By Walter Ruhlmann
The door was left opened all night long,
it was freezing in the kitchen and the percolator
bore icicles. No warm cup of coffee for me
a brownish popsicle which tasted like a frozen cucumber,
except for the colour.
I got in the bath cubicle,
the shower poured snow flakes, hailstones, ice cubes,
they were as many blows, as many strokes reminding me
how hard life is going to be since you left me.
These cold mornings dart me and make me feel sleepy,
they freeze me up, pin me down, solidify my numbed body.
I am useless, pointless, unable to perform any good
We had some cold mornings when you took me to the covered market
in the white van you borrowed from the hotel.
The smell of fish, strawberries, leeks and sweat:
you never washed, neither did I, it was useless,
pointless, an unnecessary action before we walked through the aisles
of fruit, dead meat and vegetables stacks.
You had some fried eggs for breakfast,
with white coffee, pieces of toast;
I had my daily chocolate cup.
I remember that cold morning as I withdrew from your room,
at four o'clock in the morning, that gloomy February night.
I had to fight against all odds, my grief, my tears, I was driving
behind the wheel of this large car which was once yours.
You were resting, lying on your back forever.
A tall dead man who was then suffering no more.
Anguish, fever, those tears I withheld for three days
finally wetted my bed sheets, once they melted,
for when they dripped, they came out as icy patched frost.
“Funny thought!” She said as two whale-men entered the restaurant.
Twins from the womb of some uncanny and spiteful Cretaceous cetacean.
Bearded men with large chests,
Tracy had large breast and when she would work on checkout,
they would lie flat on the counter.
They would spread like soft butter,
onion marmalade, orange honeydew, olive oil on some fried toast.
She probably thought of being ham in a sandwich,
burger between two roll halves,
sausage in a bun.
Sausages and bangers,
she missed them a lot and only admitted having a young one once making a mess on her thigh.
She was lying on the bed with a green night gown on, my shorts showed through,
she could look at my sex bulging softly, immaculate mole melting in the shadows of Tracy's glare.
The honeylocust crown I wore reflected her desire,
lust in her eyes, wet and moist eyes and puss, milk dripping everywhere.
Lusting was all she could do with her shrieking voice,
her tapping stick to prevent her from falling down,
Tracy could walk along the hall
pacing up & down corridors
her heavy breast was in my dreams
and though she wanted me so much
I never gave her anything
so soft as my deepest feeling.
Your Left Buttock
I cupped my hand to hold your left buttock:
the soft and tender flesh,
the caress of your skin,
a little hair
but nothing like your chest,
I rubbed your back and let my hand travel along your spine,
then kissed your bum,
the curve between your ribs and your hips.
Through the window my eyes caught glimpse of some spirits,
the blurry shapes, halos of ghosts,
the outline of an angel,
so many feathers and the wings –
like your body,
bare and moist
under the fading light of the night suns.
The moon light – a path to orgasm –
invading our shelter,
this wood cabin where I once spotted two fellows
drinking English tea and taking time to hum
sitting comfortably on all sorts of cushions,
pillows, blankets, mattresses over the ground.
I withdrew the limb from your bum.
Leaving your left buttock alone and bare,
blew on the surface of this half moon
with no craters but just a few asperities, goose bumps or spots.
I turned over with a hard on and with my hand
I brushed the tip of my penis –
little acorn, red hazelnut, tumescent strawberry –
a sticky tear, a drop of dew, I brushed away with my finger.