Golgotha’s Black Pastures

Yes yes, there’s the bitter plug gnawing at the back of her throat how gnaws a mating jackrabbit at a uterus. She snorted again from the pile of crushed hydrocodone. Binders, fillers, medicine in her mucus and her cold catches more of the drug than her bloodstream and the spoon in her hand reflects nothing but a film of powder. Right as rain, right as a black saga.

Her son will be home from school soon. He’ll be bitching. He’ll be pretty with his medicated skin and his flawless, expensive smile. Little Daddy, Adam used to call him. He stopped hitting him when he was fourteen. He had hit back. Mister Hydrocodone, neutered suitor.

Susan has to piss. Squatting, she listens to the stream, relaxes while relaxes her bladder and she squirts blue cleaner into the toilet, scrubs away her thoughts. Squalid and raw, Susan Susan still a bluisin’, but the house and all its money and ego has a flatboard stomach, sculpted pubic knobs, veneers, and the sashing hips of a junkie blonde. Susan is naked from the waist down. Her throat pulls at her sinuses and she clears it out with a rinse and a glass of orange juice.

Her son had asked her if she’s been sleeping enough. The purses under her eyes are fashionably purple. Susan’s building a resistance. Three tens this afternoon. She’s considering parachuting the pills with shots of liquor to make them hit harder. No time to think about putting on pants. The euphoria smacks her heart and rubs its pretty pink dick over her ventricles. A massaging force creeps onto her cheeks, she smiles and a massaging force creeps into her groin and she smiles. The refrigerator is cold against her forehead. She touches her stomach and her nipples.

The phone rings. Be rugged, Susan.

She sees the number of the caller. It’s the mark of a horny devil come to rut.


“My fingers are thinking about you.”

She can tell the caller is smiling about as hard as her. She’s rough. A dirty dying woman in the clutches of a stranger’s hump. He would tuck his chin over her shoulder as he bursts and listen to the birdsong alight their afterglow.

There’s never afterglow. He always fucks her as though with drenched sponges and leaves her matted and sweating in a mass of fucked up sheets. She can wish in her hand and shit in the other. She’s still treading water in shit creek. There’s a knock on the door. Kevin must have forgotten his key.

“I have to go.”

“Your son’s home?”


“Give him a kiss for me.”

A pervert grimaces from his own handiwork and the universe still drags its feet toward the precipice.

“I’ll meet you tonight.”

“Email me when and where.”

“Bring rubbers this time.”

“Balloons tied to your nipples. I can only imagine. Go open the fucking door. Your kid knocks like he’s constipated.”

Susan replaces the receiver and puts her pants on. Her heart has fallen into her uterus. She opens the front door. Kevin slides past her. She says hello. He only hears guitars and drums and he’s in the kitchen fucking around and she craves a few minutes alone in the bathroom. She offers to fix him soup.

“I don’t want any fucking soup.”

He doesn’t sound upset, or agitated. She wants to strangle him and accuse him of being a bastard but she loves him too much to kill him. She drags her feet toward the precipice, cradles her lower abdomen with her hands and dreams of the moon watching her fondle herself to masquerading European libertines and nude children brought up not to cuss. Susan wants the normalcy of three years past—-acne and puberty and television and dinner and nothings made of sugar poured into her ear from her husband’s mouth before he started using that mouth to beat and eat the pussy of the sweet young thing interning at his office. If she was cognizant enough, she would whisper, “Stop this water torture.”

Kevin isn’t too young to notice his mother’s decadence. He’s waiting for her to overdose or get on the wagon. Neither of the options hold especial preference. Tonight, he will stare into the glistening semen on his stomach and allow his mind to worry as the chemical faucet in his brain staunches and stops. For now, in his tongue, he doesn’t much give a fuck. Little Daddy.


Vulgar little scrap waxing poetic and purple, so I’m not too fond of it. I feel a little like Susan, except I’m not horny and I’m not walking around on thirty miligrams of ‘codone. I’ve my thumb poised as the emporer in the colliseum–up, or down?

“Whack off the doorknob.”

“Everyone has a vulgar bag of hungry skinny genitals.”


~ by Jeremy on September 6, 2008.

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