Category: prose poetry

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Roulette

We play a game of Russian Roulette, careful not to wake the dead,
we know that even in death, there is no guarantee of sleep.
My turn. Hand slightly shaking, I count backwards. 10, 9, 8, 7..
Will I or won’t I? 5, 4, 3, 2… I will!
I pull the trigger! ‘click’.
We laugh. It is not my time to go.
Big boys, playing with boy toys.

I want to tell you that I love you,
but boys don’t say that to boys,
I learned that lesson a long time ago.
Jenny drives over to join us.
I watch, feeling jealous as you kiss her; how you look into her eyes; how you smile.
Watching you slightly stroking her breast, I know I shouldn’t,
but wanting to watch, and unable to peel away,
I can feel myself getting hard.
Playing Russian Roulette.
I am 32, way too old to be playing this game.
I have to wait for a suitable moment to eventually head to the toilet.
My sensitivity heightened being in same space as you,
I try to stifle my groan as I cum.

Not wanting to be a third wheel, I’m heading back home.
Music blaring, I’m singing to some camp classic.
As I pull into the driveway, I can see that you’ve left me a message.
You and Jenny have had argument and she’s gone. I go back to yours.

We talk about Jenny. How she’s a bitch, how all she does is complains, about how crap she is in everything she does, but how at least she gives good head. We talk and drink.
We drink, we talk, solving nothing, not even our own world problems.
We stumble up the stairs, laughing about all the stupid shit we just drank ourselves silly about.

I finally get you to your room, plopping you on the bed. I turn to walk out, but you pull me towards you, with me falling on top of you. We are face-to-face, as I try to pull away, you pull me back.  ‘Man, I tell you, if I were gay, I’d be all over you’, and then you kiss me, on the mouth. You. Kiss. Me. On. My. Mouth. We kiss. We both stop, then stare at each other.  I don’t know what to say. You smile, and repeat, ‘if I were gay, I’d be all over you’ and fall off into a drunken sleep.

We play a game of Russian Roulette, careful not to wake the dead,
because we know that even in death, there is no guarantee of sleep.
Falling asleep on the couch, I know that you told me love me;
‘but boys don’t say that to boys’, I tell myself, ‘I learned that lesson a long time ago’.

Posted on

Every Day A Little Death

I’m in the pub and You Can’t Buy Me Love comes on. I know I can’t.

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I sit, nursing a glass of wine for maybe two or three hours. Brooding. Thinking.  I remembered the other night, while in bed, I cried.  Not knowing why, but I thought of you. No thought in particular. Just a momentary flash. Lying there in the dark, I welled-up for a second, saw you were there and then fell back asleep.  And now, the wine now in my head tells me I was upset because I don’t miss you.

I don’t miss much these days.


Every Day A Little Death remembered in the pub.

I wanted you to think me a genius. But I opened my mouth, letting the words fall-out one by one and in the process became a fool.  You tell me to ‘go to hell’ and all I can do is laugh, which causes you to laugh.  We both know I’m in hell. I love you, and I tell you so.  ‘Yeah I know,’ you say.

We still make love as if it’s our first time. You hold me, touch and caress as you always have, turning what I think is minutes into hours. I want it to never end. I awake the next day, look in your eyes and feel like a complete failure. You feel it too, my failure. My new day in hell starts, and you come with me – just to keep me company.

Back from the pub.

You are sleeping. I watch you. An exercise I have performed many times before.  I stand in the dark. Watching. Listening. To you. You are just so beautiful, so fucking beautiful. I well-up. What the fuck are you doing with me? I want you to go away and find yourself some happiness. I won’t miss you, you know. I won’t. I crawl into bed, failing miserably not to wake you. You roll-over to me, kissing my back and neck. ‘I love you.’

Kissing your hands, your beautiful hands, I reply, ‘Yeah I know.’