Flesh, Pear, Rent, Taste by Misty Rampart
The cats have found the toothpaste cap and just let me slip into a mournful daze thinking about the
highfalutin perfect tens out there who aren’t reflected in my bathroom mirror. They’re silly, purring. A
preacher would say less, and serve as a lesser guide, spank my bottom and give me a grade of
incomplete. He’s a tasteless representative of but not a spokesman for the guttural ossified land, or
more so of the ruthless who preserve their right to unfasten their belts and lighten their bottom lines
while exposing their snow-white thighs.
I feel condemned and bitter – it all started with that lunchroom business and how, by subterfuge and the
fact that it was the mid 1990’s, he obtained a sleepy bit of business by showing me his private punch. It
was the first and ugliest love, a paltry scrap for any book, his burly arms making order out of my chaos
by taking his paddle to my ass.
Always be discreet is what my father said, which seemed as superficial as watching geese one day and
trying to remember it the next. So he held me by my wrists as he professed his profuse but ultimately
I felt the sharp point of what it meant to feel squalid and to be squalid while the rest of the world
seemed invincible, always so full of activity, had square chins and eliminated their problems with
flame. This is the way the male member carves you up until even you have to bring your tank into the
shop, take a number, and keep a copy for your records.
If you prefer, you can call him protective, the spear point of every dysfunctional dichotomy.
This glib thing, this life, this everlasting lust. I’m grateful for the amount of confused activity it creates,
in addition to the grate where I see all my pearls wash down (the ones he gave me as a reward, with a
flashy coat of skin). The nerve of some people to despair or scorn while the diggers dig up coal for
them, for you, for me.
They’re all unruly and large, spinning their yarn in the aftermath of what was a time when things made
more sense, we now in the aftermath, which is easy to confuse with your conscious breath.
I try to grip some level of omniscient understanding. He watches basketball and complains about a sore
tooth. I’m beginning to shake when I think about the quickest way to a more lush paradise where
honorable people live and plant spectacularly righteous crops.
Here is where we’ll meddle though, baking pies and creating a sort of bouncy pastoral – scattered all
over the way we walk.
You have a substantial grip, love. Your violet and curvy skin I can’t escape from. It’s not a joke, nor is
it sad, I just want to taste you and need you like personal growth. I need to make you mine and I’m so
lowly, so what would that make you?
Our hearts connect but produce a null effect though I’m still disturbed by your tiny limit, elbow in my
side. It makes me so ill, if only for a brief time like a slip of a wrench. I can’t find or define a woman as
a mate, not at the risk of destroying the base my life is built upon.
You can x-ray my soul and return with the images, the acoustics that include the tiny thread of love I
have for the uppity males who unite in the hunt, closeted in a dark den from which sprout tall pink
trees, meek and glistening.
I try to be coherent even when I pull so hard, yell so loud, trying to release the adhesive he has on me,
the black-and-white photos in frames, so staid, like cold love frying in a pan. He thinks it kindly, the
placid boiling of a heart. Later, I see how stiff he can be until I watch him vanish, go out to watch his
The meek were supposed to inherit everything but I barely get a loaf of bread or an ill-fated roll of
something to stick a fang in. When he gets in I grab him by the front, tease with that small bait. I am
gifted in the mist and his welcome visitor makes a great addition. Hard as a wrench, I tease him like a
beginner. The sound a lick makes. Believe me we both approve. I wear his crown while a cemetery
thought waves its grandiose goodbyes.
©2019 Misty Rampart