My spirit protected my body through the depths of Hell. The body was drawn back to heroine of sex for money, nearly obliterated in the process
By consequences, now more than theoretical:
Razor-sharp rocks in a deep, grey, sulfuric, cold, urban river. A nightmare I was drowning in, tethered to the bottom, paralyzed by the fear of death, Catch-22:
I’ll die if I don’t do this.
If I do this I’ll die.
Men.
Testosterone, hard muscle mass, ego, arrogance, bread-winning. Desperation.
Craigslist.
Distant, internet. Sales and services. The impoverished. The lonely, in Desperation. Lies, corruption, and sin.
Women.
Submissive, tits and vaginas. Are you hot? Sexy? Haircolor. Weight. Slim/slender, average, more to love. Distorted body image. Desperation.
And how far are you willing to go
to pay your rent,
utilities,
credit cards,
student loans,
for transportation, food, and clothes?
And do you suck dick?
And do you swallow?
Swallow it back down,
your sense of self, self-respect, and integrity?
And do you do anal?
Can I test-ride you?
And will you open your (dented car) door
wide to the parasites, like red-eyed rhinoceros, they’ll infect you with,
as you’re red-eyed, pound the fucking walls with your bloody fist,
while all you can do is cry
for the Sin of this world
and how lost everyone’s become
when you’re a little wide-eyed innocent girl
with a fifty-year-old man’s hard dick in your baby, tiny (hairless vagina, budding nipples) pretty little mouth, spurting fast its cum into your weeping
pleading
helpless
terrified
trashed and filthy soul?
Numb.
Cool wind on her tiny sweating body, arms swerving to balance on rollerblades, over sidewalk chalk, mudpies, 90s beatbox, a lemonade stand, 25 cents for an ice cold cup.
“Lemonade, twenty-five cents!”
“Lemonade, twenty-five cents!”
“Twenty-five cents for ice-cold lemonade, get it here, now!” They hope to make two dollars. Laughter echoes, children holler.
She opens her eyes, throbbing temples, bruised wrists, bloody knuckles. Tied down. Coloring books, Princess Barbies, and macaroni necklaces strewn about.
The violent screaming coming from the other room
is deafeningly loud. The man stands nearly 6 feet tall; silver hair, crown of bald; fat round face and red fingers; brown, muddled eyes that linger. In his shadow, she’s cold.
His face, whitely glared by light, she can see is old with sagging cheeks. He licks his small, cracked lips and she closes her eyes again.
Wanna play house? I be Daddy. You be Mommy.
A cardboard box, big as a doghouse, with windows and a door cut out.
The lemons, overripened, have fallen to the ground and the 90s beatbox sings,
“I think she likes me
And I know I like her,
it’s kind of frightening,
‘cause it’s too soon to be sure…”
Further off a tune (which stops at every corner for the excited, screaming hordes of kids) of a song, which goes:
“Half a pound of tuppenny rice,
Half a pound of treacle,
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop! Goes the weasel!”
Blue sky. Bologna and ketchup. Dirty little hands and feet.
Get home by sunset if you want to eat.
“IT.
EAT IT.
SWALLOW IT GOOD GIRL BE A GOOD GIRL AND SWALLOW IT FROM DADDY’S FUNSTICK.”
“Fear Not!” a deep, feminine, maternal voice interrupts, saying,
“child of mine, fear not the darkness. My light shall guide you through.”
The child cannot see anything now and all she hears is the woman’s voice, and then, a resonating harp. The strings vibrate like the silk of a spider’s web, gently moved by the gentle breeze and golden specks are glistening all around the baby girl’s head. The woman, though silent now, is whispering,
in mind
a prayer.
Something’s happening. The little girl, now an apparition, is floating, transcending the beaten, blistered, bruised, battered, annihilated corpse-body.
Re-embodied among clouds, she’s riding on a graceful, swift wild horse, across the sky’s grassy hills.
Chills. A fever.
A mother slowly and spoonfeeds her swaddled, little baby
warm chicken broth,
she sweetly hums a tune
and sings,
“Could you be the most beautiful girl in the world?
Could you be?
It’s plain to see you’re the reason that God made a girl,
Oh, yes, you are.”
She lies her hand on her daughter’s tear-stained, steamy cheek, and in that moment, the baby girl smiles
and so,
the Mother smiles.
