11.26.2008

Oedipissed

I was in my father's house
where I grew up
a common dreamscape
as of late.
He'd gone out to the garage
and I'd snuck inside.
I was taking a leak
with the bathroom door ajar
when I noticed someone stirring
in the bedroom across the hall.
Peeping through the crack between
the hinge side of the door and the wall
I saw two round eyes watching me.
"Sorry," I said. "Didn't see you there
otherwise I would've closed the door."
"It's alright," she answered in a sultry
Eastern European accent.
"I've been wanting to meet you."
I was surprised he'd even told her about me.
After finishing my business I zipped up
and entered the room that was tinted blue
by the sunlight coming through the curtains
just as I remember it being in there.
She was sprawled out on the bed
like a woman posing for a painting
you'd see behind a bar from the Old West
right on down to the lacy white nothings
that barely covered her smooth young body.
Her face was very round and soft
her wavy brown hair neatly kept.
"How old are you?" I asked.
"Twenty-five," she answered coyly
rubbing her hands together and looking at the floor.
He's married a woman less than half his age
I thought to myself.
She must've heard the gears turning
because she chimed right in
with a list of Biblical figures with young wives
as if that made it normal.
Yeah, they were two peas in a pod alright.
"I won the Nobel Prize, you know," she said
as a last resort to her argument.
"In what?"
"Loving God," her naive smile replied
like such a category existed.
It was hard, but I managed not to vomit.
That's when I realized it was all a bad dream.
Soulmates, that was for sure.
My discontent didn't turn her off too much
though; the next thing I knew
my head was in her hands and she was kissing me
deeply, pulling my hands to her plump young buttocks
and whimpering like a Goddamn lamb.
"Where are you from?" I asked between breaths
while trying to escape Delilah's scissors.
"Canada," she lied.
Russia, the Ukraine, maybe a Polak;
she was no Canadian, not even the French kind.
She stepped out of the white doily shielding her loins
and pulled me down on top of her sparse sprinkling
of curly brown hair before I could protest.
The noises she made shed all innocence at that point.
It sounded like she needed it.
I heard a door slam outside and knew it was time to run.
The old man would be back soon.
"Fe Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of a Puerto Rican"
and all that jazz.
I pulled away and made my escape through
the blue curtains.

When I woke up shortly afterwards
I checked my phone and saw that my stepfather
and one of my employers had both called.
They must've known, they tried to save me.
No more pondering life before bed.
Even my subconscious is out for me:
My heart, on a platter, covered in Marinara, al dente.

It's so much legalese for something so simple.
He'll never get it.




Currently reading:
"Death in the Afternoon" by Ernest Hemingway.

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