Emitting rust from my sin diode
lock jawed and horny
I committed sins of emission
all over the page
and your blue dress
patch-worked with pretty violences.
I bit your rapid butter mouth
in random red
sequences.
Peeled heavy black leeches
from the sheets
with my small white teeth
and worshipped the lesions.
There is a bright sharded tunnel
in my tongue
to eternity.
I have fallen through.
I've explored the dry red folds of regret
with a tongue furrowed,
cracked and resentful.
I've been round in dreams
of bent green rubber and muttering.
I had stopped scratching blue words into your grain.
You are not a blue word lost in my throat anymore.
I am not even a word anymore.
You are stolen with me
and we have mouths of heavy rain.
Since we spent that night,
sold our time in it
emptied our words and our sex in it
I have been spent too
flaccid, empty and husky.
Sold into
selling out.
Since we spent that night
I have been empty too
and you, you have been full...
of shit.
I think some of the time and
the rest of it I just
cogitate, these
are not one
and the same thing.
I'm finally realising I'm just
another neurotic female
another silly
bitch in hysterics
I hadn't meant to turn
out quite this way. I intended
to have more
substance. Instead
I have only managed a mere
subsistence—phonetically
not so far off, but
practically not even comparable.
Not that I was ever able to
manage my substances
much, mind you, mainly
just abuse them.
Only thing worse than
dealing with
highly strung women
is being one.
Kerryn Potgieter lives in Jo'burg, South Africa [she reads and types, (reads and types) ] and can be contacted at kerryn AT anemonejack DOT com.