Out of the System


The last time I saw you I threw up afterwards. Alcohol accountable for loosening inhibitions to a forgotten state. At 2am I woke up. My condition had changed since those forgotten hours, leaving me nothing but a sickness in my stomach. An insecurity. I fell ill. What happened? I left you. You had not left me. I could still feel you. Different now. You were felt as a thick anxiety lining my stomach. You were still inside of me. 2.30am. Wide awake and thinking and anxious and wanting the sickness to stop; wanting you out; wanting just to be left alone; wanting to sleep. I took myself to the bathroom and stuck my fingers down my throat as a gesture to (a) force you out and (b) wear me out, physically, so I might stand a chance of sleeping. The vomit was clear with specks of phlegmish brown (coloured so because of the Pepsi I'd drank just before falling asleep). Sticky fluid. There was no trace of the food we ate hours earlier. Hours later, digested. Converted into energy. Energy expended onto something I can no longer remember. The journey had disappeared. In bed I sweat. I toss and turn and the sickness doesn’t let up. No good. Still there. I return to the bathroom where my stomach turns over without the aid of my fingers. All by itself. Vomit. Clear-brown fluid and retch and retch and retch. Next time I must remember to vomit before the food is transformed and has become a part of my body.


There is nothing left to give, but my contracting stomach muscles continue to expel fluids form other orifices. My nose. My eyes. My cunt. Exhausted, I returned to bed. The sickness still there. My body through.


Once upon a time I had assumed lunch to be equivocal. Both of us too shy to mention the the other word; a word so loaded with potential and complexity. Lunch would be able to cover our anxiety and disguise our reciprocal intentions incase such intentions turned out to be non-reciprocal. Lunch was offered to me by way of left overs. There was no meat; the meat had been consumed the previous evening. But there was plenty of sustenance: butternut-squash, rice. Ex-chicken curry. Enough for two. The uncertainty of the term lunch became apparent soon enough. The next time we had lunch I bought it myself - with meat - and then we went back to mine to practice the true meaning of the word before parting ways.

Lunch is still on offer. It may still hold implications. For now lunch is just lunch; good intentions and potential and hope, which I will shit out later.


I have been fantasisng about your girlfriend for some time now. During a social gathering in which I try my best to avoid you and her, she approaches me. Stands before me and says nothing. She looks me dead in the eye and examines their glass thoroughly. There is nothing to be seen beyond them except the fantasy she wishes to project and she does see it: the thing it is she wishes to see. Clearly. Her eyes begin to accuse me; mine unwilling to deny or admit. I remain silent. It's not that words escape me it's just I know they aren't sufficient; they are unable to contain anything meaningful. You and I both know this. It is better to act. She expresses herself only through gesture. She slaps me. And I remain. Silent and calm. She does it again. But still I remain so she hits me again and again. And the people around are as perplexed as she is. They don’t intervene. And again and again and again and again. Still. And again and again and again and again and again. And I’m dizzy but I permit it. I continue to permit it. I can’t see you. I know you are there. I can feel your presence. Soon she stops. No less furious just ever closer to collapsing in the flux of her aggro. And I speak and I say: Is it out of your system now?
But it is not her I address. All present remain, still, unspeaking. This is where the fantasy ends.

After we fucked the first time you justified it to yourself: at least it’s out of the system now.

The climax is missing.


We go on.

In silence.