness
Too small to pluck away and discard easily
Will first infect then push out
In a puss filled series of micro erupt
To heal with but a hint of a scar
Will a new pane retrap the past’s half soul

To stay awake and await the return
Is to likely spurn of her fisted version of debate
Undress and with wince filled slide
With hope to belay and escape
To world’s opened only by R.E.M. sleep

The blissful darkness bathed in the warmth of solitude
Bastardized with the heavy thumps of unsteady footfalls
Emphasized by half mumbled giggles
”Wakey wakey, momma’s home an’ wants to cream her sugar”
Though such greeting once spoken to the wholeness of the person
Is spoken to that which likenesses are kept in the drawer beside the bed
Plastic, rubber and glass symbols of a man’s torso below
As the baring of flesh flaccid
Once done in sync
Has taken to the task of one
As other feigns coma deep

From aromatic nights of bodily fluid driven secretes
To that of whiskey
Stale smoked to the filter cigarettes
And barroom sweat
In regards it is not of kindness
Nor is it of want
It is the cruellest of concrete example of
Because I can
The meat of her palm strikes harsh
Against the pelvic flesh tone turned blackish blue
Almost hidden neath the dark pubic foliage curled
From the day’s day before/when the wide toe tip of the brown ankle high hikers
Were chosen to animate the statement
“You’re a useless prick”
From an allegory

Hand forced interest erect to bring down upon with lips cracked dry
No longer tongued lolled tastes/left long with dirtied clothes
For timed and counted as necessitated
Serpentine flicks
To be followed by disinterested rakes of sensitive flesh by teeth
Listening as there is a count
And mutter of “that will do”

Has it become only to this
An act of only animalistic intent?

Can the fear be tasted
That the actions taken so rough
Will over stimulate the pain sensors
To cause a rapid softening of expectations?

Breathe once again rhythmic
Let the closing of eyes be a misguide
Of pleasure to be released
Not of focusing on the worlds
That were peeked at through closed eye lids

There is a moment brief
Where only air licks the pelvic moisture
Where hope of lost interest

Only to be straddled as if a natty horse blanket
Hoping that so into her own
That she will not see that
The slickness of her within
Gives the story of this nights priming
By some other

With glazed glare over misshapen leer
gilded with lecherous guised sultry tone
”who’s your bitch, baby?”

No answer shall ever be returned
For it cannot be known with certainty ever again
Is this facetious comment direct is
To I
Or
Of I

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10 thoughts on “Who’s your Bitch, Baby

  1. as i am fond of long poems myself
    i quite enjoyed this

    a minor quib
    is the opening line
    “blood splatter weeps down”
    it’s hard envisioning
    blood splatter weeping
    maybe blood splatters
    or something akin
    anyhow
    a small bump in the road

    power to the poet
    my brother

    este

    Like

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