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The Next Wkend

Whenever I smoke
like a train
or a public schoolboy
I cannot stop thinking
that I should shove a fire-hose
down my throat
and twist the ignition

When I am on the field
Randwick By the Sea
I twist the ignition
between my heart & my legs
charging myself
holding ball in hand
into opposition bodies

I cannot stop thinking,
as bodies roll
into ancient fleshy
nooks & crannies
elbow – stomach
knee – groin,
about Friday Night Antics:

My large hands around
money
drink
and then throat
somewhat aggressively
fucking her softly
she looks surprised
eyes wide,
mouth agape,
clit large, walls tight,
as if she expected me to have just erupted from the earth
ripped & powerful
like some Tolkien creation
as if she does not know I have sisters,
and one mother,
I make forced gentle movements
like dashing between defenders
I come holding her open

I have tried, scored again,
my elation short
there is always
the next weekend

She lays there wide-eyed
all teeth and tongue
I know she wants to
ask me why
they all do

I roll over
feeling torn
empty
I light a cigarette
hoping to choke the oxygen
wishing her asleep
I finish burning
roll over
always fake snoring
my sleep a pitiful masquerade
she eventually beds with the cousin of death
as thoughts rattle within my fetid head

Morning breaks upon my eyes,
my forehead burning,
I want to move but I won’t,
she rumbles and then lifts
wearing my shirt & a smile
I peek through my heavy lids
she dances out
into the world

& I remain
with swollen member
& swollen lips
dreading the next few hits
of life coming on

The next two days are
pre-zombie-apocalypse quiet
purging myself of
weekend horrors
meditating awkwardly on Oberst lyrics
I shake jaggedly back into the main stream

Tuesday night training
my muscles aching like dammed waterfalls
mind still fractured
almost, kinda, somewhat
breaking
Coach asks:
How was ur wkend?
Get Boozed?
Fuck Some Chix?

I grunt weak approval
flex my guns & jump into the flesh
he winks and my guts twist
with ball in hand I break
through packs of testosterone
wondering all the time
through ill formed rhyme,
or poetry, if you will,
when I will break through my unhappiness
& find some basic salvation.

I drop the ball.

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Comments

  • Jimmy Joe
    Jimmy Joealmost 3 years ago

    very interesting…kind of ‘beat-poet’

  • msdebbie
    msdebbieover 2 years ago

    Such great imagery in this. Takes me back to a long ago time and place…both my country adolescence largely surrounded by the type of person the coach represents, and then followed by university escapades. I drop the ball is a great conclusion to it RVR!

  • pseudofriend
    pseudofriendover 2 years ago

    I love it RVRFNX. I am new to redbubble myself, but am loving what I see. The ‘Cousin of Death’ is sleep, yes? I like that

  • Yes it is! Sorry it took me so long to reply to you. Welcome to the bubble :)

    – RVRFNX

  • lupa
    lupaabout 2 years ago

    Am absolutely loving trawling through your work, RVR…your wordcrafting still enthralls me :)

  • Thanks Lupa :)

    – RVRFNX

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