Your Wife Will Never Find (Out)

[[Open Door Policy]]

Month: May, 2014

Opal, erect in the corner.
Red chair broken, spilled bowl beneath
Still whole
A steaming hot mess protruding genitals
Un-sistered, Opal devours my affection as a rivalry.

Engorged, full of emaciation, I cast Opal in the main role. Sisters growing thinner together – it is so sublime. Our mother agreed!

O: “Can you believe it? The more he eats, the smaller he gets!” [kisses my cheek & flips over a table]

My sister’s despicable lover (called, “Vincent”, phonetically similar to “vomit” or “prom-night virgin”) slid up to the curb in a silver can. He uses her to fuck. He makes her run. His daddy bought that space between her thighs.

R: “Your skirt is falling down. I’ll be throwing up downstairs when you get back”

Vincent is the first thief Id met besides Opal herself, who had pinched one bronze coin from my beside drawer each morning since we were old enough to earn an hourly cent in Father’s caged backyard. Mother handed us pennies: small boys, knocking pecans from a tree, picking the prisms in front of the television at night until we bled – we laughed hysterically when Opal snuck a taste of beer.

Charlene (our next door neighbor): “My dog is a bitch!!!”

Men were paid to rape a steel rod into the nut tree’s core that autumn. Opal watched their hammers go at it and got really fucking horny; she started vaulting all over the couch. The springs were screaming, contemplating giving her a poke themselves. I saw the arousal happen while glancing up her skirt on each upward bound, right before her soft descent. The hem is always a curtain, only sometimes being drawn. Of course the rapists agreed.

The lookout window was a glass box perfumed with the gutted trout I hid under the sofa during the previous year. I carried it there at night, heard its skull slap on the burnt-orange linoleum. Laying beside my fish under the sofa, it became apparent that I was being rejected again. The television screen threw silver light onto a scale, which I’d left in tact on my fish’s dull nose. I wept into its slatted scum gills, fingered its warm slit belly, read the Braille of its fossil spine. The tail was still moist

I helped the fish close its eyes while stroking its anus (mouth)

R: “Hush, baby, Opal returns soon. You’ll rot here while she solves her violent arousal with self-loathing. Me? I will exercise. In decaying, you will become this room. When you’re the room, I can come in you whenever I want to.”

Sunrise, a brass bell rang in the hallway. My boots were on, laced together in the center and I fell while scrambling to the toilet to vomit. Lips held onto the cold tile, some red started to come out and touch my cheek. Each little ceramic fleck was hexagonal, accidentally white, pasted, unaroused, sublime. I’m an accident always happening, spilling under the flipped table, hated, cleaned up by a woman.


Years later, we sit together & obsess over our wedding photos.

Our breasts in dry white paint. (you missing one)

Layers of taffeta muffling stiff cocks that called to mind the texture of hot sushi rice.

all squished up in a pocket of crispy seaweed wrappers

& cupped sexually in my cold black-gloved hand.


With her, I embarrass blankly

 (crumpled ball of used tin foil shuffling behind us like a child).  In the literal, sense, we bled actually.  Yes, the real stuff, fakers.

welcome to my home, an uncapped bottle of neon soda.  we have six maids, all of whom I fuck whenever I please.  They are adorable, incapable, posses high Body Mass Index measurements, scratch my flaking back with precision…whenever I please.

Perfect pussy pervades simply because it is pussy.  One woman is scratching my back at the moment while I fix myself a lemon cocktail.  Her nails: breaking skin.  My feet are in cold water.

Science is proving that it is possible for women to own rooms as men without cocks —

Science is proving that it is possible for a woman become a chauvinist.

Science is proving that this is not attractive.

Science is proving that you should kill me.

Science is not proving that I don’t get my way.


My masculinity is painfully experimentally painful [tight pants I glove myself into before school].  A round dish on a white square table brought into focus under a thick circular telescope.  Scientists are inherently feminine because they experience excrement from a distance through elegant objects (phallic in shape, which they grip tightly to arrest blood inside).  Requiring distance from inferior subjects, scientists can not help but plan a future where masculinity has ceased altogether.

Scientist to Me, a masculine trash-eater inside a petri dish, eating trash:

“Inside of your circular cage, organisms (cocks: YOU ) are snarfing up refuse.  You are masculinity, little snarfer.  You survive by consuming absolute trash!  The trash is refuse from your superior female counterparts (milky ejaculate from a maid’s pussy: US).  Stuff that is no longer privileged, a relic of its own expulsion – only the moment of it. It’s biohazard, the ejaculate.  Science proves this because I said it did.”

Scientists call the process of trash-production “orgasm” — a convulsion wherein a gardenia blooms, unforced.

I know nothing about trash-production (moment of exquisite power) because I am scum, which science proves because I am masculine which science proves  and am able only to get my way by way of force and by pouting with an insecure erection.  When you take my force (trap me in a little glass circle) all I do is eat trash.  And get fat.  And slobber onto my cock with lips like empty sails.

And think over and over about when I was still inside of her — that I’d never felt closer to a flavored sleep.