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Wind Reel And Print

I think
Ill go to my grandmothers house to have a bath
but I leave it too late
so that when I get there the crew has already been at KBs for an hour
maybe more
Its after seven by my batman watch
by the time I get to my grandmothers house
but I force myself to have that bath anyway—
its not as relaxing as it could have been

I keep thinking about the crew having fun without me
I cant help feeling like Im lying in Grandma Juice
I eye her medicine cabinet
Ill never open it I try
not to think about whats inside
ointments and such Rubber tubes—
a mark on the side of the toilet bowl could be anything
but I know its not
I get out of the bath before I drown in toilet stroganoff

and I go into my childhood bedroom
on the porch
to lie down for a while
to recover
then Ill get changed and go out
to meet the crew to celebrate
the wrapping of the film
a documentary about a band of country midgets all female
the youngest seventeen and quite attractive.
I become sleepy thinking about her
But the room isnt right Grandma has remodelled
I dont know when
its been a while
but I wish it was still the same
with my old picture books and such
instead of the demon sitting on my chest That I can do without

My old childhood demon the one who used to visit me and sit on my chest
like hes doing now
makes it hard to breathe
Hes gotten heavier with time but hes almost see-through
like a ghost
The weight seems all in his giant ball sack spread out across my chest
quivering and hairy and heavy and stinking like a son of a bitch
like semen and shit and sweat and something else—
rot from whatever hellhole spat him out.
This demon ghost with those bug eyes and terrible receding chin
My hands fly to my own face clean from the bath
What do you want I ask Across the street a party is starting up
I listen to the
guests
arriving
and
the music
disco
the guests are old school
maybe someones 40th
We are Fa-Mi-Lee
Women laughing burly bullies pricking weenies

—the demon laughs too and says
Listen to me Listen he says
But before he can say another word I bite his ball sack
Ive had enough of his shit all my life
weighing me down where you from
you sexy thing.
Sack pus fills my mouth and dribbles down my cheeks and shoots out my nose.
Scrotal sauce flows warm across my chest.
The demon screams
and screams.
His dick a red shrivelled nub and the empty ball sack flapping against my chest
the soupy flow of demon seed slowing I throw him off

jump up and stomp on one and then another of those surprisingly small testes
bouncing onto the floor black and sticky as dog turds
small ones
I pop those suckers with my clean bare heel fresh from the bath
and the demon sprawls on the bed shivering
his shadow gnaws at the air I throw
one of Grandma’s glossy paperbacks at him
—Jonathan Franzen’s latest maybe and spit out a bit of nutsack
from between my teeth and I say
to the demon I say

I wont lick the wound
of our separation or put back your fecund sack grapes or
sew up your hole with my heartstrings no
I wont
because thing is I boogie baby I do the bump

Demon if you need to feed
off what you create
then eat yourself.

I wont listen to you at all.

——————————-

© J.S Breukelaar 2010

Also by J.S Breukelaa in Retort Magazine http://retort.brentley.com/retortpress/2010/02/23/microfiction-a-poem-by-j-s-breukelaar/

J.S. Breukelaar’s work has appeared in various online and print magazines. She blogs at www.thelivingsuitcase.com.au.