Hecale
A Portal For Writers
| Monkey Bars Isn’t it just a bit usual these days to be talking shit fuck? I was reading this novel by this great guy ‘so and so’, oh, it was only a few years back, and it actually said shit fuck. shit fuck. then later on when I was reading some other stuff– poetry and the like, well ... and I had really already noticed lots of cunts for some reason. I’ve never really cared for that word, and don’t use it myself but back to shit fuck. it’s losing power these days you know, it used to turn heads but even my mother doesn’t flinch anymore, when I let it slip ...fucking shit. it started for me on the playground, a game. with Tracey, the toughest girl in town I wanted to be. and Jeff, the dirtiest boy I wanted, even in Grade 3. man, don’t tell me you’re not born with it. so, I learned all my shit fuck bastard piss on the monkey bars but I never really perfected it until the year I worked in that slaughterhouse, I was nineteen and desperate. everyone there was desperate, shit fuck became-- I ain’t takin’ no fuckin’ shit piss off, bitch suck my dick and it became an art form...and second nature. I know at times you gotta keep it in check and I do try to tone it down but damnit, it’s sewn deep. and when people keep talking shit fuck shit fuck, I hate to hear others say it sounds cheap, `cause baby, it comes at a price. (Previously published in Cherry Bleeds) ©Michele McDannold 2007 |
| A Private Vacancy I take the window seat as we drive away from the tourist town searching the roadside for a motel I secretly yearn for the seedy underbelly, the $30 no-tell Motel where the softly swaying neon sign screams Vacancy. They don’t check ID. You are no one, anyone, every one. Only two things get done in these places, Violence and Sex, Sometimes both. These are the nasty details, I’ve alluded to you– the tiny bit of spit I left behind your ear, the questions I see in the grey flecks of your eye ... I swear, in the set of your jaw, in that bar where we met on that night in our town. We knew. Don’t you know? You, don’t know? about me. When we check into our $95 room, carefully – I pull away the bedspread. "They never wash these things." ©Michele McDannold 2007 |
| Doin’ Tussin There is a beat box, baby. I found it in the basement. It goes— when we do Robitussin by the bottles. It responds primary colors, flashing (*.*.*.*) to Janis Joplin, mostly. But, these days I like Ministry. . . . and so I, kick it with my combat boots, when I can’t find a vinyl in the crate to get you off. ©Michele McDannold 2007 |
