WRITING

by Phil Hart

he sat down to write and couldn't
think of a fucking thing,
not a fucking thing except the old
stuff he already wrote about and sure
he wanted to write about that stuff again
but he already did like how many times
can you write about the dismal time
you hate fucked or the time you betrayed
the fuck out of friends or turned a blind
eye to love or got fucked when you were
just an innocent child... yeah sure
before
before it gets old to everyone except you-
yeah yeah I got the answer-
infinity.
There, you got it.
You can do it again and again and again
again again again again again
the layers are all there waiting to be peeled
Back like the way she looked in her eyes
that moment when she recognized that cock
Of yours stabbing her was really meant to kill
her and the pleasure of sex was just a byproduct,
you know the look the terror flickering out
the hope of a love-making forever-after
when two people suddenly know it's all the fucking
competition they can handle and maybe too much
too much fucking blah blah blah and fuck fuck fuck
and then all blah.
Or that time when you sucked her tit not because
you wanted to but cuz the whole fucking world
tells you you should want to and that she'll moan
loving it too by god and she makes a sound like almost
an ouch sound as if she doesn't like it at fucking all
and you end up screaming at the cunt telling her to stop
telling men they fucking love that crap if they actually
hate it and you roll her over then and there pulling her
ass up in he air and push at her asshole and she screams
so even the neighbors are gonna hear that as she
screams out wrong hole so fuck it you do
holding her arms behind her fucking her ass like the rag
doll she is at heart needing to be used and tossed away
expecting it her dad telling her she deserved worse
and you know....
that's when writing gets to be delicate
sensitive and speak the truth about the lovely
aesthetics of airy wings flying over glory beds
not glory holes-
when writing gets to be so much more honest
than life- the life we lead with others lying
constantly about what we love never speaking
about our hatreds- in bed with each other speaking
into the dark about communication instead of sucking
cock for an hour or tonguing assholes deep.
We all fuckin know it that plaintive voice from other
mouth the one that we're doing at the moment
the begging tone always starting with a maybe word
ending with a question mark that's more direction
and our fucking auto-protect kicking in stopping
us from just slapping the fuck out of that voice
grabbing a jack n coke and slapping it some more
instead taking a moderate sip and nodding our vague assent
to whatever it fucking was - meaning it's probably time
to be out and about somewhere projecting health
participation and world war to all the bastards
in the world.
I know I wrote about all of this 42 times already.
This time though
This time's the best.