10-15-2016, 11:18 AM
This is the fourteenth CNF poem I've written in a series of Track Tales from the 80's. Just wanted to check I'm still on target. Any comments welcome.
I wake slowly, our first married morning. Sun beams
through our tower bedroom window, parrots chatter
in the garden of the world. Then I remember
the night before, groan loud enough to wake Mr Nasty.
His eyes flick open, but he doesn’t move. Neither do I.
We lie side by side, fully clothed, on top of the quilt,
like discarded toys. I’m still wearing my wedding dress,
my high heeled sandals. My head pains at the sound
of my groan; now the rest of my body complains.
A combination of too much champagne, I think
someone dropped acid in the fruit punch, a lot of
good Nepalese temple ball hash, copious fine white
lines , and rage, which will always take a high that bit
over the top. I’m so angry I’m petrified.
The wedding part of it goes OK. A celebrant stands
on the back deck steps, guests sit or lean or lounge
as she recites the Desiderata and words that marry us.
Dark by now, paper lanterns shine from trees around us
as everyone cheers at the end, a wave of good feeling;
I’m grinning like a child. Friends carry Mr Nasty away.
I chat to his mother and her sisters, weirdly all the same
face, short ladies, pink apple cheeks, black button eyes.
Guardians of the wedding presents displayed upstairs
according to some unspoken protocol. I know nothing
of the intricacies of weddings, this is only my second.
My first husband organizes the first; I turn up.
So the girls – they don’t come up to my shoulders –
lead me up the tower steps to the presents. A bathroom
door hangs half open. Or half closed. I push it fully open;
Mr Nasty, shoulders to the wall. Jen, my brother’s wife
my sister-in-law kneels with his cock in her mouth. We’ve
been married exactly fifteen minutes. So that’s how long
my marriage lasts, really. Everything after that is just
getting out of it.
Of course his mother and aunties see it too. They fluff
and cluck like hens at the sight of a hawk. I’m not angry
he’s having sex with someone else. It’s more to do with
time, and place.
I get drunk on Roderer Cristal then switch to the punch
Peter, our houseboy, mixes from white spirits, champagne,
and tropical fruit. He and his partner, in tuxes, serve guests
food and booze, they’re having a ball. Everyone is. Our friends
don’t know each other yet. Peter sticks labels on as they arrive,
with their name, no introductions needed. I wear one saying
‘Bride’ though I hope the dress is a dead giveaway.
Sue helps me drink. She’s my bridesmaid twice. (My brother
gives me away both times. He takes Jen home.) Ski bum mates
mingle well with the racing crowd. Sue tells The Bosses’ sister
about the weekend in New York she doesn’t go to Woodstock.
I meet her working in Thredbo. She’s a waitress, I work bars.
She leaves to train as a nurse, I stay and open a business.
We keep in touch, the Hole in the Head gang from Thredbo
summers of the 70’s. She thinks I’m taking it all too seriously.
She thinks it’s hilarious, with Macbeths’ witches as witnesses.
The last ritual, cutting the cake. Really a pair of croquembouche;
there are so many guests and we want everyone to have some.
Mr Nasty’s brother, a chef, caters the party as his gift. Of course
the food is superb – I remember some chicken. Mr Nasty is a bit
restless, standing next to me.
We each grasp a bun on top of a pyramid, break it free from caramel
and eat it in one bite – the filling is redolent of liqueur – Cointreau?
Grand Marnier ?–croquembouche therapy. Then the guests help
themselves. The cakes are gone in minutes.
The party breaks down. Fuel rationing’s on, so there’s a drum
of petrol for guests to fill up before they leave. I wander
off to my bed. Honeymoon starts tomorrow – how can I
go to the States with this prick? How do I go about
getting out of this? That’s when I fall asleep, I guess.
That’s what I wake up with, anyway, a stale thought,
a leftover from the night before.
I wake slowly, our first married morning. Sun beams
through our tower bedroom window, parrots chatter
in the garden of the world. Then I remember
the night before, groan loud enough to wake Mr Nasty.
His eyes flick open, but he doesn’t move. Neither do I.
We lie side by side, fully clothed, on top of the quilt,
like discarded toys. I’m still wearing my wedding dress,
my high heeled sandals. My head pains at the sound
of my groan; now the rest of my body complains.
A combination of too much champagne, I think
someone dropped acid in the fruit punch, a lot of
good Nepalese temple ball hash, copious fine white
lines , and rage, which will always take a high that bit
over the top. I’m so angry I’m petrified.
The wedding part of it goes OK. A celebrant stands
on the back deck steps, guests sit or lean or lounge
as she recites the Desiderata and words that marry us.
Dark by now, paper lanterns shine from trees around us
as everyone cheers at the end, a wave of good feeling;
I’m grinning like a child. Friends carry Mr Nasty away.
I chat to his mother and her sisters, weirdly all the same
face, short ladies, pink apple cheeks, black button eyes.
Guardians of the wedding presents displayed upstairs
according to some unspoken protocol. I know nothing
of the intricacies of weddings, this is only my second.
My first husband organizes the first; I turn up.
So the girls – they don’t come up to my shoulders –
lead me up the tower steps to the presents. A bathroom
door hangs half open. Or half closed. I push it fully open;
Mr Nasty, shoulders to the wall. Jen, my brother’s wife
my sister-in-law kneels with his cock in her mouth. We’ve
been married exactly fifteen minutes. So that’s how long
my marriage lasts, really. Everything after that is just
getting out of it.
Of course his mother and aunties see it too. They fluff
and cluck like hens at the sight of a hawk. I’m not angry
he’s having sex with someone else. It’s more to do with
time, and place.
I get drunk on Roderer Cristal then switch to the punch
Peter, our houseboy, mixes from white spirits, champagne,
and tropical fruit. He and his partner, in tuxes, serve guests
food and booze, they’re having a ball. Everyone is. Our friends
don’t know each other yet. Peter sticks labels on as they arrive,
with their name, no introductions needed. I wear one saying
‘Bride’ though I hope the dress is a dead giveaway.
Sue helps me drink. She’s my bridesmaid twice. (My brother
gives me away both times. He takes Jen home.) Ski bum mates
mingle well with the racing crowd. Sue tells The Bosses’ sister
about the weekend in New York she doesn’t go to Woodstock.
I meet her working in Thredbo. She’s a waitress, I work bars.
She leaves to train as a nurse, I stay and open a business.
We keep in touch, the Hole in the Head gang from Thredbo
summers of the 70’s. She thinks I’m taking it all too seriously.
She thinks it’s hilarious, with Macbeths’ witches as witnesses.
The last ritual, cutting the cake. Really a pair of croquembouche;
there are so many guests and we want everyone to have some.
Mr Nasty’s brother, a chef, caters the party as his gift. Of course
the food is superb – I remember some chicken. Mr Nasty is a bit
restless, standing next to me.
We each grasp a bun on top of a pyramid, break it free from caramel
and eat it in one bite – the filling is redolent of liqueur – Cointreau?
Grand Marnier ?–croquembouche therapy. Then the guests help
themselves. The cakes are gone in minutes.
The party breaks down. Fuel rationing’s on, so there’s a drum
of petrol for guests to fill up before they leave. I wander
off to my bed. Honeymoon starts tomorrow – how can I
go to the States with this prick? How do I go about
getting out of this? That’s when I fall asleep, I guess.
That’s what I wake up with, anyway, a stale thought,
a leftover from the night before.
