The Other Asian Woman

Section One (sex)

Everybody told me I had coitus on the brain,

I told them not to say that, and the fools said it again.

I caught myself that evening with no alternate in sight

I knew I had to silence them that very (exact) night.

I twined your legs around my neck and settled down to wait,

a hunter waiting for its prey to make that small mistake.

My thoughts were not the purest ones, this I wont deny,

slime like pepper dots my brain, even when I’m high.

My plan was very simple (it needed no revision)

Not once the voices in my head had made that small decision

to follow blindly where I led, to walk in single file.

To seek the wrath of Asian gods on all those I reviled.

At dead of night I slunk outside and targeted those men,

(Those very fools who had refused to bless me with semen)

I took my aim and let it rip; I fled and found a hole

to sink myself in while the rest took count of the death toll.

One of those (dismembered) men was then heard to remark

(I quote in full so you don’t lose the gist of what of he barked)

"I've always had an atom bomb, I just never thought it would explode in my face."

.

Section Two (what actually happened)

Sex is what I think should be

not just optional but

compulsory.

I'd prescribe the gentle kind

(Over the counter under the table)

for mothers and pre-schoolers,

and the brand of whips and knives

to bankers, wankers, losers.

One (the first) would educate,

the second would adorn

the bodies of the slimy types

who, fucking, are reborn

As lovers, dancers, moonlight sylphs,

as flashing lights in head

(for cellulite is well disguised

as gentle curves in bed)

There are those who don’t get none, my

ex was one till recently,

He was the kind who saw in stains

the wetness of complicity.

And now "sex" means naught to me

since I don’t have my own,

A wellspring of androgyny I

Sexless, stand alone.


Section Three (the pity party)

"I’m sorry."

I felt the blood rush to my head

A knot forming in my stomach,

The inevitable bearing down upon me like

a ten-ton truck

with prongs on its fender.

"Its ok," I heard myself say

(My voice like steel wool)

"It wouldn't have worked anyway."

My poker face,

much admired if seldom recognized,

lent credibility

to the lie.

Afterwards

I smoked in silence

ignoring

the razors slicing my insides.

I felt you in my intestines,

convoluted, semi-permeable,

Going

Going

Gone.

PLOP

Shit Eaters Anonymous

(We reduce, reuse and recycle

the debris of our relationships)


Section Four (self-esteem issues)

If I could be an oddity

or lend myself to jollity,

pick the crumbs from public parks

(feed the men to tiger sharks)

I’m sure I would not be alone

(Mistaking boomerang for stone).

But here I sit and rack my brain

Wave out to last leaving train.

I think of "god", I think of "pan",

I think I am

an "also ran"


Section Five (realizing why I shouldn’t have self-esteem issues)

Mrs. Hamid across the street thinks the

little men in uniforms (police/traffic)

are out to get her,

They want her body.

And I think damn right

they can’t possibly want "your" brain

.

She talks (in tongues) and I

pretend to answer

switching from language to language

None of which is my own only borrowed

from the west, the colonialists, canned TV

I speak (English) therefore I am (an idiot)

.

Mrs. Hamids son is my age and superior

(a PhD AND an std) and says

"Pseudo pakis like you we don’t need".

I look him in the pelvis and reply

(long moment of silence) "Oh..."

I try to think of a way to knock him

out of his socks (and my pants)

but cant as the English chokes me.

.

I feel like a parasite. Stealing time.

Mrs. Hamid cooks when she’s feeling "worthless"

If I did that I’d spend my life in a pot,

probably the flushing kind.

.

Mr. Hamid was a big man in Texaco. He

has lace curtains in his loo.

He sees patterns as he shits.

.

If all they tell me is true I'm

just a blot on some landscape,

phlegm in a sulfur throat, stain

on His cosmic underpants but HEY

that’s the closest I’ve been to sperm

for a while.

.

Mr. and Mrs. Hamid get into their newly

assembled small white car and drive.

I wave at them from the loo window where

plastic reigns supreme and the only

pattern is my breath on the glass.

.

Section Six (I have gazed into the abyss, and I swear it winked at me)

The thing with peace of mind

(and the other shit you find

when web browsing

or pub crawling)

is that when it shatters

then nothing really matters,

'cept the nitro in your brain

as you implode once again.

.

Out side the streetlight glows

as some happy idiot blows

into a

flute.

You want to slit his skin

pour corrosive things within,

salute

the ghosties in your bed

with the horns upon your head.

Dilute

the poison as it wends

through the cracks you tried to mend.

.

Instead you,

start to dress

(feel the chill

of self-caress)

Your face melts into stone

as you realize you're

alone.

.

Swallow all the bitter pills.

Your friends will give you

free refills.

.

Section Seven (who gives a trumpet?)

Tipped out of bed by a gigantic hiccup I lay

face down on my floor, worshipping

the mildew gods.

I asked for piety,

understanding , and the ability to grow

on people like fungus.

.

I burnt the last of the letters the night before.

My hands shaking, causing political upheavals in

the islands between my veins.



My nails were black as soot, my

starving fingertips

rough with accumulated desires.

.

I must have looked devilish by candlelight.

(I know I’m invisible in company)

.

There was a dead butterfly on my windowsill

(a calcified skeleton in my clothes)

someone tried to help me once but he left

after I swallowed

his semen,

and his story.

.

I used to dream when asleep

now, I twitched,

drunk on wine tainted amniotic fluid

and happiness absorbed through osmosis.

Always half

a spud.

Never

fully

satisfied.

I watched the morning turn to ash,

dusted the cinders off my ass,

went to work.

.

The end

(Judge not lest ye be judged)