PARABLE OF DISPLEASURE
He puked and he puked until he
thought now surely I must die, surely
there can be no more. He had brought
up the water, the coffee, the orange
juice, the whiskey, the wine, the
vodka, pasta, snails and love, but still
it kept coming. He was into the bodily
fluids now, and it would, later, scare
him. Now all he could do was watch.
And smell. Yellow, foul tasting stuff
that made him bite the back of his
tongue. Then green, then clear again.
Then brown. Then smudge, was all he
could call it, looking at the last grey
layer floating. Smudge. Yes. And
flat oil slicks, tiny fishes, nuts and
bolts, telephone line, cardboard boxes,
file cabinets, tax forms, old photos,
death announcements. Then, eyes
bulging, bursting red, gasping like a
gored fish, he passed it, or, rather, it
passed itself, wiggling out into the sick
grease on top of it all only to grow
and grow and grow until it, in turn,
puked him out, after the water, the
coffee, the orange juice, the whiskey, the wine,
the vodka, pasta, snails and love,
but still it kept coming.
—from Rattle #28, Winter 2007
_________
Matt Dennison: “At the age of four I found a small, white flower that had blue stripes on its petals. I told myself it was a blue-blooded bleeder and felt a sudden shock as when I had, in fact, stuck the fork in the outlet. Only this time the shock was the surge of power felt in the act of naming, of becoming ever-so-slightly larger, through words, than the event that moved us in the first place. Be it even of puking.”