By consequences, now more than theoretical:
Razor-sharp rocks in a deep, grey, sulfuric, cold, urban river. A nightmare I was drowning in, tethered to the bottom, paralyzed by the fear of death, Catch-22:
I’ll die if I don’t do this.
If I do this I’ll die.
Men.
Testosterone, hard muscle mass, ego, arrogance, bread-winning. Desperation.
Craigslist.
Distant, internet. Sales and services. The impoverished. The lonely, in Desperation. Lies, corruption, and sin.
Women.
Submissive, tits and vaginas. Are you hot? Sexy? Haircolor. Weight. Slim/slender, average, more to love. Distorted body image. Desperation.
And how far are you willing to go
to pay your rent,
utilities,
credit cards,
student loans,
for transportation, food, and clothes?
And do you suck dick?
And do you swallow?
Swallow it back down,
your sense of self, self-respect, and integrity?
And do you do anal?
Can I test-ride you?
And will you open your (dented car) door
wide to the parasites, like red-eyed rhinoceros, they’ll infect you with,
as you’re red-eyed, pound the fucking walls with your bloody fist,
while all you can do is cry
for the Sin of this world
and how lost everyone’s become
when you’re a little wide-eyed innocent girl
with a fifty-year-old man’s hard dick in your baby, tiny (hairless vagina, budding nipples) pretty little mouth, spurting fast its cum into your weeping
pleading
helpless
terrified
trashed and filthy soul?
Numb.
Cool wind on her tiny sweating body, arms swerving to balance on rollerblades, over sidewalk chalk, mudpies, 90s beatbox, a lemonade stand, 25 cents for an ice cold cup.
“Lemonade, twenty-five cents!”
“Lemonade, twenty-five cents!”
“Twenty-five cents for ice-cold lemonade, get it here, now!” They hope to make two dollars. Laughter echoes, children holler.
She opens her eyes, throbbing temples, bruised wrists, bloody knuckles. Tied down. Coloring books, Princess Barbies, and macaroni necklaces strewn about.
The violent screaming coming from the other room
is deafeningly loud. The man stands nearly 6 feet tall; silver hair, crown of bald; fat round face and red fingers; brown, muddled eyes that linger. In his shadow, she’s cold.
His face, whitely glared by light, she can see is old with sagging cheeks. He licks his small, cracked lips and she closes her eyes again.
Wanna play house? I be Daddy. You be Mommy.
A cardboard box, big as a doghouse, with windows and a door cut out.
The lemons, overripened, have fallen to the ground and the 90s beatbox sings,
“I think she likes me
And I know I like her,
it’s kind of frightening,
‘cause it’s too soon to be sure…”
Further off a tune (which stops at every corner for the excited, screaming hordes of kids) of a song, which goes:
“Half a pound of tuppenny rice,
Half a pound of treacle,
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop! Goes the weasel!”
Blue sky. Bologna and ketchup. Dirty little hands and feet.
Get home by sunset if you want to eat.
“IT.
EAT IT.
SWALLOW IT GOOD GIRL BE A GOOD GIRL AND SWALLOW IT FROM DADDY’S FUNSTICK.”
“Fear Not!” a deep, feminine, maternal voice interrupts, saying,
“child of mine, fear not the darkness. My light shall guide you through.”
The child cannot see anything now and all she hears is the woman’s voice, and then, a resonating harp. The strings vibrate like the silk of a spider’s web, gently moved by the gentle breeze and golden specks are glistening all around the baby girl’s head. The woman, though silent now, is whispering,
in mind
a prayer.
Something’s happening. The little girl, now an apparition, is floating, transcending the beaten, blistered, bruised, battered, annihilated corpse-body.
Re-embodied among clouds, she’s riding on a graceful, swift wild horse, across the sky’s grassy hills.
Chills. A fever.
A mother slowly and spoonfeeds her swaddled, little baby
warm chicken broth,
she sweetly hums a tune
and sings,
“Could you be the most beautiful girl in the world?
Could you be?
It’s plain to see you’re the reason that God made a girl,
Oh, yes, you are.”
She lies her hand on her daughter’s tear-stained, steamy cheek, and in that moment, the baby girl smiles
and so,
the Mother smiles.
Visceral, cutting.
ReplyDeleteAlso, inviting you to my own (by comparison, sterile and bland) blog. http://ionson.blogspot.com/
Keep writing!
Daniel