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Gordon Purkis
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silentbody.jpg
Art by Gordon Purkis 2009

Your silent body

 

Gordon Purkis

 

In our war of love

(insults and one-upmanship)

we ended up in bed together

anyway

and I, after sucking on your

eraser-cap nipples, remarked

how much bigger your breasts

looked

versus what I remembered, and

your silent body, in turn,

said nothing.

 

Then I said that this was

wrong enough, married

or not, that we had to

stop meeting like this.

 

 

Poison

 

Gordon Purkis

 

It’s cold and rainy and I want you so bad.

Normal people don’t fuck at 10:41 on a Wednesday

but you’re not normal and neither am I.

 

My mouth tastes like dirty metal and I want to share my spittle with you.

 

I know you’re off doing the right thing for you

and so am I. What are you thinking about right now?

I’m sitting here thinking about

how your hard body always acquiesced under

my duress

and I’m just throwing this out there but I want

to do beautifully bad things to you

dance all over the line of violation

plotting your eventual destruction

under the power of my hands,

my hands that own you in ways no one

ever could.

 

I know it’s wrong but you’d let me tear

you into a thousand paper moths,

smash you into atoms of glass.

 

I await your return like watching metal rust and the world is made of iron and semen.

 

If you do ever return I can’t say I’ll ever forgive you for not being here now.

 

For not being my bitch.

 

 

 

 

The Rules

 

Gordon Purkis

 

 

I'm about 5'7" or 6'0", blonde or brunette, whichever you prefer. You can see me in the morning, sitting in the free breakfast area of some moderately-priced hotel chain, up and ready well before you, wearing a black or dark blue business suit, typing away on my laptop, getting ready to make some sales calls, reping for a pharmaceutical company or maybe one of the larger LTL carriers.

 

I always look more or less the same to you—how you want me to look. I sit there typing away on my laptop, toying playfully with my pearls or maybe you like a gold necklace better. You think I'm busy working but really I'm writing you this letter, a letter you can never read—that’s the rule.  If I came right out and told you who and what I was you'd run. All your manly would-be thrusting would disappear and you'd lose all your nerve.

 

So, when I catch you staring at me from across the lobby, don't pussy out. I like a certain amount of shyness but I have to catch you looking, it's part of the rules for creatures like me.  I know it's an awful game and I sometimes wish I could just come right out and tell you but again, it's against the rules. If you knew the truth about me, I would cease to exist. Once in a millenium, we make the mistake of falling for one of your kind and it kills us. It is in that moment of ecstacy that we are most vulnerable but that doesn't stop us from doing what we were made to do, our birthright and our sentence.

 

I will make you happy, though, won't I? When I let you take me back to your room for a quick, hot I can't believe this is happening stranger-fuck? I am the bestower of memory that keeps you believing in mortal women. You don't know the difference between us except they hardly ever make you feel the way we do, but you chase them, anyway, you poor silly creatures!

 

After it's over, I will leave you, though it saddens me a little. But I will still be your muse whenever you recall our brief encounter. You'll never see me again except in your mind, but I will continue to exist and be someone else's conquest. But to you I will always be only yours. You may look for me over and over in your travels but you'll never find me. If you're really lucky you might meet one of my sisters but the odds are you won't.

 

Some who know the truth about me call me a goddess, some a whore. I guess that’s a matter of preference too. Your language isn't capable of describing me accurately so I won't even try. I'm writing this as penance, though you can never read it. I'm sorry for what I will do to you in the next few minutes. You won't refuse me – can't refuse me. That's a rule too. So, if you're ready, come on over here and introduce yourself. I’m waiting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

gettingit.jpg
Art by Sean O'Keefe 2010

“Getting It”

 

Gordon Purkis

 

          Wells Parker stood at the microphone about to begin his act.

It was open mic night at Fits and Giggles and Wells had worked hard putting together a solid 10 minutes. He’d studied the comic’s art and realized that no matter how original one felt they were, there were only a handful of subjects in reality. It was more or less the same shtick.

Not that the audience wasn’t clued in to this – they knew more or less what to expect and prepared to enjoy themselves. As human beings, the same things make us all laugh. Sex and relationships is probably the most common to all and a fountain for good material.

“Sometimes it’s weird being a man,” Wells said. “I don’t mean that I’ve ever known what it’s like to not be a man, but sometimes I can see myself from a distance and think that at best I’m a strange-looking animal.”

The audience laughed briefly, and Wells continued. “It’s like at the gym, when guys walk around with their dicks hanging out and it’s like no big deal but some of us are a little more modest than others, ya know?”

 The crowd laughed fairly hard and long, beginning to understand where he was going with it.

“Maybe it has something to do with shame or lack thereof,” Wells said. “I’m not supposed to find other men attractive, and I don’t, but am I supposed to think I’m a stud when I look in the mirror?”

He looked around at the audience, then went on. “But when I’m having sex, I’m the greatest lover that ever lived. All of a sudden my body looks and feels like it’s supposed to. Maybe it’s because all the blood in my body has rushed to my dick!”

