With Girlfriends Like These

Historically humans
can be known by their latrines,
traced by the detritus in their wake,
Calomel at abandoned campsites,
Dr. Rush’s little pills.

Fish, eggs, garlic,
the homeless in the dumpsters,
about as obnoxious as Fordyce spots.
Mithras wearing surgical gloves
rummages throughout Ravenna.

Hollow mask optical,
Lord Kitchener Wants You.
Who can understand the Polari of teen talk?
The cant of discarded teen blood and lust,
their bloodlust, ablution attained in emojis.

Michelle: Are you going to do it now?
Conrad: I just don’t know how to leave them.
Michelle: Say you’re gonna go to the store or something.
Conrad: I want them to know that I love them.
Michelle: They know, that’s one thing they definitely know.

You’re over thinking.
I’ve been over thinking for a while.
Are you gonna do it now?
I still haven’t left.
Leaving now.
You can do this.
I’m almost there.

Look at them, budding scientists researching their homework. How oddly picturesque. 3200 ppm for ten minutes, death in a half hour. Truck is diesel, low carbon monoxide levels. Portable generator in bed of truck would work. The one I stole from my father is broken. Did you read the manual? Go to Sears, they sell generators, they can help. A new one is only $135 bucks, that’s cheap go buy one. Just Google how to fix a broken generator, lots of stuff comes up, you can make CO from candles and glass.

Michelle looks in the mirror, she wears a cloche hat.
She’s found her raison d’etre, activism, suicide prevention,
maybe a softball tournament, “Homers for Conrad.”

She dreams Balls Mabille,
dances in her dream, eyes closed
holding down close her cloche hat,
Brigadeiros on the night table.
She mourns her long lost friend
with a sip of grenadine,
such a small sip, grenadine
reddening her puckered up lips.
A thought snaps her reverie,
a nasty thought snatches up
her cell phone, erases texts,
nasty texts, the Fons et Origo
of her Lusus Naturae.
“I must aver.”

Find a spot.
I’m thinking a public place.
If I go somewhere private,
they may call the cops.
Someone may notice you.
Do you think you’ll get caught?
Park your car and sit there.
It will take like, 20 minutes,
it’s not a big deal.

Conrad stares at the Fairheaven K-Mart,
the parking lot empty, the clouds beyond
passing by, floating by, shaking cold.
He feels the husk inside him circulating air.
Michelle calls every few hours, logorrhea mouth.
He is a procrastinator. He’s fine with that.
His watch a Swiss Belair, platinum, black band,
he never looks at his watch. He looks at his phone,
Facebook, Angry Birds, angry texts, Instagram.

All the girls throw their heads back and smile
or they bend forward laughing at the funniest
joke in the world. Their mouths are impossibly large
with their white teeth when they wave at the camera.
Surmoulage, bronze statues copied in white.
Korean dude, his large smile, his squinch eyes,
the larger his smile, the squintier his eyes,
green Heineken bottle, how does this happen?

Michelle, I’m scared.
I’m unsure about this.
Fucken get back in.

Apse Mosaic, the dome of the truck,
Christos Benedictos, two fingers up,
Nike and Victory banners trailing,
Conrad, the anointed one, melts.
He swallows his life. Vide Supra.


About Rumrazor

Just a malcontent surviving in Los Angeles, working the news, writing the poetry, making the films.
This entry was posted in My Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s