06-14-2012, 02:09 AM
A Deeper Cut
At the end of her road of self-absorption
was a yellow-brown mineral stained bathtub
overflowing with a mixture
of warm water and hot blood.
Located in a drug infested shooting gallery
of a Tom Burdettless Motel 6
on the north bound feeder road
of I-H35 in south Austin:
one block from the new Luby’s
where the blue hairs were lining up
for the blue plate special.
Serving time had just begun
on that Thursday morning at 10:51.
Although not incredibly bright,
she had finally figured out
that you had to slice deep,
just like the server at Luby’s,
was doing to the roast beef.
She had to carve deeply downward
from elbow to wrist right along her
much abused leathery veins
if she wanted to fill the tub
before the EMT’s
got there to patch her up.
This time…she went willfully deep into the arm.
It was a lot harder than it seemed it should be.
The skin and flesh not so much slicing as ripping.
But the sound,
that was what was so surprising:
that strange sucking tearing sound.
It reminded her of when she gave birth
to her only child:
a precocious green eyed daughter,
now sixteen,
who did not yet know that in a few hours
she would be making arrangements
for the final physical remnant of a wasted life.
When the call did come,
green eyes would not be upset.
Mother and daughter had not lived together
for the past three years.
Green eyes had distanced herself from It,
had moved on from It,
didn’t have the energy for It,
she no longer cared about It.
She thought the same thoughts as everyone
when they heard the news:
“Why did it take you so long?”
It was never questioned.
It was going to happen.
Too many dress rehearsals
to not finally put on the show.
The tickets had all been bought,
and paid for several times over
years and years and years ago.
The last good rehearsal she had
was when she OD’ed,
snowballing heroin and coke.
She ended up in the ER,
charcoal shoved most ungently down her throat.
Certainly not the most dramatic time by far.
There had not been anything left to burn
for a very long time.
Nobody was playing her game anymore.
Except for those equally whacked out members
of her sexual abuse support group:
it had been second verse same as the first
for so long that everyone knew the tune,
front to back, and back to front,
it was Mary had a Little Lamb,
sung again and again, ad nauseam.
It had not been an interesting jingle to start.
(If you plan on keeping the crowd interested
you got to have some new material
every now and again.
A raised fifth on the same tired old theme
won’t get anybody going.)
So the thousands of wasted dollars
on home security devices
to keep out the non-existent
cult members had less affect
on her audience
than an unscheduled timpani roll
drowning out the oboe solo
in the last movement of a Berlioz symphony.
The feeble pathetic torso-joined-limbs
of the multi-tentacled “twice weekly support group”
that had only fantasy upon which to hang
their undersized hats of non-existent self-esteem,
were always up for game of
one-up-man-ship until
someone would get so fed up
with the one-ups
that they would one-up,
one final time.
The arrival of the too-late-this-time
EMT would bare witness
to her testament
of self-absorption.
Signed in cheap red ink
soaking into the dirty porous grout
staining it that unmistakable dark color
that can’t be bleached out:
waiting until the manager who collected
a mere twenty-six dollars
for the rent breaks down and
has it ripped out…………again.
© –Erthona
At the end of her road of self-absorption
was a yellow-brown mineral stained bathtub
overflowing with a mixture
of warm water and hot blood.
Located in a drug infested shooting gallery
of a Tom Burdettless Motel 6
on the north bound feeder road
of I-H35 in south Austin:
one block from the new Luby’s
where the blue hairs were lining up
for the blue plate special.
Serving time had just begun
on that Thursday morning at 10:51.
Although not incredibly bright,
she had finally figured out
that you had to slice deep,
just like the server at Luby’s,
was doing to the roast beef.
She had to carve deeply downward
from elbow to wrist right along her
much abused leathery veins
if she wanted to fill the tub
before the EMT’s
got there to patch her up.
This time…she went willfully deep into the arm.
It was a lot harder than it seemed it should be.
The skin and flesh not so much slicing as ripping.
But the sound,
that was what was so surprising:
that strange sucking tearing sound.
It reminded her of when she gave birth
to her only child:
a precocious green eyed daughter,
now sixteen,
who did not yet know that in a few hours
she would be making arrangements
for the final physical remnant of a wasted life.
When the call did come,
green eyes would not be upset.
Mother and daughter had not lived together
for the past three years.
Green eyes had distanced herself from It,
had moved on from It,
didn’t have the energy for It,
she no longer cared about It.
She thought the same thoughts as everyone
when they heard the news:
“Why did it take you so long?”
It was never questioned.
It was going to happen.
Too many dress rehearsals
to not finally put on the show.
The tickets had all been bought,
and paid for several times over
years and years and years ago.
The last good rehearsal she had
was when she OD’ed,
snowballing heroin and coke.
She ended up in the ER,
charcoal shoved most ungently down her throat.
Certainly not the most dramatic time by far.
There had not been anything left to burn
for a very long time.
Nobody was playing her game anymore.
Except for those equally whacked out members
of her sexual abuse support group:
it had been second verse same as the first
for so long that everyone knew the tune,
front to back, and back to front,
it was Mary had a Little Lamb,
sung again and again, ad nauseam.
It had not been an interesting jingle to start.
(If you plan on keeping the crowd interested
you got to have some new material
every now and again.
A raised fifth on the same tired old theme
won’t get anybody going.)
So the thousands of wasted dollars
on home security devices
to keep out the non-existent
cult members had less affect
on her audience
than an unscheduled timpani roll
drowning out the oboe solo
in the last movement of a Berlioz symphony.
The feeble pathetic torso-joined-limbs
of the multi-tentacled “twice weekly support group”
that had only fantasy upon which to hang
their undersized hats of non-existent self-esteem,
were always up for game of
one-up-man-ship until
someone would get so fed up
with the one-ups
that they would one-up,
one final time.
The arrival of the too-late-this-time
EMT would bare witness
to her testament
of self-absorption.
Signed in cheap red ink
soaking into the dirty porous grout
staining it that unmistakable dark color
that can’t be bleached out:
waiting until the manager who collected
a mere twenty-six dollars
for the rent breaks down and
has it ripped out…………again.
© –Erthona
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.