The audience laughed and Wells began to feel more comfortable.

          “You know, I think deep down inside, a little part of us men wished we were women. I mean, who wouldn’t want to get fucked by a big dick? Especially your own dick!”

As Wells made a strange face, the crowd laughed raucously. “Ladies, I guess you got to have one to get it.”

          “So I guess I can understand gay guys then,” Wells continued, “All it takes is a little push over the edge and BAM! GAY!”

The crowd both laughed and applauded briefly.

Wells paced side to side for a few seconds and resumed. “Sometimes, don’t you think it would just be easier to be gay? You’d double your wardrobe when you move in together!”

The audience didn’t laugh as much, thinking perhaps they’d heard that before.

          Wells shook it off. “I think they should come up with a new category for men like me: not gay but with some serious man crushes. I guess that means if I were gay, I would definitely be interested.”

He put on the stereotypical, homosexual, lispy accent. “A guy’s gotta keep his options open, you know? I mean, Tom Brady of the New England Patriots? What a hunk! And that young guy on NCIS, the one that always hits on the chicks? He’s cute!”

The crowd had a rather mixed reaction, some thought it was funny and others were too self-conscious to laugh.

          “I think you have to be a certain age for it to be acceptable in society,” Wells said. “I mean, you don’t see any old gay people on TV do you?” Again, he looked around at the audience. “Like if you found out that Archie Bunker or Matlock were gay. Eee-yew! Yuck!”

The audience laughed and applauded, sensing that the bit was over.

Wells Parker took a short bow and thanked the audience. He had to admit it felt good.

Backstage, Wells was talking to the club owner. “Not bad, kid,” Harvey said, “I think the crowd liked it. I wasn’t sure about the gay jokes but what do I know? I think you have to be gay for gay to be funny.”

Wells just nodded.

“Anyway,” Harvey said, “It was all right. What you gotta do is get some more material and maybe a gimmick of some kind. Look at that guy Carrot Top or Gallagher. It’s all about the props.”

Still nodding, Wells considered that.

“Why don’t you come back next month?” Harvey said. If you’re good maybe I’ll have you back here some time as a paying gig.”

“Cool,” Wells said.

 

***

 

Next month, Wells Parker was back.

Harvey, the club owner walked anxiously up to him.  “Hey, kid, how’s it going? Think about what I said?”

“Yes, sir, I got it covered,” Wells said with a wry smile.

“Good deal, kid,” Harvey said.  “You’re on first tonight.” As he walked away, he added, “Knock ’em dead, kid!”

          Following his introduction by the MC, Wells walked out on stage with a shotgun perched over his shoulder.

A few laughs came from the audience.

“What’s so funny?” Wells asked, with a purposefully obtuse inflection. “Oh, this,” he said, swinging the gun from his shoulder to the front of his body and pumping it.

 The audience laughed even more.

“You know,” Wells said, “It’s funny how people’s attitude towards you changes when you’re carrying a loaded shotgun.”

The crowd was really into it.

“I mean, you almost have to laugh at my jokes now, don’t you?”

He was right about the gimmicks, Wells thought, Gimmicks get big laughs.

“My jokes don’t even need to be funny,” he continued.  Pointing the shotgun out at the audience, he said, “I mean I just do this and . . . laugh, damn it, laugh!”

The audience howled with laughter.

“And if I think you didn’t laugh loud enough,” Wells said, “I could

 . . .  I don’t know, shoot ya!”

He fired the gun into the ceiling.

The crowd was stunned silent.

          In a panic, Harvey rushed out on the stage. “The fuck’s the matter with you?” he screamed, “I’m calling the fucking cops!” 

There was some muffled crowd noise. They were unsure if it was part of the act or not.

          “Take it easy, Harvey,” Wells said. “Nobody is calling the cops. Just come over here and have a seat.” With the gun, he pointed to the nearby stool.

“Anybody else want to get caught up in the action?” Wells asked.

 Somebody in the back of the club ran for the door but Wells cocked the shotgun again and said, “Don’t even think about it. Sit down and have a drink, on me.”

The club air was thick.

          “So, ladies and gentlemen, are you having a good time?”

           Silence.

“What’s the matter, don’t you like my act?”

Some muffled conversation could be heard.

“I’ll tell you what’s funny,” Wells said. “Cancer. Now that’s funny.”

People shifted in their seats.

“My doctor just told me last week that I have an inoperable brain tumor,” Wells said. “It’s funny, you live your life as you see fit but you don’t get to pick when it’s your time to go.”

The audience kept watching.

“I just wanted to go out with a bang!”

          Putting the shotgun in his mouth, Wells pulled the trigger, splattering the club owner with blood as he fell to the ground.

          Several people stood and applauded.

They got it.

 

 

Gordon Purkis is a poet, artist and publisher of three poetry magazines and books. Information can be found at www.shoemusicpress.com. His e-chapbook "At the dinner table" will appear soon from The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. He recently embarked on a new volunteer career as a disc jockey, playing vintage jazz and pop from the early 1900's. More information can be found at http://waybackwhenradio.weebly.com

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