Friday, March 6, 2015

poem of the day 03.06.15

hand soap

was always ruined
by the smell of hand soap

dial hand soap to be exact

i’d get finished and it would be great

the breasts on the female news anchor
the nude scene i had frozen on a vhs
featuring some actress astride her male co-star

sitcom mothers and madonna
mtv v-jays with their leather minis

the cuban-american one
and the black one who spoke in a british accent

the women in short skirts
from another make-up infomercial

living breathing fantasies
that i manipulated into writhing flesh in my head
doing ungodly things to such a young boy

at least until i exploded

for some reason i always did it in the underwear
this was a result from doing it the first time

rubbing one out to my old man’s playboys
after my parents had left for work

ejaculating into my underwear
and then thinking

holy shit!

i didn’t think to take it out
and just shoot it into a napkin or tissue

there was no one to ask about how to do it right

not my old man or the other boys in school
who were talking about jacking off all of the time

how to even broach the subject?

i thought this was how it was done
just sit there rubbing until you came

i can’t begin to account
for all of the chaff marks on my prick from the friction

but after the joy was over
it was always the hand soap

the dial hand soap in a clear plastic tube in the bathroom

a golden tan goop just waiting for me to come in
with those soiled underwear in my hand
to run warm water and pour it all over the mess that i’d made

the smell of that hand soap
the clean stench of my indiscretion 

my bare ass on a summer afternoon

wringing out the underwear
and then throwing it under my bed until laundry day

where it became a crusty mess
a sign of my budding manhood

but more than that one more embarrassment
in a continued, bungling youth

that seemed so never-ending.


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