Poetry Magazine, James Spillane, Holiday 2000-2001

Poetry Magazine

James Spillane

BELGIUM

In A Dream

In a dream
Moving like killers

After the bar coming home smelling like smoke dipping my head under the sink and then into the tub rinsing my hair out, with Irish springs soap across my skin smelling a little better, eating a ginseng pill
Looking at myself in the mirror, eyes glazed over and hair sticking up, a smile in the corner of my lips coming up to touch the light bulb
Chris comes in bringing us three glasses and bottle of scotch. we laugh
The music spins in the corner on a CD player, it is beck's odelay, and then beastie boys
Paul's boutique

Jeremy dancing with a wig grabbing his crotch, a back pack violently sliding from shoulder to shoulder with ping pong like movements
Chris smokes and then falls down onto his elbow

In the kitchen I open the fridge then the freezer, pull out the coffee beans, stick about 20 into my mouth and begin to chew them…

anything to stay up

Outside I can see the car headlights passing bye, it is amazing that people are still up, or are they going to work, I can never tell

Sara sticks her leg up and rests it on my thigh, looking at her ankle, the bone sticking out like it is wrapped in a plastic bag, a network of blue veins reaching for life.

the smell of perfume, even on her feet, in her hair, in her eyes… Chris falls down again; Jeremy follows… as the room begins to spin

She kisses me in the hallway because I am a poet; I pull my gun out her and tell her to back off
She laughs falling down, hair amuck over her eyes black like coffee
There's a trick I can do with my dress
She says pulling it up over her breast where the elastic sticks to it… and then laying down on top of me
I feel, as if I am gonna puke when the lights go out

In the morning or afternoon, Chris in the bathroom puking, letting his soul out over the toilet a gun shot of sound
Splash of water
And a cough

I try to wait and wait but can't hold it; outside I run stumbling down the stairs and letting it fly
All over the front yard
It is warm out side, my head throbbing so much I think about death
Sweat coming down my face mixing on my lips with lipstick, and puke…
a string reaching down hanging over a beetle
Hanging over an oak leaf
I vomit again letting it out
Heart beating, a mailman watched me, a jogger passes bye, sand and pine needles digging into my knees

And I wonder if this is good for my self-image

in the kitchen with gazelles

she said she liked my beard
as my finger circled against the wood
sometimes following the grain
slowly i reached up so she wouldn't notice
and began to feel my whiskers
tugging on them
for they were growing
right there as we finished our forth glass of rum
even though she was across the room
it felt like she was on top of me
i kept moving uncomfortable
feeling her breath
like bullets
clawing their way through the air
i thought about closing in on her
with out a word
and kissing her
but these were just images running like gazelles
banging across the kitchen counter top
i really like your beard
she said
and i sipped the last bit of rum
my face twisting a little
trying to act manly with a smile
and then exhaling the alcohol out
across my lips tasting it
hoping for a moment that she would feel my words
in the same way i was drinking hers