Dog Days



She gazes at her reflection in a parked car. It makes no sense, and as the city swells, her insides paint themselves all down the sidewalk. Cracked pavements and lakes out of view. Bandages to cover signs of personal anguish; to keep together a soul on the verge of coming apart. Parks full of mindless people. Bars and clubs where the empty go so they can lose themselves without the fear of unbecoming. Lost in the machine, and loving every second of it. Short skirts and legs so pretty, yet they serve no purpose. My hands caress them, but they give me nothing in return. Breasts to suckle, yet I’m not a baby anymore. There’s no milk, and when they crack, she hits me as they bleed into my mouth. Reflux a landscape of distorted proportions. Thumbing books for clues to the existence of others, she pulls me back and lets it be known that my coldness is not something she appreciates. Black stockings and boredom. Small tears in the muscles surrounding her womb. Clutching stalks of corn, I place stones on a crescent sundial, but she’s already lost interest. Drowning my sorrows while listening to Emerson, Lake and Palmer, someone outside slips into the unknown, and although I can’t see them, their absence is felt considerably. Showering while fully clothed, then prising up the floorboards to silence her once and for all. Stood there with arms wide open, she just reads a magazine numb to my intentions. Repelled and drawn at the same time, strange sensations stir in my loins. The golden age of the perverted, and the lack of meaning that envelopes everything we do. I try to play the flute, only for her to slap it out of my hands. Masturbating in darkened rooms, and willing disaster to happen while peering out the window as the town drowns at the same time every, fucking, day.

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