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
deafening
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
yourself
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
and
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
chasm
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?
