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AJ Robertson Feb 2013
It had been 2 weeks
She assumed the kids were asleep
Because he entered
He must of thought seductively
(making sure to shower first)
with an air of cool calmness
a scent of beer with a new thirst
for another type of refreshment
not fulfillment
but refilling

not romance
mere maintenance

she sighed & looked up
    through her glasses at his swollen frame
like a balloons tied to a clothes horse,
    left there for a day
so they sagged and lost their colour
    & the frame had become visible
  but only at its peaks
through the sheer power of gravity
his bones became seen
  through his collar of his van huesen shirt
he thought so debonair (had a classy air, sleekish air)

she smiled acceptingly
as he pretended to be sincere
  when he told her that he loved her
    even after all these years
  she was still a **** momma
she tried not to laugh
when he kissed her on the neck
& rubbed
her breast like he wanted milk

she spread her legs
when he pushed them
  & waited for the steering
of a trailer into a garage
in reverse
at midnight
  under influence
with the subtlety of a steer

it reminded her of years ago
when she had laughed at the austere
teachers that had enraged her
with their frigid sneer

& she smiled to herself an thought
of her *** like a rare fruit
only to age and watch it be eaten
by a once charming now savage brute

who turned into a blob of sorts
& she aswell had sagged
at least they sagged happily together
there's some comfort to be had in that
so she waited for the ******
with an image impressed in her
   of a smirking withered teacher
arms folded & a smug grin
with a look that proclaims
     ‘here u are
     it seems we’re on a par
     an existence so far
  from what u saw in dreams u had
  of supple limbs & knowing grins
  to dry skins and droopy things'

a flower wilted & smelling a bit funny
the faded colour of pale brown

in the end she felt lie a jug of sorts
he rolled over & went to sleep
she eventually did also
thinking about wat to cook next week
AJ Robertson Jan 2013
‘I prefer it dry’ he lied
& proceeded to try
& impress her with a story
about his income & his busyness
& his car & his business

she pretended not to care
answered a phone call
& laughed
cos her & her troupe
were ever so proud
of being real crazy
& funny
& busy
& they found
that people wouldn’t notice
unless they told them
so they made sure they did so
when there was someone new around

she then hung up the phone
&  listened to him drone
about the perks
& the jerks
he worked with
& how
he could do much better
if and when he was in charge

he then talked of which countries
he had been to
all over asia, these last 4 years
& how he had got drunk

she didn’t care about the details
but the stories strangely aroused her
but somehow moreso in her *****

she could see her kids now
with blond hair & cuts like Beiber
well clothed
& out of the way
while she stared at day time television
& the lamented the angry day
   that April told her to ‘get ******’
   &  so she slapped her across the face

he was pleasant
  wasn’t smelly
  wasn’t fat
  wasn’t asian
& as for the meal he did pay

the waiter brought the bill
& they quivelled
so for the drinks he didn’t pay
they left together
and slept together

he didn’t call her
but she didn’t care
AJ Robertson Jan 2013
the closer we looked, the less we were impressed
but ultimately still would ****
AJ Robertson Jan 2013
She lay in his bed
Scenes of tunnels & trains
& thoughts of trite moosh run through her head

when young she saw him different
with a quiff
& a whiff of CK on levis
& a watch with LED lights
& a t-shirt blue, skin tight

but with fashion aside
her passion subsides
when he enters not so gently,
did not test the waters
did not guess it was low tide

During the evening they danced
They got down to steady trance
But now it seems he’s in free time
A strange rhythm, so contrived

He doesn’t look like he knows it
Doesn’t seem like type
To quote ornette coleman
In the dark of the night

He has the feel of squashed fruit
And the thwack of a wet sock
Flooped out like misplaced steps
Of a horse learning to walk

