BEHIND THE BLINDS
he could turn complacency
into an event. moving
through the day
at the speed
of fossilization.
he’d stuff his face at lunch
stuff that smile down a throat.
for hours forgetting about time
just in time
to miss the morning.
coffee, merely a universe scalded
to consume. he’s all hot bubbles,
a rich
and deadly muse.
she watches him recite lies
in waving spirals of art
near the water cooler
constantly turned over
awkward hands stabbing.
a stellar match for her.
this chittering face pitching
laminated maps through
easy ear pieces
to southern baptists.
she’s a witch, they took a trailer
took a chunk
right out of relevancy
and spit it out on the side of topanga canyon.
running around naked
their lives a fetish film
fucking wherever
with the rattlesnakes watching
slack mouth'd. whistling at the moon
in between pumps.
this is universe hopping
sNOOP
This is me rifling through your possessions with very little regard for
being caught. This is me smelling your backless red dress for incriminating male
odors. Me on my hands and knees under your bed judging your dusting habits.
This is me being pathetic and looking for an out based on your lifestyle
before me or some tell-tale sign of undiagnosed psychosis. Here I am
shuffling through loose Polaroids of you posed in artistic ways. In dark
lighting. With stark lighting. Interesting shadows. With vintage furniture
all around and a melancholic feel to everything. One with you in the
Hamptons. Bits of masking tape on the back of a few. Tears in others. Another
shot of you in Vale. You’re all wrapped up in thermals. You’re face cherry
red. I can almost hear the snapping of logs as they burn while some chiseled
snowboard instructor plows through you in the lodge. Unfortunately this won’t
help me because it would have been in your past. All this image does is
produce nausea and the sinking idea that I’m not the only guy you’ve ever
orgasmed on.
Me, not buying your little doodles that seem to depict a summer line of
one-piece bathing suits with the running theme of polka dots and tight cuts. I
can almost see myself as I rearrange all the knick knacks on your nightstand.
The wood carved animals from some Caribbean island. Rubbing my spit on a
locked journal that's provocatively laid out next to an alarm clock that has
a smiley face on it. Yep, there I am seeing how soft your mattress is with my
thumbs because you’ve never had me in it. Me, standing by it tightening my
eyes looking for stains wondering if you wash the sheets with Clorox
alternative, wondering what to glean from the fact you read Mademoiselle and
Saslo and even keep back issues of MAD under a small stack of graphic design
magazines hidden by a waste can. It makes me like you more which produces
more irrational hate.
There I am pilfering your medicine cabinet for evidence of anti-depressant
medicine, anti-psychotic pills, mania capsules or bottles of KY warming gel or
empty packs of condoms for all the faceless cocks you’ve brought home.
This is me helping myself to your sleep aids. Half a box of Lunesta gone.
This me not finding what I need. Me, feeling disgusted over that fact.
And there’s you staring at me though the medicine cabinet glass, as it swings shut.
"What are you doing?"
Hmmm.
"I had a headache. Hoping you were a believer in Ibuprofen."
This is me not feeling one drop of remorse as you playfully pull out the
dental dam material with a grinning mouthful of yellow, softly glowing at 65 watts.
There I am making you come twice through the synthetic wall just to keep your mind
off of me violating your personal space.
jason neese is the spawn of a jet airplane captain
and participant in the 1977 miss north carolina pageant.
she garnered miss congeniality. dad garnered her.
they produced me. which makes no sense in direct context
to them.he switches tenses often.
i am the genetic aftermath of comedy. i like to fly.
but can't fly. im still weighing my options for the world
of pageantry. when i brush my teeth, bits of blood fall into the sink.
i run killpoet with billy brazier. i used to like to smoke weed.
