SO YOU WRITE

My Last Rag Of Dignity A HARSH REALITY Alone, leaving the hospital in the early light he could feel his blood pulsing, as he dove deep into his conscious thought. It was like him to wallow, self pity was his paid companion. She would smother him, as if he owned her, and he did! This sunup he would have her strip him, his last rag of dignity. Soaking wet in his own shame, she neatly took him. He would gaze into the abyss of his own ineptness, his shaking hands hanging on unsuccessfully. With her in sight, he grabbed her head. Like his life he moved it, in and out, in and out. She would stroke him, until he finally released into the mouth of his own hatred all over the face, of his lack of self respect. Now he lifted her, all of her with one arm, and like an agent of hell, forcefully tore the clothes off her non existence. He embedded his face in her mink like fur. Lapped up her milk. Inserted his extension in her crevice. Then like a lion in heat, he pumped her raw, as the slut, self pity, took it all, with out a word, with out a sound. Alone and chaotic he ran her through a series of perverse acts. She urinated on him, and cleansed his flesh and bone of all evidence of human sanity. He reveled in the burn; it was so hot he could feel it melt and bond his intricate and complex network of exposed capillaries and veins. Then she defecated on his naked carcass, enrobing him in the stench of his own pathetic existence. All along he fed on the salt that flowed down his cheeks and found there way to his tongue. His head lowered. His shoulders slightly bent. His pelvis indented. His legs unsteady. What was once meant to be a man, now plodded, to the beating, to the tune, to the cadence, to the progression, of a silent drummer. Reaching his car. Turning his keys. The hum of his engine...ready for the safety of home. He hears a voice. His name. Ignores it. Once, twice, again, and again…! A nurse, a bed, trapped between here and there. Still in God's waiting room. A cruel joke, the hum of his engine. Pen to paper...at least that pen to paper. Armand Hamouth