Under the Influence of Mrs. V – a poem

Under the Influence of Mrs. V


We find ourselves in a sad hotel room

The color palette of sadness is brown – beige

With the persistent aroma

Of strangers, cleaning products

And that faint cigarette smell

That refuses to die in rooms smoke-free for decades.


We sit next to each other

On the mustard colored couch

I brought Mrs. V with me, he says

To keep us company

We give in to Mrs. V, times three for me

Mrs. V times four for him.


Our heads are weightless

We go lie down in a bed we don’t own

I rest my head on his shoulder, touch his skin

And rest my eyes on his freckle farms for arms

I have grown to love

But he doesn’t know that.


I am in a state of constant amusement

Haha funny this and funny that

Forming full sentences and making sense are chores I refuse

I avoid thinking, I can only feel

The warmth, the softness of his skin

I close my eyes, I am starting to float.


I float on and on

Like every summer on familiar warm waters

With skin burning under the Mediterranean sun

It feels smooth and effortless, I float on

And we talk about babies and puppies

As we always do when we reach certain heights.


Mrs. V is deep into me

Her presence strong and intense

He is running his fingers over my body

Intensity and arousal at the tiny point of contact

How it would be to make love, I wonder

With Mrs. V our common mistress, our savior.


My skin starts moving, expands and contracts

An army of monkeys jumping out of my skin

I float on, the monkeys linger

I close my eyes, I fall into Morpheus’ arms

But my sleep interrupted by

Itchy skin, needy for scratching attention.


Face, leg, arm, every body part is an itchy scream

What is wrong baby he asks

With his softest voice

Is this normal I ask

What is happening to me

Tiny creatures are crawling out of my skin.


I move back in to a sleeping mode

My dreams intense in colors saturated and rich

We are together in a field of wheat, he’s tied to a rope

We struggle to run away from the dreaded man

I have a knife with me, I see

We come to a stop, I need to cut the rope.


It is taking a long time, the knife angle is all wrong

I reposition the knife, I cut the rope faster

But it is still too late

The dreaded man has caught up

He snatches the knife from my hand

Raises his arm and buries the knife deep into me.


One, two, three stabs

My mouth is agape but there is no sound

Mrs. V will bring you high and push you low

She will desert you in the mercy of jumping monkeys

And knife wielding men

A cruel, betraying mistress, without remorse, without fail.



Bad Poetry. Again.

Today at work I found myself writing bad poems whenever I took a break. I don’t know why. I don’t write poems often. But I can be consistently bad at it. I tweeted about it, and someone asked to share one. So, here you go, dear reader, a bad poem from a work break:

You Don’t Fit

You don’t fit

In aisles too narrow for your hips

Should have turned sideways

Instead of bumping into things

Bruised body parts

Purple on white

Your head and torso do not fit in this

Awkwardly touching and avoiding

Exactly same polarity

I told you, you don’t fit

In clothes too tight for your tits.

King (a poem by Matthew Dickman)

I’m always the king of something. Ruined or celebrated,

newly crowned, or just beheaded. King of the shady grass

and king of the dirty sheets. I sit in the middle

of the room in December

with the windows open, five pills, and a razor. My life long

secret. My killing power and my staying

power. When the erection fails, when the car almost hits

the divider, I’m king. I wave my hand over

the ants bubbling out of the sidewalk and make them all knights,

I sit at the dinner table and look into the deep

dark eyes of my television, my people. I tell them the kingdom

will be remembered in dreams of gold. I tell them

what was lost will be found. So I put on my black-white

checkered Vans, the exact pair of shoes

my older brother wore when he was still a citizen in the world,

and I go out, I go out into the street

with my map of the dead and look for him,

for the X he is,

so I can put the scepter back in his hands, take the red

cloak from my shoulders and put it around his, lift the crown

from my head and fit it just above his eyebrows,

so I can get down on one knee, on both

knees, and lower my face and whisper my lord, my master, my king.

Uninvited God


Last night the god Pan paid me a visit

Uninvited, unstoppable, fierce


Told him he had to go, I didn’t have time for him

But he stayed and lingered


Coming closer and closer to my face

Enjoying my shallow breaths, my reddened eyes


And then suddenly he disappeared

Leaving everything a mess


Leaving me wondering what latitude and longitude

I have to run to find solace.