Woke up hung-over next to a snoring woman lost
in a pill-induced sleep, picked each other other
up in a bar where she told me her life story.
I listened. I drank and bought her a drink.
She was cute-faced, with large breasts heaving
up deep cleavage -- she was funny, too,
as she rambled on about her destroyed
life, laughing between huge swigs.
She'd been in a nuthouse for several
months, and now seldom found the energy
to get up of the sofa.
We kissed at the bar and the drunks all
watched us over the lips of their glasses.
My hand found her big tits and she
didn't care. I took a drink and my mouth
kissed her mouth as the smoke of thirty
cigarettes rose up and embraced us.
Her car took us to my place. There was
a vague memory of trying to order pizza,
failing -- then, rolling around on the floor,
on top of her, digging my way into
her private places. I was there, on top,
a condom on, trying, but finally
just rolling off, passing out.
And then the sun was up. I heard the sound
that was coming out from her. Her sound, thick --
and ugly, dead sound -- explosive. Her
bare back -- bruised shoulders, white
and purple. I couldn't stand it. My cock
was getting hard and I began rubbing it,
careful at first not to wake her, then, when
I knew she wasn't going to wake up, I started
going faster, just wanting to get the whole thing
over with.
In the bathroom I splashed some water
on my face, sipped a little out of cupped hands.
When I layed back down, the snores, the rush of breath
coming out of her, were the same as before. I closed
my eyes and tried to listen to the early morning
birds that sang outside my window, all those beautiful,
beautiful, beautiful birds.
This is Paul Benton's first appearance in Gnome. He has poetry forthcoming in Devil Blossoms.