Monday, January 10, 2011

eggs & peppermills; bastards and whores

this post is not about sex.

mama doesn't just think about the sexing. mama also has to eat sometimes & sometimes she works & sometimes she pays bills & sometimes she does all those live-living things that make her heavy bored & feel like she gots no inner resources.

she spent her last inner resources on that box of wine she brought to her last lover's wedding as a gift; she spent her last inner resources on the dozen eggs she let rot & then hurled drunkenly at his house after she pulled that Berryman & squatted, square jauntily hanging from her mouth, & peed on his porch; she spent the last of her inner resources on a tank of gas, a pack of cigs, a car wash, & a free poke from the car wash attendant who was legal, thank you, officer; she spent her last inner resources on ripped fishnets & tea & crepes with her ex's mother.

mama's sick of filling her own peppermills & that is a live-living thing & not a non-sequitur. mama's looking for a mans who'll sneak into her kitchen when she's gone or sleeping & who'll make sure her salt & pepper shakers are filled & that is not a euphemism...

mama's looking for a mans who knows she hates eggs but knows she's got eggs & wants to lick her eggs & ram her eggs & this is the only egg mama absolutely loves that doesn't make mama want to reach for a gun.

your bastard, you whore,

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