Ah, Molly, where are you? Surely the facts are not in dispute.
Out there in the icy universe, there is nothing.
Oh, Molly! Molly? Get out of my mind.
Just slip a suppository into position. Now let science soothe the troubled rectum.
Live by the guts, die by the guts.
Will I be able to get rid of you with a little style, a little panache?
The search for style often results in a want of feeling.
Suddenly, you are not just aging. You are irrevocably dying.
Hi, diddle-diddy. Ta-tum ta-tum ta-tum.
We live in a state of unacknowledged but mutual exhaustion behind which we scream,
silently. Shouldn’t everyone live as if they were about to die, not next week,
nor next month, but now?
You’re not a husband or son, you’re a goddamn jailer. Eyes like marbles.
I’d say style is feeling.
I want, I want, I want. I would like…I, I, I, first-person singular.
There we go: the tremors, the warnings.
Once death seemed like a gentlest earthquake of the system, but now gathering force
over the years.
I just thought lying alone in bed that a middle-aged man’s fantasies are not humiliating,
and I will not reject them.
I haven’t been bored with you; self-eliminating, yes.
I’m not a person. I’m a fucking construction. Yours.
After dreams, nothing in waking life can have such intensity.
One thinks: ho hum.
Mugged? Yes, mugged. This city’s definitely falling to pieces.
Nothing can compare with the memories of childhood.
There is a terrific fire across the city. The sky is red for miles.
What do you make of it? What do you make of love?
In the end, I shall call for morphine. I am not heroic, oh, no.
Finally, one loses control of everything.
There, there. That’s better. You look very cool this morning. Very lovely.
What do you think of Bangkok? Palm trees, beaches, that kind of thing?
Damn, damn, damn, damn. Don’t deceive yourself. Death creeps on.
A little more venom, children, a little more violence.
I just thought we could blow each other’s brains out, if we had a gun.
I thought we’d make love, if we had the desire.
Something must have gone wrong at some early stage. It could be childhood.
Then what is this huge, huge sense of spiritual emptiness?
Death, no problem. Stop. My son, an emotional cripple. Stop. By all means
descend on him. Stop.
He is tragically incomplete. He admits no rage.
Yes, when was that first Russian thing – Sput-something – nik: Sputnik?
I once knew a Victorian.
Some would say you are your own worst enemy.
I’d say you are your only best friend.
One last thing, after this strange and marvelous thing we’ve had. Just leave.
Now, please. With neither kiss nor touch. With my blessing.
David Lohrey grew up in Memphis. He graduated from U.C., Berkeley. His plays have appeared in the UK, Switzerland, India and, most recently, in Croatia. In a Newark Minute and Sperm Counts were translated and produced in Estonia (2016). His poetry can be found in Softblow, The Blue Mountain Review, Otoliths, Cecile’s (The Hague) and Quarterday, His poem “Muddy Water” has been selected by the Limerick Arts Office to appear in the Stony Thursday Book for 2016. In addition, recent poems have been accepted as part of anthologies published by the University of Alabama (Dewpoint), Illinois State University (Obsidian) and Michigan State University (The Offbeat). David is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective in Houston, Texas. Recent fiction can be read in Crack the Spine and at inshadesmag.com. His book The Other Is Oneself, a study of 20th century literature, was published this year in Germany. He is currently writing a memoir of his years living in Saudi Arabia. He teaches in Tokyo.