Monday, May 5, 2014

In Tinfoil Vultures

Fat shrews scurry through the halls of this cardboard tenement, munching on the centipedes which occasionally surface from the soggy cellars. I carved a to-do list on a granite slab and suspended it above your bed for you to read when you awaken, provided the ropes don’t snap in the night. I sit on the urine-soaked Lay-Z-Boy in the den, razor blade pet curled up in my lap. From the mantle dangle locks of hair snipped from every woman I’ve ever kissed but refused to go to bed with. Crooked on the wall, a painting of a girl propping her broken leg on the shell of a giant clam. Roots and tendrils curl from the cracks in the ceiling. You dream of dump trucks full of sponges, of cement mixers full of mayonnaise. When you can’t sleep I tell you the story of how birds evolved from worms but it gets more convoluted and Byzantine every night. When you smile I can see the glow of the string of Christmas lights you swallowed last January. “The secret of life,” you whisper, “is knowing the proper amount of lubricant for every situation.” I can see the ceiling fan mirrored in your eyes, churning my reflection to mulch. I am thirsting for blood, hungry for the gush, ravenous to bury my muzzle in the rubbery anemone of your loins. The slurp and the slobber, the blowing rush and burning blush, the sizzling river, the poisonous panties. At midnight I creep down to raid the fridge, spilling the leftovers from their cartons nested in tinfoil vultures. I breathe in the early morning marrow, standing knee-deep in the bones and slurry, a single belch thundering up toward a sky full of teeth.

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