You came into my bedroom, ripped
the bandage off of your
smeared thin pink blood and clear yellow fluid
left shoulder then looked up at me imploringly.
No, I said, you may not unburden
your self here. I want no
the real you. What I want is down there where the
urine, the brown richness of laid cable come: that
spicy tasty of fish aged just so and steamy warm.
I don't think there is anything
so friendly as a wet vagina,
is unthinkable because it doesn't think; no more
does that wagging dog penis which wants it.
But keep your heart, save your soul,
close your mind from
me. I can't
deal. Your most inmost precious thoughts are a
to me: dry zombie/mummie crumblings that drop
your wrappings. I would those bandages be
but, no, toilet paper and usually wet.
I do not want your look, those eyes,
accusing. I have done
and that's probably what's wrong. I will not to
to you ooze nor to feed your ears, delicate pink
attachments for O.R. suction: "Doctor, will the
never stop?" You should be so lucky.
I will not to feed those ears. It
would please you if I would
you, but I am a man, with no monthlies and only
So give me your flow and all the fullness of
You can keep the rest.
"Is that all a man wants a woman
for?" you ask, eyes like
What else have you got?
illustration by Carlos Mendez