Death & Asparagus

 

Boiling.

Boiling in my stomach,

gases that reek of death and asparagus.

Boiling.

Blood thick like red sauce.

A wop.

The mosquitos love biting me.

One weekend by the beach

and I come home with Malaria

engineered in some lab way off the coast.

 

Boiling.

This water filled with salt.

Like the Mediterranean, I used to tell her.

I told her everything.

Every last little bit of shit

poured across her mug.

You’re a fucking monster!

A stupid, disgusting monster!

Oh baby, I would say.

I’m a saint.

A low-life with middle class wants and needs.

I’m a fighter.

I’m everything and nothing.

But honey, I’m no monster.

I’m the exact same animal as you.

Give me a fucking break, she would reply.

You are such a prick. A pretentious, full of shit prick.

Have another martini, sunshine.

​

Boiling.

Another heat wave and a hundred forest fires.

We smile so willingly.

A cheeky grin on a piece of blotter paper hidden 

underneath the flap of tin foil

folded up in my pocket.

Boiling.

The kids were popping blues and talking about freebasing.

One of her friends asked what I’m into.

Smoking, fruit, and the sun. I said.

Yeah.

Smoking, fruit, and the sun.

That’s all I need.

Boiling like a crab shit-out-of-luck.

The young lady who pulled me from the cage hanging off the side of her family’s dock

had lilies in her hair. 

I don’t know why,

but I remember.