Abusive
Am I supposed to fascinate you,
as dormant as a corky eel like the squishy trailing of a lizard,
blipping through walls,
through cracked kitchen cream painted cement
that uncurl like wallpaper,
where the wooden log tube light florescence
splashes along the filaments,
the grubby insulators wrapped in red measurement tape,
like plasticky metal black paperclips
from your bureau have been my requests
to the interiors when we first turned on the television to commercials when my baby played with McDonalds toys
against the soggy crystalizing marble floors
in barely a wink of insomnia, feeding through her illicit self-proclamations,
rubbery squealing tantrums
that grew in redundant finger tapping formula of frequencies,
as if the dog were orchestrating her
to deal in nipple skin to skin contact,
like the sloshing rumblings of the rotting veggies
and their stem anuses rolling into shelves,
coating defrost Thermocol strap jacket room décor
with ant hill mounting bodily liquid.
And you blipped like a lizard
with your cargo green baggy Friday workday t-shirt
with toolbelt faded jeans
and a black bag that was to resemble a briefcase
but the era treated the sun’s yolky afternoons
on a pan of industrial rusty delight
to make the cardboards rancid
and soggy
like shoe-leather in shoes with tattered soles.
It’s like every tear that congealed on this wall,
on the ink pens scattered across the straw made shoe box,
the ink that rubbed its jus on the walls,
along with the baby’s chunky,
chalky red crayons,
were soaked up
by the hippie homeless newspaper bedsheet covering
weeds of the blades of grass
that you grew in a parking lot,
alongside the fat rear of the cow mooing car,
the scrawny dog
and the crusts of cement that crinkle and crack
underneath my fingernails
like Indian papad and suddenly,
I’m digging through the gut
and the abdomen of my pregnant suitcase
for a spice mix,
a fruit mix,
a fine powdery jaggery dust
to congeal with baby picky drool into playdough mouthfuls
for the baby
to chew as she buttons up tiny metal nipple buttons
on her baby blue night coat and
tips over water bottles over herself and the marble floor,
like baby puddle accidents
I mop up with baby wipes
and soak up like rice crackers with clean but unstrapping diapers
we smuggled
like chocolates and deodorant
into your patented chocolate chip
looking suitcase,
some little grocery list plan we had to want the baby,
to raise the baby in power cuts swirling on the electric street lamp post that was the Indian heat,
the desolateness that drops like crow shit
on the shoulders of this house we just furnished,
while we sit on straw mats to eat dinner and chuckle along evening television, like we still give a shit about each other.
And the constant spacings
between turning couches
to different walls for a week
and selling them to come home to a one couch,
plastic study desk set up,
like the living room was hormonal female cellulite,
fluctuating, jiggling, then stoic against ribs
and knee caps,
only to inflate and deflate like flavored slime
through jiggly cubes of
naphthalene cosmopolitan magazine exercises
and diets and makeup and purply aqua acetone
in pearly peach bottles stacked in plastic pink trays
and drawers full of husband papers
and cardboard files
and expired baby lotion or perfume sticking
to the wood like the candle wax we burned through three am
and forgot to clean up and became crayon
underneath our baby’s fingernails
as she licks it to be icing or ice-cream
or tapioca pearls squished and melted
and now oozing from their blistery manufacturings into pudding
to make patties into and
stick to the cementless walls that have eczema,
naked, pimply painted white walls.
