Noel Negele

How Was Your Weekend

after three weeks
of non-stop
12 hour shifts
you suddenly have 
a Sunday off
and you don’t know
what to do with your hands

Saturday night
you’re exhausted 
but wanting
something to happen

life tends to become 
too quiet 
with free time 
the silence is

you call Martha up

“well, well, well” she says 

at the pub she gets
too drunk 
as she tends to do
kisses you too often
too aggressively

the taste of her saliva 
lingers for days

she gives the middle finger 
to waitresses 
because she thinks 
every bipod with a vagina 
wants to fuck you—
something that 
couldn’t be further from the truth

“there is no reason
for any of that”
you tell her

she doesn’t listen 

brandishes an empty 
Asahi beer bottle
in the air

a door man grabs her 
by the elbow
tries to be nice about it too

You put your palm
in his sweaty armpit 
and push him away
as if he was a toddler 
even though 
he’s three times your weight 

“they’d think 
an animal got a hold of you 
not a human being”

you’re hauled outside 
of the lights and the music 
from three pairs of arms
like you’re somebody’s 
dirty laundry 

blood’s coming down 
your nose,
your right eyebrow 
bleeding too

she sobers up all of a sudden

pulls you out of the 
violent confusion

you go back to your apartment 
with three bottles of Italian wine

she talks so much 
without saying anything 

it’s more noise
than your deafening loneliness

she’s so young 

she’s noise and tits 
and thick lips
and a poorly shaved pussy

sometimes you get so drunk 
you come across 
the charging elephant
in the room—
your sadness spreads 
all around everything you touch
like an oil spill
smothering wild life

she puts your dick
in her mouth 
as the room spins 
like a shred of cloth 
caught in the blades
of a chopper

all you can focus on
is the yellow stains 
on the ceiling 

you think
you need to call the plumber
one of these days 

you think
one of these days
those yellow stains 
will start to drip
something awful 
onto your bed 

you wonder if 
something like that might 
be the thing to make 
you angry enough to pull
that trigger finally 

you think of suicide letters
and how many of them
cried while writing them

you think 
you’re so lonely and sad
or sad and lonely 
or sad because you’re lonely 
or lonely because you’re sad
that perhaps no matter 
how many people you 
introduce to your misery 
they won’t help it

You worry 
you’re going 
to have to put the
scaffolding around 
your broken heart 
and try to build it 
back up again 
on your own

you think 
about the only woman you ever loved 
and how probable
it is she’s a mother now
five years after your break up

you lose your erection
she takes it personally

“What’s this?”
she asks
holding your shrinking cock
in a tight grip 
like an inflatable thing 
losing shape 

(you imagine 
a butterfly turning
into a caterpillar )

“it’s not you” you say,
“it’s me. I’m empty. 
there’s nothing there.”

your soul is
an infinitely empty 

but try to explain that 

“You soft peckered nonce!” 
she screams 
jumping out of bed

her clothes 
in a ball
against her tits

“don’t ever call me again.”

she tries to spit at you
but it never reaches you

you get hard again
all of a sudden 

“something terribly
 wrong with you”
says a voice 
at the back of your skull

you step to the window
to watch her go
and you see her
key-ing the side of your 
shitty Honda 
before disappearing
into the night 

you smile— 
hurt makes for
ludicrous characters 

you notice your
reflection in the window—
a pale face 
with wine stained lips
like the lips of a clown
halfway from taking
his make up off

You drink 
the last of the bottle 
and slip into a restless sleep
littered with nightmares 
of dogs tearing you
to pieces.

Monday morning 
coworkers ask you 

“How was your weekend?”

It was alright 
you tell them 
what about yours?

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