The night entertainment then,
Condemned to an eye on a clock
Whilst sharing sweaty absorbence
& not at all evenly proportioned

the most obtuse solos
are always too long
and if made into a duet
it’s just awkward & wrong

one face polite
as one face holds strong
held strong in the notion
it is the king of this realm, his own

like a deluded ****** rock star
with an out of tune guitar
& a confused young groupie
rebelling against her ma & pa

in the end he doesn’t sell it
rather he gives it away
& she is obliged to take it
to carry on the shared charade

a feeble dance of pretence
not to shatter the held façade
of a bullied masculinity
of a young boy fully charged
of a girl swooned by a conman
albeit not well disguised
she convinced herself a prince of sorts
fit to break past her royal guard

she leaves bored & unfulfilled
while he sleeps sound & proud
her dreaming of a prince she’ll soon meet
with a better sense of time
AJ Robertson Jan 2013
The way the clock ticks
Smooth away
Spirits dry
  Slightly tender ears
Become another breath

A breath a sigh a mess to deal with
A test of zeal
& a box of papers
  strewn left
& right
  torn & strung about to conceal
  the floor
the door
the walls
& the ceiling

naked peach & sweating
standing still like a post, but turning around slowly internally
putting on graces & smiling, sniffing the glass
before frowning & commenting on the values of waiting,
or diving right into the chasm of debt,
    he looks handsome
& brutish
  like a man best used for feeding
  himself, feeding someone else
  mere feed
    he was food
  a cow in a pasture
devouring to continue the feeding
for some dollars each day increasing

‘no worries mate’
a gesture to continue moving
there’s less to do
ensuing deadlines
wave beside the days arrive
sequentially,
enduring through them dutifully

    like you must

red stars of sparks string off his limbs
& burn holes in the papers
brown cigarette burns widen & envelop
the papers that are small, the bigger
ones catch alight & fall to the
floor & it spreads
to the door
the walls
& the ceiling

now naked & blue & burning
the red & yellow flame rises high
a candle stands spinning
screaming & fighting & running from foe
who will eat him,
or **** him
he sleeps shivering under stars burning brighter than his own
& the papers are gone

  so few left to feed the fire
    he collapses
in a heap of soot & ash

he lies naked & black & steaming

panting & huffing like a kid on a balloon
on hands & knees observes the wreck
& sighs to clean the mess before
he becomes accustomed
or bored
  he swings a broom around
  and a dust pan handily collects the
soot & the wreck doesn’t seem so bad

it still stands & he stays there

in a darken pit, a hole of charred plaster
& carpet,

  it seems OK so he stays there

all along the street the candles are snuffed out

they still stand so they stay there

in a row
toe to toe
all together
in compartments
of a box
of matches
AJ Robertson Jan 2013
A bee whistles past his ear
He feels the sound . . he doesn’t care
Averts his eyes in case there’s others
Raises his hands to fix his hair

Divorced from reality somewhat: from feeling.
Or at least extremes of:
Never exceeding amounts unfeasible:
Pertaining to the limits thereof:
Plateaued at governable levels in present:
Exempt from enth
Kept in check
His whistle wet & he’s well fed

Real words strewn along the ground
Discarded leaves fallen
Left decaying: mostly forgotten

His pants look to him pantaloons
For the good they do representing him
the man chases an end necessary; resenting
not waning, he feigns stoicism
then his creeping cynicism clouds his eyes

‘u know what buddy, u can honestly get ******’ he says ‘the 1st world cries the loudest; but is softest.  Thinks it is toughest; it is weakest, smoothest, creamiest.’
‘u know what buddy u are honestly right’ he says to himself not wanting to admit to himself that he agrees with himself,
but despite this all, his gaze’s focus still lowers
the edges become softer
& he does what he does

he wraps up in his blanky
with his bottle; safe under cover
among some big ******* to feel warm
but the swarm of bees they circle
twitching fever; rippling waves

hope to god that they don’t sting you
as u hide & feel their sway
lapping closer swooping hawk like
collective wind; they rearrange

and then

they push left !swoop! they raise u up,
( a cloud of black and brown and yellow arches and hums, hums like a razor on steroids, seeping potent purpose, pushing, coming: close your eyes for impending hell)
leaving bumps that swell and burn, they grab, they encase, they consume, they drive, they raise and they push
and they deliver u
and u obey them
and u relinquish; u fold enslaved
they push u forward  !the buzz! it wakes
it makes u groan,
u can’t ignore it
u know u need it
u’ve got to do it
u need to go


toil on & reap the spoils
another set with the walking beige

go here go there: be happy
u have no reason to not this day
just keep on going, mate my mate
lulling deep into the beige

— The End —