11/16/11
One night, in bed, you roll over.
You tell me in a soft voice that I'm killing our marriage.
I debate telling you, “It's over,”
But simply roll away from you.
It's 2 AM, on a rainy Sunday night.
Are you in a mood to fight?
Me thinks you better prep some chains,
Because I come prepared for flight.
It's much easier to bury it all;
Live one more night in my own home –
My own home, my own mortgage.
You own the credit cards, a downfall.
I'm addicted to our contradiction;
Counterparts, counterparts,
Moving counterclockwise.
I'm fascinated by our functions, now.
I wait for you to scream,
Maybe shove a pillow over my grizzled mug.
Instead you lean in, pressing in to my back;
This is no time for a hug.
I think I'm drowning in your bullshit;
I know you have a motive.
Is this the point you offer pity sex?
You know this is all wrong, in context.
The inner metronome of my heart
Works against the very genome
That tells me I'm going to relive my Dad;
You're every bit the bitch he had.
“Talk to me, David,” you murmur.
As if I have anything to say,
It IS 2 AM, durr.
I ain't opening the can of worms, not now.
It's 2 AM; go to sleep, you insomniac cunt.
I ain't going to run your hurdles,
Just so you can feel closer to me.
You're as close as you've gotten in years.
You know something's up, I can tell.
You press your fake breasts against my back,
As if that will make us well.
I won't take any of this back, in therapy.
I want friction, but all of yours is verbal.
You rub me the wrong way, with that larynx of yours.
Sex now would be a denial of reason.
Besides, you want another fucking kid.
Is that the motive tonight, Janette?
Is it that you have it all thought out –
Pump out a unit, see if that keeps me around?
I know what you're all about.
I hate that you're stroking my leg.
I hate the boner that arises from the sensation.
I hate fucking you more than I hate
Being caught with the latest porn titillation.
I tell myself, while you tell me sweet nothing,
“If I can wrangle up Bob French, I can get out;
I can get out, this lout will tout a tort on your ass.
Fuck you, fuck your debt. I hate the rest.”
Ol' Bob is a lawyer; do you remember him?
I bet you do: Christmas 1997.
He wouldn't give up on feeding you spiked punch,
Until you wrecked his dental work.
French is entrenched at his lawyerly bench;
We'll see who walks off from this.
I reminisce, trying to forget that you're beside me.
This fantasy is better than my best piss.
