Inevitability.
A surprised voice.
A sharp smell.
A lipstick stain.
A light trip over the threshold.
White fuzz separates from the black stripes.
A sharp tongue nips your temple and the blood trickles down and you reel backward, another blunt force trauma, this time from the back.
A swarm of sexual memories intrudes upon the violence. The bite of a gnat becomes a bite on your neck. I didn’t check for marks today.
A scratch that plucks out your eyeball or the scratch that arches your back.
A heavy dark drumbeat, a funeral dirge or the steady rhythm of two bodies together.
The slick dark smear of your blood, puddled on the floor, slipping on the mess
platelets white red cells plasma
it all looks the same
delicious enough to drink
on hands and knees
lapping up every last drop
iron-rich and metallic
tangy and gritty with the sand and cement
the ground
And then we’re back
the other dirty inevitability, the hands and knees as the drumbeat of your hand presses in from behind, positioned carefully so it might feel like it’s attached from that spot on your body that’s not your wrist.
A dirty game we play pretending playing pretend with our body types.
A cock crows once, twice, thrice, four times and counting
there’s five
and it can’t be
Six
a coincidence, imagining
Seven
this filthy scene, and as
Eight
a responding call sounds deeper (yes)
further away (further in)
Nine
It strikes me that it may be no cock at all but in fact a mockingbird, and wouldn’t that be the most delicious dish of all?
Feathers plucked (naked as it were)
head roughly pulled off and
maybe we’re experimenting with choking here
but no I’ve heard that’s dangerous let’s go back to play violence where it’s all in our heads
it’s too hard it’s too dark here I can’t no please stop POP
Goes the mockingbird’s wishbone
with a satisfying thwack the discarded bones hit the floor
heavy now as they’ve transmuted from bird to human, the sticky sweet floor blood pouring from between
Your legs but it’s clear now, because you gush like a waterfall when you see me
The violence of passing between memory and reality
Fantasy and fiction
The disparate worlds
Ten
And the crazed pant as you
Lick lick lick
Or
Chop chop chop
And realize it was all a dream?
But you’re not
It’s too real, the feel of her hand inside, the slap across the face too stinging
The slowing of her breathing to match your asphyxiation
Where does sex end and death begin?
We’re only just
Getting started
pigeonhole 