A her story

September 9, 2013

I was supposed to hold the hands
of boys with dirty knees
But I kept finding paper hearts
And then you rang for me

The gifts you brought to woo me
Were empty as a brand
But I was like a giggling girl
Because you held my hand

I wanted just to cheer you on,
to kiss you for your cheek
But when you came despite my pain
My voice was way too meek

I told my dad I wasn’t late
and that I played alone
But daddy guessed the truth and said
“Just tell him on the phone”

I couldn’t understand it!
My future’d been so bright!
But in my womb a time bomb
Was racing t’wards the light

There’s still a month or two to go
Before we meet the day
When tears will pierce the silence
And I will make you pay



September 9, 2010

She spoke the language of love
with a strong Eastern European accent
Everywhere she went, losers would pretend
to be confident men
and speak to her

She made some losers winners
her long blonde hair in their fist
her mouth encircling their erections
in the most gratifying of ways

Some other losers she ignored
Allowing them to remain losers
(You can still hear their lonely cries echo
through the night as they jump between open tram wagons
Casting a lustful eye on young women going home from bars)

Yet other losers
she would subject to a most cruel torment.
She would call them in the middle of the night
one hand holding her cellphone and
the other between her legs
voice hoarse and husky on the telephone line,
sharp intakes of breath
an unreachable metronome
Her body was a prize to die for, her eyes hard
the line of her mouth unforgiving
and her labia perfect, a gateway to G-d
a doorway to oblivion
far out of reach