Saturday, April 27, 2013

Two By A.J. Huffman

Fuck Machine
 
I am invisible. Until the lights go
down and the Jack meets the Coke
(over ice, of course) a few times.
Then clink! Suddenly he sees
me. All shiny and nude
(even when I am not). And
it is perfect. For an hour
or two (on a good/rare night).
Then in the morning, he is gone
again. Or I am. And does it even matter
which one of us disappeared. We are
each dissolved back into the reality
of our own mundanity. Until further
escape is desired/required. And somewhere
as the sun goes down again,
a telephone sounds its sirened call,
that will (no doubt) lead to another inevitable
clink!
 
 
 
Happy [Hateful] Anniversary – June 5, 2012
 
The number 5 resonates from inside its markered circle.
A silly sentimental scrawl splayed beneath it
to [rein]force a remembrance
I now wish I could forget
as I sit here shredding any and all evidence
of that fateless day.
 
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.
There goes the ticket stubs to the museum full of stars
and teddy bears – the perfect place for the childish dream
of “us” as a beginning . . .
 
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.
There goes another picture of us in a wooded garden:
a simpleton’s smiling portrait of the happy couple
you now swear we never were . . .
 
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.
There goes the dress I wore to impress you,
not realizing I was committing blasphemy in your eyes
by believing I could ever look better than the “average”
you believe I’ll never reach . . .
 
I am standing to my knees in the rubble; this piled mess
of paper, cloth, film and wish
I was a humble[r] match
capable of effectively scorching these tracks.
 
Instead it is my anger that sparks, and I who burns
on this mountainous bonfire of regret
as, finally, I realize it was I who never amounted
to more than a handful of futured ash
for you to feed to the wind.
 
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.
There goes the [metaphorical] knife scarring the skin
of my breast – senselessly searching for any scrapped piece
left that might have enough faith left
to manage a solitary beat.
 
--A.J. Huffman

Monday, April 22, 2013

Strawberry Milk

 
 
am i a person or a place? i am a place, mostly. a dumpsite. to you. i mean i would let you run your dirty hands all over my body then allow you to dump things on me. sometimes they are pink, pink plastic. or white substances. pink and white make a good combination, don't you think? strawberry milk. strawberry meeeeeeeeok in the dark
 
 
on the roof
 
 
on the ground.
 
 
why would you just throw it
 
 
(me)
 
 
there?


 

first strawberry milk, next intangible words like 'i would like to marry you someday' and 'you are special'.
 
 
why am i special? is it because i only operate in the darkness? is it because i touched you (better than she did)? i couldn't touch them even though they were naked and dancing and fucking an inch from my nose. i have never been good at swallowing. you want me to swallow? you didn't, you let me spit it out. but i didn't want to. it was nice, having you inside me. i never wanted to open my mouth again after the first kiss. i wanted the air you expulsed inside me
 
 
forever.


 

it smelled of bulgari pour homme soir. did you notice sometimes i would rub myself against your body? i wanted all of it on me. i love animals, i love animals. you loved me because i was an animal, correct? if you don't remember just lift up your shirt and look at your back in the mirror. sorry, i'm not. those are love marks, why i love you. love is a concoction of horniness and carelessness.
 
 
i don't think i know what love is.
 

perhaps you have ruined me with that strawberry milk. i never liked strawberry milk until i met you. now i know what your love is
it is strawberry milk and scratches and fuck me fuck me fuck me
 
 
 
--Sage Lee