Thursday, June 25, 2015

Noel Negele- A Poem

This Girl

I left a woman for this girl
I don’t know what it is
There is a certain way she comes out of the shower
The towel around her breasts
The smile, the way her hair falls on the side of her face
As she puts her shoes on
Or the way she rubs my balls with her feet so very often
You know there are these creatures that you are certain
Will never fall in love,
They will only produce the feeling to others
Like a chain around the soul
Squeezing all the kindness and generosity left in you
But of course in the meanwhile
It is a blast and very much worth it

The only problem is
She prefers to watch me slew in the darkness
Coming home with bruises from fights
And brag about it

She doesn’t realize
That youth has a finite line
Madness ought to subside 
In order for us to become more human than this
And work our way to the things we want

As I try to be good and drink very little
She taunts these efforts
And puts pressure on me

Whines about not having friends
Although loneliness is something 
She knows very little about

She is hungry for the tales of the night
Those times I slithered in the cracks of the pavements
Where I used to dine with roachers
Cracks that are so much deeper than the oceans she is fond of

But how can I ever narrate those nights and days
Where I pretended to be alive
In rooms with no furniture
Behind shutters
Amongst people that reduced their souls
Around burning pipes of getaway

She wants a man with more hatred than love
More death than life
She wants me to stare back at her and say
“hey I’ve hit rock bottom, come join me”

Such is the way with women of this kind
Beautiful and mean and unspoiled

She never worked a day in her life
Never had to land a fist on a nose
Or wake up to an alarm clock screaming at six in the morning

When I wake up in the afternoon
And watch her beautiful ass move
As proudly as a waving flag

I know
I’m caught in this
And will stay here
Enslaved by her fire
Until she will suck the last drop of me
And bored and quenched
Hunt for another poor soul
That right about now
Knows nothing
Of this.

Sometimes you look
At the moth heading straight to the flame
And it makes perfect sense.

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