I hear you’re sleeping with The Englishman.
He of the silver hair and antiseptic hands,
he with voice of cellos and church.
He with the stories of foreign wars and foreign lands.
I saw his car parked in your driveway,
and his boots left in your hall.
I’ve heard you sucking his English cock
through these paper-thin motel walls.
When I am jealous, what was yesterday my love for you
is swallowed by my envy’s turbid flood.
When I am jealous I love to bite the inside of my lip
just to taste my salty blood.
Is this the guy who shot his load across your chin
then pulled your hair and slapped your face?
Is this the man who gouged out your eyes and
called it Christ’s redeeming Grace?
I may never be the man who loves you
and I have learned to leave you unprotected
and I hide the hard-on when you enter or leave
but I won’t see you disrespected.
I’m the beast that loves you not with the love
of moonlight or of candy and of flowers
I am the beast who wells up in his love, who
hovers in your dreams through those long, abandoned hours
The Englishman called while you were out,
he asked where you were and I lied.
He asked could he come over , I told him
you are otherwise occupied.
They tell me he’s conventionally handsome
and you always did like handsome, stupid men.
You never liked you lovers complicated and crossed,
like I was and would be again.
….here’s his footsteps on the path, is it time for me to leave?
This poem originally appeared on my MySpace blog, Full Mental Jacket, on 10/26/2006